Things you remember about the ground and past

[WestLondonYellow]

Hey all, just though it would be nice to start a thread where people could write some of their best/fondest memories, either of the ground itself, or funny, touching anecdotes.

I remember the shop at the top/back of the Pop side, climbing through legs as a 9 year old to go and get a Mars bar, the smell and the sometimes hilarious comments you would hear on that terrace. I remember they always played "the final countdown" before kick off, and standing right up against the barrier to the pitch to watch the game. Also remember when we beat Birmingham City 3-0 and gave them the Pop side.

[WestLondonYellow]

27 people don't remember anything then.

[Richinns]

I remember a very angry Harry Redknapp after Jon Gittens broke the nose of West Ham's big summer signing (Florin Raducioiu) in an off the ball elbow during a Pre-Season Friendly!

Needless to say West Ham did not return the following year (or ever since) for a PSF!

[WestLondonYellow]

LOL, no i bet they didn't. Do you remember when Brentford smashed John Uzzels face in pieces, i was very close to that incident, not a good day, in fact i was a ball boy and surrounded by Brentford fans, not the nicest bunch i remember.

[AustrianAndyGull]

LOL, no i bet they didn't. Do you remember when Brentford smashed John Uzzels face in pieces, i was very close to that incident, not a good day, in fact i was a ball boy and surrounded by Brentford fans, not the nicest bunch i remember.

What do you expect? They're from London!

[WestLondonYellow]

[
What do you expect? They're from London! [/quote]

LOL, same here partly, we're not all bad. I go to Fulham regularly as well and they are a different class in terms of the fans and the club.

[WestLondonYellow]

Didn't there used to be a big clock on the floodlight stand between the pop and family stand, before the family end was rebuilt?

[Glostergull]

Ooh errrr. I feel a touch of Nostalgia coming on again. Watch this space, well the next one or two down to be exact. :P

[tufc si]

When i was a kid my uncle took me and my younger brother to a pre-season friendly at Plainmoor against Sheff Weds i think it was, this must be about 16 years ago when i was 12 ish!! Some bloke from the away end came streaking accross the middle of the pitch and everyone was in hysterics, only streaker i've ever seen from what i can remember, has haunted for life haha!!

[AustrianAndyGull]

As a converted fan in 2005, I actually feel a bit sad that my childhood / adolescent experiences of football are not Torquay United related but based around grim northern dumps. My early school years were filled with memories of us all crammed in the popside, but the popside at the old Belle Vue ground, Doncaster rather than Plainmoor. I remember vividly the floodlit night games against teams like Grimsby, Bury and Lincoln with players like the Snodin brothers, Colin Douglas and the manager Billy Bremner. As i got older i followed the rest of the school footy fans to Hillsborough regularly, going on the train from Doncaster, walking up Penistone Road for what seemed like an eternity and finally getting our positions in the kop which at that time was pre-disaster and was totally terraced and fenced in. I remember the smell of cannabis and being catapulted 8 rows down on a sea of people everytime Wednesday scored. When i left school, my late teenage years saw me deeply embedded in the culture of Hull City at the old Boothferry Park where i played as a trainee with the likes of a young Dean Windass, Malcolm Shotton, Leigh Palin, Leigh Jenkinson, Andy Payton and others many of you may remember. Stan Ternent was manager at the time and god was Hull a dump! I moved from Hull to York and became a regular on the Bootham Crescent terraces even after hanging up my boots and accepting i would never become a pro-footballer. York was handier for me as my mum only lived 20 minutes away.

Anyway, my point is more about recent memories of past Torquay United from being a fully signed up member of the yellow army from 2005 to present. I have some wonderful memories even from only 7 years and having only been to games at Plainmoor twice ( three on tuesday v Aldershot COME ON! ). I remember deciding to support Torquay and visiting the ground and club shop for the very first time whilst on holiday about 5 years ago and that memory will always stay with me. I bought shedloads of stuff i didn't even need from the club shop to feed my newfound obsession! I even bought a babygrow and i didn't even have a kid! I do now though so it worked out in the end! I anticipated attending a game at Plainmoor but have never gotten round to it until last season where i went twice v Vale and Crewe.

The first time i went to Plainmoor i stayed in Babbacombe overnight and when i went to the game i actually tried to get in the away end because i didn't know how to get in the pop! A steward pointed the way and probably thought i had learning difficulties. It was great though, just taking it all in and actually saying to myself, 'You're at Plainmoor watching a game, it's happened!'.

I know i'll NEVER have the history or Devonian blood but the last 7 years of supporting the Gulls ( mostly away!) have been incredible and i wouldn't swap it for the world. Everyone i meet makes me feel part of it all and i don't feel so much of an outsider now. I feel a sense of belonging and my daughter who is now 3 and a half will also be able to go to games soon enough so that'll be another one on the gate..........and so many future memories to behold.

[Mav]

I was interested about the cottage at the end of the lane which used to be our offices/tickect office many years back. I went looking for some photos but wasn't able to find anything ona quick search. Does anybody have any pics of this and other areas of the ground. I would be interested to show my son what the ground used to look like. He's been a regualr for about 4 seasons, but the changes to the ground over the last 20 years have been huge.

[Gulliball]

When i was a kid my uncle took me and my younger brother to a pre-season friendly at Plainmoor against Sheff Weds i think it was, this must be about 16 years ago when i was 12 ish!! Some bloke from the away end came streaking accross the middle of the pitch and everyone was in hysterics, only streaker i've ever seen from what i can remember, has haunted for life haha!!

We played Sheffield Wednesday in a pre-season friendly before the 1997/98 season, it was my first ever game, aged 9. I don't remember a streaker, but I do remember being amused by the Wednesday band (the same ones who play at England games) making the ambulance 'Nee Naw' whenever the physio ran on.

Mark Pembridge scored the only goal as we lost 1-0, and I had his 'flik-a-ball' as my champion ball for years afterwards (well, as long as flik-a-balls were the in thing anyway).

[oxgull]

As a converted fan in 2005, I actually feel a bit sad that my childhood / adolescent experiences of football are not Torquay United related but based around grim northern dumps. My early school years were filled with memories of us all crammed in the popside, but the popside at the old Belle Vue ground, Doncaster rather than Plainmoor. I remember vividly the floodlit night games against teams like Grimsby, Bury and Lincoln with players like the Snodin brothers, Colin Douglas and the manager Billy Bremner. As i got older i followed the rest of the school footy fans to Hillsborough regularly, going on the train from Doncaster, walking up Penistone Road for what seemed like an eternity and finally getting our positions in the kop which at that time was pre-disaster and was totally terraced and fenced in. I remember the smell of cannabis and being catapulted 8 rows down on a sea of people everytime Wednesday scored. When i left school, my late teenage years saw me deeply embedded in the culture of Hull City at the old Boothferry Park where i played as a trainee with the likes of a young Dean Windass, Malcolm Shotton, Leigh Palin, Leigh Jenkinson, Andy Payton and others many of you may remember. Stan Ternent was manager at the time and god was Hull a dump! I moved from Hull to York and became a regular on the Bootham Crescent terraces even after hanging up my boots and accepting i would never become a pro-footballer. York was handier for me as my mum only lived 20 minutes away.

Anyway, my point is more about recent memories of past Torquay United from being a fully signed up member of the yellow army from 2005 to present. I have some wonderful memories even from only 7 years and having only been to games at Plainmoor twice ( three on tuesday v Aldershot COME ON! ). I remember deciding to support Torquay and visiting the ground and club shop for the very first time whilst on holiday about 5 years ago and that memory will always stay with me. I bought shedloads of stuff i didn't even need from the club shop to feed my newfound obsession! I even bought a babygrow and i didn't even have a kid! I do now though so it worked out in the end! I anticipated attending a game at Plainmoor but have never gotten round to it until last season where i went twice v Vale and Crewe.

The first time i went to Plainmoor i stayed in Babbacombe overnight and when i went to the game i actually tried to get in the away end because i didn't know how to get in the pop! A steward pointed the way and probably thought i had learning difficulties. It was great though, just taking it all in and actually saying to myself, 'You're at Plainmoor watching a game, it's happened!'.

I know i'll NEVER have the history or Devonian blood but the last 7 years of supporting the Gulls ( mostly away!) have been incredible and i wouldn't swap it for the world. Everyone i meet makes me feel part of it all and i don't feel so much of an outsider now. I feel a sense of belonging and my daughter who is now 3 and a half will also be able to go to games soon enough so that'll be another one on the gate..........and so many future memories to behold.

Thats interesting mate because I grew up in Devon, supported Torquay United since 1969 but spent quite a few Saturdays and the odd weekday evening at Belle View Doncaster as my wifes family are from Doncaster and Bawtry. That was from around 1984, when we got married, right up until around 3 years ago when her mum passed away. We were away in the army but always spent several weeks a year at home in Donny with her family and had a great time. Yorkshire folk are the salt of the earth IMHO!! Anyway my memories from the old Plainmoor are the cowshed, mini stand and the old railway sleepers used as terracing up at the Babbacombe end. Old HOO!!! the chainsmoking lunatic in the cowshed, the cowshed blowing down in the early 70's, many a crap performance and small crowd on a Saturday night under the lights and a few excellent games too. Happy memories in rose tinted glasses

[Glostergull]

Hi guys
I did warn you didn't I. And this is only part one. Just a few memories of life in the past and things that shaped my early years. Railway engines. Snow. The seaside and Football or to put it more succinctly. Plainmoor.
this time I listened and wrote it in word. if I have any grammatical or spelling mishtooks please forgive me.I did put it through the speeling checker thingamy but I may have missed the odd one. I tried my best to get parrotgraphs broken up but I am getting on a bit now. I did try though. anyone who wants to complain. Well it's all Louis fault. He encouraged me to put it on here lol, Blame him.


My memories of my past and football in general stretch right back to 1964. or possibly 1963.
Being only 4 or 5 at the time I was not really aware of time as most kids aren’t.
Time just ran by without a thought or care, we played as kids were meant to play. Digging holes in the lawn pretending that the diggers really were in a quarry. Until mum or dad came out to tell us to leave the lawn alone. Or learning how to ride my first bike down the hill toward Meadowsweet and finding out how to brake, or in this case, how not to brake as I sailed over the handlebars and deposited myself on the rough tarred surface leaving my own mark in skin and blood from my knees to my chin. Swinging by rope from our tree just beyond the playground over a very small apology for a stream. Time is but a memory in those halcyon days.

I had a mixed childhood. Memories of Home interspersed with long periods in Bedwas where Grandma on my mothers side Lived. Among the coal mines and the long grimy terraced rows of miners houses with their grim soot encrusted chimneys spewing forth smoke to make the eyes smart and leave you choking for breath. Playing along the railway sidings at the colliery with hundreds of wagons being shunted. Buffers clonking and whistles blowing. A veritable cacophony of sound. Or in the stream under the viaduct at Abertridwr with all the rocks and tiny water falls. But the favourite was my Aunt in Barry Island. Overlooking the docks, and if you really craned your neck the sidings belonging to one Dai Woodham, who became famous for not cutting up hundreds of steam locos written off by British Railways and dumped unceremoniously to rot forever until destined to see the mainline in the sky at the hands of the cutters torch. Or so they thought. Until the British public in outcry began buying up old branch lines and saving them from Beechings axe to live again with some considerable success along with Dai’s steam engines restored to glory with bright shining paint and polished brass work. A living snorting beast of a machine brought alive to dash like a gazelle along the British Countryside. The closest thing man had invented that acted like a human. You only got out what you put in. If you treated it badly, it bit you back.
I got to love those engines and had my own favourite A “West Country” class Pacific at the end of one siding in the far corner toward the Cardiff end. My own way of sitting at the controls and pretending to live the life of the engine driver as he sped along the mainline with his colourful rake of coaches strung like a snake behind him. Only more fuelled by That wonderful TV presenter Johnny Morris who brought us Thomas the tank engine on an EP (extended play record) with all the sound effects brought to life by his warm and comical voice. I still have those records. Lovingly stored in my record cabinet.

Or To my Grandfathers house at 77 Warboro Road to experience the delights of waking up to seagulls squawking in the morning to let you know you were in a new environment. The freshness of the air telling you that Mines didn’t exist here, but the tinge of salt in the air that gave away the excitement of the seaside.

My earliest recollection of the seaside wasn’t actually in Torquay. It was Weston-Super-Mare. The sand seemed a magnet for us and we didn’t care whether we saw the sea as there was the beach pool which to delight ourselves while sailing our wooden ships. Just as well really as the sea was just as elusive in those days as it is now. You still needed the Hubble telescope to even the see where it began. If you ever found it you recoiled in horror at the soup that had the temerity to call itself the sea.

The discovery that there was a seaside with beaches came with such a rush. The journey in those days didn’t have the quick rush down the motorway that we are spoilt with today. In those days After 1965 when my father had his first car. A journey to Devon entailed meticulous planning as if you were making an exploration up the Amazon. I am not talking of a visit to a vast shopping warehouse either

Clothes were packed into vast bulging suitcases, Food planned just in case we came upon the third army of the Rhine. Mother busying herself boiling eggs as if the hens might stop laying in the next year. Yup folks, it was egg sandwiches by the hundredweight. Tea in flasks by the gallon. And sweets although not too many. Not forgetting Smiths or Golden Wonder crisps by the ton. I always looked forward to Smiths, that Little White bag with the enticing little blue paper inside with the twist of salt. Having a bag of ready salted crisps in those days always left you with a feeling you were being short changed.
Prior to 1965 we went by train. Off we went by taxi to Temple Meads to catch the next available train to the sunny adventure by the sea. For us it was not just a case of a week or couple of weeks as this was staying with family and we went down often. Sometimes to look after Granddad as his daughter Margaret need a break.
Many times we took the train from our local station, either Fishponds or Stapleton Road. Then alighting at Temple Meads we transferred all our worldy goods crammed into suitcases making us look like refugees from Europe who had still to be repatriated after the war.
I wasn’t aware of how we looked much more than what was there to see at the big station. Only to be scared witless by an engine letting off steam. This was coined with the phrase Wheeshing in Thomas the tank engine language. The unrebuilt West Country and Battle of Britain Class locos were the worst as when you looked head on at them. They looked evil. With that dark enveloping front encased by the smooth aerodynamic casing to their sides. I grew up to understand them when older and grew to love those engines as one of the most handsome engines designed on the railway. The rebuilt ones were even better. No non railway person can even begin to understand what skill it took to make one of these fire breathing monsters work. They demanded a level of skill on input to get them to pull the very heavy loads over the Dartmoor Hills. If they were unkempt, neglected and not put in for their regular exams then they didn’t steam and no matter what an engineman did he had to fight it all the way. But a free steaming engine would pull the load be it 400 or even 600 tons up the Dartmoor banks with ease. To see one do it today with the lighter loads can only give a taste of what it was like for “Real” in those days. No little wonder that many still had ambitions to be a train driver.

But the car eventually made it’s way to our Devon abode. We joined the modern race for freedom and independence. So future journeys were made by car.
The journey didn’t need much planning. We all knew the route. The venerable Morris Minor gainfully chugging its way to Devon with it’s 850cc motor Via the A370 out of Bristol past the Bristol Airport on top of the hill and down again. Up over the Mendips until you reached the A38. The car plodding steadily on this exciting journey until we came to the most exciting part. The coast road. Thankfully to this day this road has hardly changed in Character. The twists and turns. Constant hold ups at narrow points as cars vied for the chance to make it through against the traffic coming in the opposite direction. The sight of water as you approached Star cross with it’s beautiful homely station, welcoming and waiting for the next holiday express to engorge passengers for two weeks break from the humdrum life of normality. The wonderful sight of Dawlish as you got your first proper look at the sea and excitement as trains raced over the low bridge.

It was a long journey. To us kids it seemed to take forever. The old sentences trotted out by Bored Children in those days still repeated today. “Are we nearly there Yet”. Not a chance. It usually took a good two hours to get from Exeter via the coast road to Babbacombe and St Marychurch. For me the twin joys of first seeing the railway lines along side the road and if you were lucky racing (if you could call it that, as they raced past leaving you feeling as if you were stood still). A steam train or one of the new fangled diesels as they glided past with such evocative names as the “Torbay Express” “The Golden Hind” The “Royal Duchy” “The Cornishman” and of course the most famous of them all “The Cornish Riviera Express”.
The tide in or out at Cockwood Harbour. The smell of the Sewage, Yes folks in those days the pipes ran out across the beaches and spewed forth with gay abandon the foul retches of our human waste without a thought for what effect it may have had on our young bodies. For some strange reason it didn’t have quite the foul salty smell that Weston evoked.

Finally turning the corner to come up the hill and enter Babbacombe and come down the road to the traffic lights on the corner of St Marychurch road and Warboro Road. Knowing we had arrived because that junction was marked with the presence of Walls Ice cream on the corner. I didn’t quite know what they did there. I was only aware that they were there and for all I knew they made the ice cream. Then the excitement as I saw the towering floodlights of Plainmoor. Tall, towering high with banks of lights splayed out to light up the night sky at the next battle with the opposition.

I always had the same bedroom. It was a front room, somewhat narrower than the other rooms in the house. They were all of the same design on that row. I never had the chance to see any others on the rest of the road so assumed they were also the same. My room was above the entrance hall accounting for the narrowness of it. But to me it was my little bit of independence. In it I would dream of a reality never to be achieved with that childlike innocence of a 4/5 year old. My brother was in the cot in the next room until he was big enough to go into the middle bedroom. With the very thick quilt covering the huge double bed, needing a block and tackle to lift it that makes today’s 12 tog quilts look lightweight..

Bed was early for me as a youngster, but to wake up early in the morning with the seagulls told us an adventure was beginning which would last for several weeks. Trips to beaches at Babbacombe, Oddicombe. Torre Abbey Sands. Preston sands and later to Goodrington.
Oh the delights of Goodrington. We didn’t know about sewage. Those pipes were like magnets. With their pools of water down the side when the tide went out. Just right for sailing a boat or building a sandcastle with a moat. The pipes providing a ready current of water for the river we built. Interspersed by stopping to watch the next little green diesel train leave the station to plod on to Kingswear. Sometimes a big express slide slowly and quietly in the holding sidings on the slope down the other side of the branch. We would sometimes go up the hill to the top of the bridge to watch the trains arriving from who knows where to stay a while and recharge, while their occupants toasted themselves on the beaches only to tread wearily back to the station at around 5pm to go on their way. Or Saturdays when holiday expresses came and engorged their passengers to spend their money in and around the bay for the rest of the week.

In the early years it wasn’t easy to lose the reigns of the parents. Quite rightly we had to be looked after. But in later years we were allowed the rare treat to go out on our own around the area but only for a short time and not too far. The limit being around Plainmoor and down to Cary Park.
No fancy play area there in those days.
The confines of Plainmoor more than compensated for by playing with the ball in the back yard of Granddads house. At least when no one was paying attention. The vegetables growing there provided a tasty morsel with the rich roasts that adorned the table in the evening with a oddly white gravy which I assumed was a Devonshire delicacy. The vegetable patch hemmed in by a barrier of slate tiles that I will always remember as I tripped and fell on to them one day savagely cutting myself in the shin which in all honesty should have been cleaned out and stitches applied, But instead the scar remains with me even today to remind myself of that vegetable garden and conservatory.
There was a stub of a lane coming off from Marnham Road and going down the backs of the houses. Bordered by that special stone showing up white against the backdrop of gardens with their flowers or vegetables growing in the rich soil. With a small offshoot that joined the lane with Warboro Road. Dad would park the car there hoping nothing had been left behind.

The lane of delights was the narrow road that went off almost next to our house and went down the back of the main stand. This was the real Plainmoor. The field of dreams where great Gladiators meet to go head to head with matadors. In fierce combat. I wasn’t even aware of the importance of some of the matches then. I hadn’t noticed that some were only reserve games against such heady giants of the Western League as Cyst St Mary. Or Broad Clyst. Bideford Town or Heavitree Utd. We even had that team in red and the others in Green come for reserve fixtures. They were all the same to me. Football matches. The bug was truly caught. Although I did cotton on to the fact that some matches had only a few hundred in attendance. Where as the main matches were packed to the rafters.
I took in the atmosphere of the ground. The little Bungalow on the corner of the lane and Warboro Road. With it’s window frames painted yellow yet fading and peeling with age and lack of care. The windows looking as if they had never been opened in years. It never seemed that busy and for all I knew wasn’t occupied for most of the time. Passing down the lane with the old school on the left in red brick just like all other Victorian schools. The back of the stand seemed to beckon me with an unspoken invitation to see what was inside as if I didn’t know football was played within those hallowed gates. Just inside the lane from the Bungalow cars would park alongside the fence to the school.
On many days you could hear people inside the stand. I wasn’t to know whether they were players or ground staff of just staff at the club. Anything and everything that was to do with administration either went on within those walls or the bungalow.
The stadium never did have the air of greatness exactly. More a homely arms around the shoulder that said “ This is your spiritual Home” Little was I to know that I would support this team to my dying days.
But I knew that on special days the Crowds would turn up in their thousands and cram onto the terraces to cheer on the boys in Golden Blue as it was called in those days. The team shirts were a darker shade of yellow more akin to Warning panel yellow with mid blue shorts and socks which seemed a rich combination. I fondly remember that kit as if it was the spiritual right of all who were to run out onto the pitch. It seemed by today’s standards to be a much richer combination than the washed out colour of today and I long to see the day when we bring out a retro kit in remembrance of those times.
Match days were something you really had to prepare for even if we were not to set foot in the ground. Cars, even in those days would come from far and wide to park wherever they could. Supporters of both sides mixed without a thought of starting any arguments or fights. If we didn’t have dads car parked alongside Mrs Potters house at the end of our town before the hoards arrived we wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near until the match was long finished and the crowds dispersed. Such was the clamber to park as near the ground as possible. Funny how little has changed after all these years.
We never had the opportunity in my early years to go in with the spectators. But I was allowed to stay up as a special treat and I was availed the privilege of sitting on Grandads Knee and watching from the rear bedroom window.. This was his bedroom. A hallowed place I wasn’t allowed to wander in and explore on my own. With the old grandfather clock that stood sentry outside the door at the top of the stairway. Granddad lived there for a considerable portion of his life. He had been a solicitors clerk for Peter Peter and Sons. A Devon based firm who still survive to this day. He retired to Torquay with his wife and daughter and lived out the rest of his days there. Content in the knowledge that he had done the best he could by his family. I don’t remember much about his wife, My Grandmother Maud. But what I can remember was a somewhat severe woman. Strict and not tolerant of fools. I was told in later years that she didn’t approve of my mother as it was felt that My Father has married beneath his station.
But My grandfather was to outlive his wife by quite a few years and I have happy memories of him. A warm intelligent man with quite a sense of humour. Gentle and Humble. I always remember his regular deliveries of the newspaper for the charity he did support and do some work for. Toc H. it seemed an odd name for a Charity. But it still survives today working in the community. I wasn’t aware in those early years that this was a larger charity than I could possibly imagine and thought it was just a Devonshire thing associated with the Methodist Church he belonged to in St Marychurch.
He loved watching the Gulls in action even to his dying day. His daughter. Margaret Lived with him and looked after him for the rest of his days and stayed on in that house until she passed away in the 90’s. My Aunty Margaret was a homely woman, a certain Devonshire welcome about her and inquisitive mind with a sharp wit. I felt that she was sharper than people gave her credit for. But she also could bark an order or two if we misbehaved. She never married, But I do recall that there was talk of a failed relationship many years before when she was young. It wasn’t my position to pry. Certain things were not meant to be talked about.
Even Margaret had that fondness for the Golden Blues. And would listen out for the crowd on match days. If there was a huge cheer she would look up and say. “Our Boys have scored again”. She didn’t follow football, But it was still “Our Boys”. A Community club that local folks felt was their own even if they didn’t like football. I often wondered as a kid if she could tell what was going on in the match just by listening. Could she even tell what colour the other team wore and who the linesmen and referees were, just by listening?.
We would prepare ourselves for the match almost as if we were to attend in person at the turnstiles. Granddad got the chair ready which we would sit on. Tea was arranged and sandwiches provided. The speakers would belt out the music before hand and then the announcer would call out the names on the team sheet. A sound that would echo around the streets with it’s own favourite atmosphere. The crowds cheered the teams onto the pitch and in those days it was quite a cheer. Sound eminating from the terraces with a fervour we haven’t seen in many a day. Supporters in those days had a funny sort of wooden thing called a rattle. They would hold these aloft and swing them around so they would rotate and bring on a unique rattling sound that with hundreds in use at the same time coupled with the roar of the supporters would make hair crinkle on the back of your head as if a sudden start of high charge static electricity had passed through you. It was an odd implement with two wooden bendy stick things that rested on the rachet cog. When you swung it around your head to rotate it. The cogs rotated and the wooden slat things rattled against them.
It was a heady mix of excitement and wonderment that I looked on. Did fans feel the same way? The almost religious fervour that eminated from the terraces seemed to indicate that it was even more than my young mind could comprehend.
As we looked out over the morass heaving on the concrete below our window. I took in the Little Blue invalid carriages slowly make their way to a spot just behind the touch line along the away terrace. You could not quite see the touch line if the terrace was full to capacity. But if not full, you could make out the players fighting to get the ball to the touchline and then deftly flick it over to the guy in the penalty box. Who would in turn either shoot or pass it to another for a try at goal. Occasionally a ball would fly into one of the cars and I would wonder that the window of the car wasn’t broken. On some not so common occasions the ball would sail with gay abandon way over the heads of supporters to land with a sharp thump in the lane behind. If given enough welly it would land in the back gardens of residents. And on the odd occasion reached Granddads conservatory. I never remember any glass being broken but I would not be surprised to find that on occasions it actually cracked a few panes. But you certainly knew when it landed. The noise reverberated around the house making everyone jump. They were heavy balls in the 60’s. not the light balls of today which resemble a cheap toy picked up in Tesco.
Sometimes we would see a member of staff from the club come on out and collect the ball. Even knocking on our door if he could see it in our garden. Scratching his head if he couldn’t find it.
The ground was a simple structure. Although in my young days it was to me the next best thing to Wembley.
Directly in front of us was a concrete terrace. Crumbling even in those days from lack of maintenance. The barriers rusting yet smooth from wear of thousands of arms rested in many a match gone by. There were not so many barriers in those days. Just enough to provide some solace to those who needed a little help, standing on a cold windswept open space in a miserable November evening in the fog. It went the whole length of the pitch meeting up with the Grandstand to our left and the Marnham Road terrace to our right. It went right back to the wall and it was often that we saw supporters try to gain entry by climbing up the wall with a little help from those inside and grabbing a handhold on the rusting chain link fence which was supposed to stop such a thing. Some supporters would climb on the roofs of neighbours garages. With or without permission. Annoyed neighbours then enter the scene to remonstrate with fans on potential damage caused etc. Among some though were genuine neighbourhood supporters who would use their own garages for such an act and it wasn’t unknown for 3 or so roofs to be occupied with a good half dozen or more watching from their back gardens. With the slight disadvantage that they were not quite high enough to see properly over the heads of the fans who occupied the rear most steps of the terrace.
The terrace to our right was truly huge by comparison. Again it ran the whole length of the pitch but sloped at the back as the stadium was at a slight angle to Marnham Road. This terrace stretched right back to the wall bordering that road. This was quite a distance so that I was in no doubt that many thousands could be accommodated. The sound that emanated from that area was truly magnificent. It drowned out the other three parts of the ground on it’s own if we scored a goal. It reminded me of Liverpool’s Kop when the crowd swayed in unison as they cheered and groaned at whatever happened. Songs rang out like a peel of bells at the local church and when the match was over, Thousands would pour out like ants from an ant hill to fill the road and hold up traffic for ages. I would in turn run to my little bedroom to watch. It was nothing unusual to see between 8 and 12 thousand crammed into Plainmoor in those days.
A throng coming to worship at their alter like a hoard of flies to a dung pile. The waft of tea and other delicacies from the vending caravan in the left corner of the ground between the away terrace and the Grandstand. Painted bright yellow and blue as if fans wouldn’t recognise it if it wasn’t.
I imagine that that caravan was consigned to the scrap yard in short order not far in the distance from those early days such was it’s state to me. It look way past it’s best then as if it was of such an early vintage that Brunel himself may well have used it.
The Grandstand itself somehow exuded an air of prominence. It seemed neat even if of a vintage long ago forgotten. At the rear it was covered in the veritable Asbestos with wooden framing. Painted yellow where possible. Coupled with the lower part in brick rendered with cement. I am sure there were offices in the section toward Warboro Road until a fire destroyed that part in the 80’s.
It seemed to sag with age and sadness at it’s once grand appearance as time went on but I remember it with pride once upon a time. A football ground just had to have a proper stand and ours to my eyes was a proper stand once.
The home terrace was a rather odd collection of terracing. With a rotten old wooden framed Roof over part of it in the middle. The covering was corrugated Iron with more holes in it than a shower head. Differing styles of terracing were on either side with a few rather sorry looking barriers as the away terrace. Sitting forlornly rusting but polished on top.
The whole surround to the pitch ringed with barriers adorned with adverts of all types. Keeping the massed hoards penned in behind. And sometimes it was quite a mass.
You cannot even imagine what a crowd of an average of 10,000 looked like inside Plainmoor. All around was a sea of faces eagerly waiting for their heroes to emerge. The masses on the Marnham Road terrace seemingly stretching as far as you could see. Far too many to count. Not like the neat rows we have now. With the terrace only reaching back around 10 rows. Imagine that multiply it by 4 or 5 or even more. Plus the massed support on the away terrace. The home terrace and Grandstand. It was 4 or 5 times what we get now. Probably larger than any gate in league two today even allowing for Bradford City’s gates. It was an age when Television had not gained the hold or appeal it does now. Toys and Hobbies were still basic and traditional. Model Railways were the leading hobby and we weren’t called anoraks yet. Even then Young lads would congregate on platform ends to cop the last few engines still in service.
Then by 1965 the last steam on the Western Region was no more. Replaced by bright shiny new diesel Hydraulics. Although steam survived for 3 more years on the Midland Region. What you call little local Multiple Units today were new in those days. Resplendant in their dark Brunswick type green livery with a smart set of yellow lines curving down to a point at the front or as we called them Speed whiskers. Although who coined that phrase no one knows.
In those days they were used readily by the management to supplement busy periods and although initially in three car form, They could be coupled together to form 6, 9, or even 12 cars for heavy Summer Saturday holiday relief trains. I had the pleasure of seeing them climb the bank from Torquay station up to Torre station and pull in to pick up anything up to 50 odd passengers going home after a weeks break in the sun. Yes we had sun in those days. Summer was Summer and Winter was Winter. The Summers were long and hot. The Winters always had a heavy fall of snow. Not least the Winter of 1963. Boy did that cause a few problems. Non of this wiffle-waffle closing of Schools. They, and all industry struggled on and generally got on with it despite the cold. And it was Cold. Biting winds. Blizzards that diminished vision to a few yards. Snow several feet deep. In fact so deep that cars were buried for days. Some for weeks. Even Torquay suffered in that year. Yes it was that bad. Football was cancelled for a good month. No thoughts for anything other than keeping going. To maintain life at all despite the conditions
I wonder how they continued training in those days. Plainmoor was used for training in those days, no posh training grounds then.
But covered in feet of very cold white stuff I wonder where they went.
Roads were buried in feet of it too. People manfully dug for all they were worth. It was a Herculean task. The worst snow for 16 years. I have been told since that 1947 was even worse. I cannot imagine how.
I didn’t mind too much. It was an adventure for me. I remember the night it started as I watched the dustbin outside the back of our house gain a covering 4 inches deep from a fall of fine white snow in only an hour or so.. It seemed to cling onto anything it came into contact with. And then promptly froze. This freeze and the constant snow lasted for at least 4 weeks and then stayed around for many more weeks. School closed for the first couple of days as people dug their way toward it. Diggers were out in force digging for all they were worth through snow on the main road at least 5 feet deep. You could not possibly comprehend what a fall that heavy could do. One of the problems was where to put it. After all, if everywhere was between 4 and 7 feet deep and you dug a cutting thought that. You couldn’t exactly tip it to one side. It was too high already.
But as the days wore on, cuttings and holes were dug through which life could go on again. In our road we had three tunnels to get through before we reached the main road, and even then it was through steep sided cuttings several feet deep. Our house had snow up to bedroom window level, the front door out of action until we dug away the following day.
Eventually the wet cold stuff slowly thawed. Floods inevitably followed. Well of course they would. How could millions of tons of snow melt without consequences.
Life was a constant trek between South Wales. (yes folks. I am half Welsh so get over it!). and Torquay. Any family crisis and dad came running. Not much to mums lack of amusement over the Devon treks as it was a long journey, whereas we could catch the local train to Bedwas. Changing at Newport for the Little Pannier tank with it’s two coaches to trundle up the Vally.
I well remember when dad had the car for a short time. We went up to Bedwas and approaching Machen I was treated to the sight of a steam engine belt out of the tunnel with a rake of coal wagons. It was a truly magnificent sight to a small boy and one memory I will never forget such was it’s effect on me. I am sure to this day it was one British Railways Standard 4 engines. It was reasonably clean too. Although you couldn’t say that about the rusting grey wagons that were dragged kicking and screaming behind. As if calling out in misery that they didn’t want to come out on a cold drab day.
Such was my earliest recollections of life up to the age of 7 or so. Many more days were to come which would stick my memory which makes a change as I cannot for the life of my sometimes remember what I did yesterday let alone 45 years ago. Yet I do. I had thought of starting a new branch of the supporters club for fans of my age who had failing memory. You can always tell when we are present. All Torquay supporters shouting at the opposition fans “Who are you, Who are you” But we are at the back shouting “Who are we, where are we”. Yes it will come to you all one day but until then just rest in the knowledge that you are fit and healthy and I am at the back wondering who and why? And sometimes how!
End of part one.

[AustrianAndyGull]

Jesus GG! I think member of the month is in the bag mate! Great read.