THE 1st Deane Bolton Cubs, which I was a member of (Wolf Patrol), was situated on the top floor of the large stone building on the corner of Horsefield Street and Junction Road which overlooked the entrance to Deane Clough.

You reached the top floor by climbing a dimly-lit spiral staircase which, on a dark winter's night, would play tricks with your imagination.

On Cub night I would leave the house in pristine condition, uniform ironed and starched, woggle adjusted to the right position, lanyard gleaming white, my Swiss army knife and my Madras Police whistle polished to perfection. In addition, after much begging, I acquired my final finishing touch to complete the image. This was a wooden staff that mother bought for me from Albert Ward's in town.

I was to spend many happy years with the troop, marching and exploring the moors of Belmont, Turton, Edgworth and Rivington. At weekends, mother and father hardly ever saw me.

One very memorable weekend, we stayed in a hostel, which I remember as a single storey wooden building in Bradshaw by the side of the brook. As this was my first time at the hostel, we had been warned of the ceremony which we would have to go through during the weekend. After many hours of waiting and anticipation, the time finally arrived. The brook was dammed to make a small, deep pool. We had to undress to our shorts and be ceremoniously ducked and re-christened with our new, born-again, chosen nickname. To my everlasting shame, the best they came up with for myself was "Parsnip", which stood for many years. Later in life, however, I did have a change of heart as to its significance on my development for their taste.

In summer time, on long, warm evenings, we would engage in the building of various types of bridges over the stream that runs down the clough. Our skills for the tying of knots and the lashing of timbers would be put to full use in a practical way.

In the early 1940s, as a member of Wolf Patrol, the day that was the proudest and the most looked forward to was Deane Sermons. We would all march through the church yard, flags held aloft, to enter the stone archway into its magnificence. One year I was chosen to carry the flag, which had been beyond my wildest dreams. I was young, I was fit and strong, but, on the occasion, I trembled.

Also around the same time I was to have the honour of being given a trial to sing in the church choir. The adrenaline was at bursting point but the outcome was "don't call us, we will call you".

On the day of the Sermons, Deane village would be a hive of activity. All church services would be fully attended, especially the Evening Service in the open air of the church yard. During the day, graves would be attended and adorned with fresh blooms, and families would stroll at leisure up and down the clough. Even father would attend -- not as an avid church-goer, I think the attraction may have been that the village taverns had a reputation of serving sustenance longer than their permitted hours.

My demise as a member of Wolf Patrol came about after a never-to-be-forgotten weekend attending a Jamboree in the grounds of Smithills Hall. We left our headquarters, pushing a wooden cart containing our tents and camping equipment plus food all the way to Smithills Hall. What a journey!

The Saturday was spent pitching camp, sorting out our supplies, exploring, playing with new friends, listening to speeches of welcome, and in the evening singing our songs round a large fire. Each tent was self sufficient and looked after itself. Our Sunday morning breakfast was, however, a complete disaster with our burned sausage and bacon being buried in a convenient hole in the ground.

To compensate for our frustration, other boys and myself decided to chop down a tree with our newly-acquired axes, which were an addition to our image. This was not appreciated by the powers-that-were at the time. (It was not even close to November 5). Our axes were confiscated and never to be carried again.

On Cub night, I still left the house in pristine condition. But I would leave my staff in the air raid shelter (Back Glen Avenue), run down to Wigan Road and jump on the tram to the Windsor Cinema. At the paybox I would be given enquiring glances as to my appearance, but this was of no concern as I had three pennies in my hand to enter a new world of adventure, escape and make-believe.