REFLECTIONS

Mum in Llandudno

You may, or may not, have noticed that I've not been posting regularly for some time, but I have been thinking about my life as a Travelogue... not just travelling in a literal sense, but my journey through life. Being born before the second World War I've lived through possibly the most momentous time in history, as the world has been changing for not just one part of the world, but globally. 

My travels began at an early age as my parents were quite adventurous for that time and would take me, secured in a baby carrier, on their hikes in the Peak District and possibly North Wales, which were quite accessible by train from Salford where we lived. However, that was short-lived, as by the time I was two, the war had started.

When I was three years old, my Dad joined up, volunteering for the RAF instead of waiting to be called up as a soldier.  On his return from training in South Africa, my Mother rented out our home and we moved in with her Mother, my Grandma, so as to be free to travel around the country to wherever my Dad was stationed.  When she knew at which airfield he was stationed, she would go by train, bus and hitching lifts to the nearest village to find a local householder that would take her and young child as lodgers. On her return, she would pack up a suitcase and off we’d go to one of Manchester’s Railway Stations to take a long, slow train or two, to some remote part of the country.  The airfields were mostly situated in the Midlands and eastern side of the country and our destinations ranged from the tiny shire of Rutland to Lincolnshire, Shropshire and up to the wilds of Northumberland.

I believe these experiences either formed or reinforced my love of travel. Of course, I could have hated it; leaving the security and comforts of home, to sit in a grimy, crowded carriage for several hours, breathing in soot-laden air from the coal fired steam engine whenever the heavy sash window or door was opened, to arrive in the middle of nowhere, often late at night and put to sleep in a cold unfamiliar bed in someone else’s house.  The fact is though, I really enjoyed the adventure.  I do remember waking in the morning to the joy of exploring a small, quiet village with a church, school and village shop, surrounded by fields, woods and gently rolling hills; such a contrast to the dirty, crowded streets of the city.  That’s the way I would always draw it; the sun rising over green hills.

I witnessed a way of life virtually unchanged for centuries but this rural England that I saw as a child would soon be gone as modernisation swept through the country after the war.

I write these memories for my own benefit and the interest of my family, but if you enjoy these reminiscences, please feel free to leave a comment and watch out for the next instalment.