masterwordsmith-unplugged

On March 14th, I featured a post called "Memoirs of an Englishman" which was written by an English gentleman who lives in Scotland . Then, he had given me permission to use the email for my blog. This time, he has agreed to write about his childhood and his experiences for my blog so the following is written by Tony, a blog reader who has now become a dear friend. I am blessed to know him and the other blog readers whom I have befriended. For the rest of you, I am still unaware of your identity/location so do leave a comment if you like or drop me an email at cocklesofmyheart@gmail.com. Please let me know if any of you would like me to feature your articles here. Thanks and have a lovely evening.

In the mean time, sit back, relax and have a mostalgic journey down memory lane with Tony as he shares with us his early years...

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My Early Years

My earliest recollections of childhood are of a house filled with women –women who came and went with almost railway regularity –women who would either ignore me,as I sat in my high chair in our busy kitchen, or women who would smother me in wet,rubbery, kisses ,women who smelt of labradors,horses,damp tweed and lavender.Who these women were bothered me not in the slightest my affections were limited to every boy's favourite….his mother.

I lived with my mother and father in a beautiful old farmhouse in rural Northumberland.My father had just been de-mobbed from the R.A.F. having served in Bomber Command during the war years and then transferred to a transport squadron where,amongst other things,he took part in the Berlin airlift finishing his service career the year I was born.From the day he took off his uniform for the last time until the day he departed this life he never,ever,spoke to a soul about his wartime experiences –it was locked away in the dark cupboard of memory –never to see light of day again.

He now returned to the life that he adored –the life,now, struggling to survive in rural England –the life of hunting,shooting and fishing –the life of long hours of toil on the land,the ploughing, sowing and harvesting,a life dictated by the seasons.This was my father's England and it was his belief that I was to follow in his foot steps.

Mother was a no-nonsense woman- a woman of strong character –trustworthy and oh so honest –a woman who was instantly likeable and was in great demand by the ladies of the locale for her skills at dressmaking,cooking and baking, flower arranging and embroidery,her ability to organize with military precision having ran our small farm during the time father was on active service –hence the procession of ladies, to our kitchen door, seeking out her help and advice on many,diverse,subjects.

The first recollection I have of Roger would be in my sixth or seventh year.Roger was my father's friend who visited us every year to help out during harvest time and to aid my dad in the never ending fight to stave off the ravages of the weather to our house and out-buildings.We had a small orchard,apples and pears mainly,that Roger would make his home during his stay with us –a tent fashioned from tarpaulins and staves and furnished with an ex-army camp bed and mattress,a small table and two chairs and an old chest that served as his wardrobe.Never once did he step foot into our warm and comfortable kitchen – nor for that matter –into our house at all –he cooked for himself and washed himself and his laundry in the “red burn” a stream that ran behind the orchard.When he and my father-and as a rare treat I would be invited - took their regular evening stroll to the village pub for a beer or two Roger always remained out side – never,in all the years I knew him, did I see Roger enter a building other than our barn.This practice seemed acceptable to my father and was never questioned so I supposed it would be bad manners to take the subject any further and I too,in time, accepted his behaviour as normal.


Northumberland is a wild and beautiful county,one of the most northerly in England running from the river Tyne in the south to the river Tweed and the Scottish borders in the north.It is a land of castles and monasteries, of a wild,desolate, coastline lashed by the North Sea,of rolling grasslands and the forest of Kielder, the heathery uplands of the Cheviots and rivers and streams that hide the elusive trout and salmon.The high,misty, hills that are the domain of the magnificent red deer It is the home of the Venerable Bede and St Cuthbert and the cradle of Christianity in England.

This,aged ten years, was to be the backdrop for my education –not the 9-00am till 3-30pm state provided education –but the education that for centuries had been handed down from father to son. I was to learn of the bounties of the differing seasons and to the dangers this land may confront you with –and above all-to revere and respect the land and its wildlife –we are,for a short period of time,the custodians of this land –we are holding it in trust for the future generations

My father,myself and Roger in the summer months, roamed this rugged land –I was taught the noble art of fly fishing – we followed the hounds of the local fox hunts –I was taught to ride a horse and how to keep it groomed –I learned where to place a snare to catch rabbit –I was taken onto the high moor and shown the grouse that fly low ,like missiles, across the purple heather and up into the high ground to stalk the royalty of all the beasts – the red deer.Far and above the best times for me were the warm summer evenings I would spend with Roger and my dad sat around the camp fire,sipping steaming hot cocoa, listening to the yarns they would spin –of salmon caught and salmon lost –of deer stalks that lasted from sun up until sundown –of the folk lore attached to the mystical hare(never did they take a hare for the pot) and of ghosts and spirits of men long gone that dwelt in the dark,leafy,glens and up on the lofty peaks. .

Of course,as we lived on a farm, we had the every day chores that required us to look after our stock and nurture the land.Ploughing,hoeing, seed drilling then harvesting.There were the chickens and pigs to feed – my responsibility before I set off for school –the milking of our dairy heard –my father and Roger took care of this –and the sheep out on the hills to check , the stalls to clean out,food stuff to bring from the barn and a million and one other jobs that made up our working day.During the summer months the work,although long and hard,seemed a pleasure compared to the winter months when hands,ears, and noses would be frozen by the biting easterly winds that rushed in from the North Sea.

These were the balmy days of my childhood – wonderfully happy years that passed like a flash and, only too soon,aged 16,it was time for me to leave this idyll for the noise and concrete of Newcastle and engineering college.The first few months of college were extremely difficult for me-I was torn between the thirst for academic excellence and my family and the rural life I enjoyed so much.In time I adjusted to city life and the hurly-burly of campus and began to expand my mind and my social circle.From here I was to embrace a short career in the military and on to travel the world as an engineer.

In 1977 I received a call from mum…bad news ….Roger had died the day before and she and dad were making their way ,the next day, to a small town in the south for the funeral….could I meet them there….of course I would.

The next few days were very sombre…we spoke with Rogers sister,his only living relative,and she agreed that he should be laid to rest in the land of his birth… Northumberland. Dad made all the arrangements and a few days later we buried him in the cemetery of our beautiful village.The short service before burial was attended by all of the friends he had made during the years and many a tear was shed at his passing.

He had been a life long friend of my fathers and my father knew all that I am about to relate…it was an unspoken agreement they held that neither would speak of the others experiences and it was this bond that nobody could break…this was a friendship built on trust and admiration for each other.

Roger and dad had grown up together as children and were inseparable but had been parted when Rogers parents moved down to the south of England in search of a better life.It was not until the early war years that they were re-united by chance when Roger,now in the army, visited his grandmother in our village and dad happened to be on leave from the R.A.F…..a few beers were drunk while they both caught up with the happenings of previous years and soon they would part again until the end of hostilities.


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In 1945 Roger appeared at our farmhouse looking for my dad who was still on active service…mum,who was shocked at his almost skeletal appearance ,told him that she expected dad back on leave in a few days and he should return then.This he duly did and another reunion took place,a very different reunion than had taken place those few short years previously,now they spoke in hushed voices of the past few years-of the horrors and inhumanities witnessed-of friends made and lost-and above all –the utter futility of it all. After a few days Roger returned to his home in a small town on the edge of Romney Marsh only to return every year until his death.

It transpired that Roger had been captured when Singapore had been surrendered in 1942 and had spent almost three years in the hands of the Japanese –three years of unimaginable horrors that were to haunt and scar him for his remaining years-three years of inhuman treatment-three years of beatings and degregations that many were not to survive.But he did survive and it was a through sheer ,dogged, determination to keep living that got him through those dreadful years.Slowly he returned to civilian life…not a normal life…for now he could not bear to be indoors –indoors to him were where beatings took place and where his comrades in arms had died in the most vile of conditions(prison camp hospitals) from then on he shunned his home and took to the nearby marshes to live a reclusive life.He supplemented his meagre war pension with the few pounds he earned as a shepherd and lived in a lean-to he built from bits and pieces that he found or was given and for 32 years this was how he spent his time…winter on the marshes and summer in his native Northumberland.

I would like to think that Roger had found a certain level of contentment by living his life of solitude and ,I,m sure, he was happy when he spent the few summer months each year with my dad, mum, and me-I certainly enjoyed his company and will be ever grateful for the lessons I learnt from this most complex and remarkable man.