I arrived mid afternoon on the Saturday, miffed that I’d missed the first night’s fun, but otherwise looking forward to a seriously laid-back time, shared with a group of extremely friendly, like-minded and just plain good people. I hadn’t entered the gate before people started chatting to me – things boded well. Though it was boiling hot, rain was threatening and keeping a cool head I had to prioritise. Yes, buy cold pint then put tent up!

By the time Andy* arrived, the pint was drunk, the tent was up and I was in the middle of a group of bikers yapping animatedly to anyone and everyone.

There are some people, incredibly, who have not yet tried the small rally experience. Some of those people don’t go because they think it is going to be a bit, well, twee and tedious. Others don’t go because they feel that a small rally is going to be full of people who already know each other and any newcomers will feel left out.

In my experience, and in the experience of everyone I know who regularly ‘do’ small rallies, neither reason bears any resemblance to the truth. Yes, smaller rallies are more intimate, but what that means is you meet an awful lot of people and party with them. In contrast, how many people have gone to a larger rally with just their partner, or lost their mates in the crowd and found that they’ve hardly shared a word with another soul? You might mutter ‘Sorry mate!’ to someone you’ve just tripped over and that’s about it.

Smaller rallies are generally much more friendly, especially if you’re more or less on your tod. There’s a rule of thumb that I tend to use: if the rally is advertised, the organisers want bikers other than the ones in their club to come as well, otherwise what’s the point in advertising it? Club members and their immediate friends are going to know the rally is on anyway.

So what happens? Well, this is a damn fine illustration of what you can expect:

Andy* and I wandered about the field, looking at the bikes, talking to people and being generally impressed that quite a bit of the machinery on the field wasn’t actually made in Milwaukee. The Northern Harley Riders obviously aren’t bothered what you ride, as long as you do. Of the Harleys there – and obviously there were bags more of them than everything else – it was a nice mix of old and new, Flatheads to Twin Cams, polished custom to eccentric. The only common denominator appeared to be that all the Harleys were well used, which is no bad thing in our book.

Then another Andy**, his son Harley, and Andy*** and I, shot off up the road for some tins for later when the bar shut. Then Andy* had to go, so he did, and we queued for the hog**** roast and ate it.

The genial chatter to all and sundry continued all night as vast quantities of ale were quaffed in the Rugby Club’s upstairs bar, there was a raffle, but for me, the true stars of the night were the band the NHR had booked. Called FM, they did three sets and from the very start belted out stonking seventies hard rock classics from the AC-DC and Black Sabbath school of cool, mixed with brand new Nu-Rock from the likes of the Foo Fighters. Utterly Storming. By the middle of the third set even I, yes I, had succumbed. Kinger the Beer Monster, the alter-ego who thinks he can dance had taken over my addled motor neurones and was doing. Probably badly.

The evening finished for me as it had begun, talking to friends I’d known for years or just a few minutes. Superb. Try it, you’ll like it.

My thanks must go out to the Northern Harley Riders for putting together a great party and belated congratulations to Fat Bob, the President of the Northern Harley Riders, who cut short his honeymoon to get back for the party.

* AmV Andy

** "Harley" Andy

*** Hog Dog’s former editor

**** Who might previously have been called Andy but I didn’t think to ask.