THIS IS FINDON VILLAGE - The Rifle Range Cable Car

11th September 2006

Valerie …..Here's my rifle range story. My best friend (human that is) back in the mid 1970s was Nigel. Being two years my senior I tended to look up to him and go along with his rather odd ideas. He went to different school than I - so we only got together in the evenings and on the weekends. Among other peculiar traits he had this habit of keeping his blazer and tie on all the time - even on weekends. When up on the Downs I was quite scruffy but Nigel looked like a little aristocrat and quite out of place. He was a bit of a snob and even back then had an eccentric/genius way about him.

One day Nigel told me he was planning to place a cable right across the old rifle range.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"A cable - tightly strung from the top of one side to halfway down the other", he explained. "We can then run a pulley with a little chair or something and see how far we can go".

At first I had no idea what he was describing, but when he drew a diagram his plan became clear. He wanted to build a miniature cable car system like those which take skiers to the top of mountains. Instead of a car he planned to build a simple chair consisting of a cross bar (to sit on) attached to a pulley. This thing would then run along a cable, taking the passenger high across the rifle range from one side to the other.

One Saturday morning, in his jacket and tie, Nigel was at my front door with a huge coil of yellow nylon rope and a homemade wooden pulley chair which he had built in his dad's workshop.

"We're off!" was all he said. There was a definite Holmes/Watson dynamic to our friendship. Sally my yellow Labrador joined us on the expedition.

We spent the day at the old rifle range rigging up his crazy idea. He had about 200 yards of rope and after a brief survey of the best spots he tied one end to the base of a stout tree halfway down the eastern slope of the coombe. Then we uncoiled the rope, climbing the opposite slope where another tree stood. Nigel attached his "pulley chair" and then commandeered my strength to pull the rope taut before tying it to the tree. But with both of us pulling as hard as we could we just couldn't get the rope adequately tight. Because of its weight it bowed down in the middle like an oversized washing line. For his pulley thing to work the rope had to be much straighter. All the while this was going on Sally looked at us dubiously.

"We'll come back tomorrow," Nigel said, finally acknowledging defeat. "I've got a new plan to fix this".

We then found a hiding place for the rope and pulley and went home - Nigel muttering to himself as he contemplated his "new plan".

Sunday morning he was at my front door talking to my dad, whom was puzzling over a weird metal object that Nigel had built overnight.

"It's a special rachet mechanism", Nigel explained, "to get the rope tight".

"What rope?" dad said, frowning.

But we were off up the street without giving an answer - Nigel was anxious to get back to the rifle range and his hidden rope. Sally led the way up Charmandean Lane, always in the mood for an adventure.

With the special rachet device we got the rope much tighter than the previous day and Nigel announced he was going "to have a go". He sat on the cross bars, holding on to the vertical support, and using his best school shoes inched his way down the chalky slope until he was off the ground. The kink in the rope, however, was too pronounced for gravity to send him travelling down the rope and he just dangled there. Undaunted he got off and said —

"Got to get it tighter still".
Nigel grabbed the rachet and pulled hard on the handle, making the rope a few clicks tighter. Part of his contraption was a groove in which the rope was supposed to be notched. "Keep the rope in the groove!" Nigel yelled,

"It's going to slip!"

I put my thumb next to the rope and he pulled again. Then SNAP! The rope slipped off the groove and whipped the tree trunk and the nail of my right thumb was caught in between. The entire nail was uprooted from its base like a lid being flipped. Astonished, I stared at the top of my thumb and the dangling nail.

"What happened?" called Nigel, whom had rolled halfway down the slope.

"I've lost my thumbnail", I explained, staring incredulously at the blood pouring out of the top of my thumb.

Before the pain grabbed hold of me I fainted. When I came to I still couldn't believe what I saw. The entire nail dangled on a few threads of flesh and the area that was normally underneath the nail was completely exposed, oozing blood.

"Don't look at it", Nigel said and I passed out again.
It was quite a while before I woke up. Nigel was bent over me, saying an ambulance was on the way and I will have to walk down to the car park.

"Can you help me?" I said.

"I will in a minute", he replied. "Give me Sally's lead - I'll take her back".

Taking my dog with him he then seemed to disappear and I was left to somehow force myself to get to the car park. I must have looked rather strange as I stumbled like a drunk over the top of the Ring with my blood-drenched hand held out in front of me. True to Nigel's word an ambulance was charging up the road from Findon. I made it to the car park and then collapsed. When I awoke I was in the vehicle bouncing through Findon and onto the A24.

"Will I be in the paper? Will the police be called?" I asked one of the ambulance attendants.

For some reason I was worried that Nigel was going to be in trouble.

"Just take it easy" I was told.

I had the impression that my injury was a bit of a disappointment to my rescuers. I found out later that they had been told that someone was in mortal danger on Cissbury.

Apparently Nigel had got hold of a cross-country motorcyclist and asked him to go into Findon and call for help because there had been an accident and the victim was bleeding. By the time the biker made his call this information had somehow got twisted around into "bleeding to death".

The dangling nail was removed at the hospital and my hand swelled up like a boxing glove. After my constant pronouncements that —

"I can't go to school like this. I can't even write or do anything" the nurses soon got bored with me and dad picked me up.

Waiting for me at home were Nigel and Sally, both very relieved I was okay. I had a whole week off school which was a real delight as I was not at all ill and able to enjoy lots of walks. A new thumbnail eventually grew back and to this day it has always been a bit lopsided.

Nigel and I remained friends even after I left for Canada. In 1982 he came here for a visit and we went on a canoeing trip into the wilderness. By that time he had stopped wearing his tie and had turned into quite a hippy, complete with long hair. Unfortunately I have long lost touch with him.

This story is a bit long - but I hope you enjoyed it.

Andrew.

Andrew Miles, Guelph, Ontario, Canada.