During a recent conversation with my big sis Rhondda, we began, as we often do, to reminisce. We spoke of the times that Mum visited Dad during the war, possibly to check up on him but more likely because she loved him and missed him dreadfully.
Dad was called up into the Royal Navy in December 1940. Following his training as a gunner, he was posted to a division that in 1939 had become the DEMS –Defensively Equipped Merchant Ships. His basic training was at the shore bases of HMS Raleigh and HMS Drake, with further specialist training at HMS Glendower near Pwllheli.
A determined wartime wife makes a trip to Wales
In spite of the difficulties for civilian personnel to get anywhere in wartime Britain, Mum was determined to visit; she must have really loved him. Mum found her way to Afon Wen near Pwllheli, in North Wales, and spent some quality time with Dad until she had to get home and back to work.
Dad was then posted onto the North Sea trawlers from Newcastle to London. This was followed by a further posting to Penzance on more trawlers that sailed between Penzance and London with the occasional quick trip over to France to poke fun at the Germans, apparently to drop people off on the coast at night. What could possibly go wrong? This is just one of the stories that Dad told me that I would have loved to learn more about, but alas, they are gone forever.
Mum was pregnant with Rhondda around this time (she must have really, really loved him). Rhondda thinks Mum’s pregnancy was Dad’s idea to keep her out of mischief while he was away. It’s more likely that, as with thousands of other war babies, it was to ensure a legacy in case the men folk didn’t return home from the war. It was while Mum was pregnant that Dad was transferred to a slightly less dangerous job as one of the four gunners on the Scillonian, a ferry from Penzance to the Isles of Scilly.
Mum and baby Rhondda make an intrepid trip to the Isles of Scilly
Rhondda was born on 8 March 1942. In the June of that year, Mum must have thought that she needed to check up on her husband again and so she took her three-month-old daughter to the Scillies. They spent five very happy months there until medical treatment was needed for Rhondda that wasn’t available on the island.
The Channel Islands had been occupied by the Germans since 1940. Even though the Scillies were further away from occupied France, these islands must have been considered by the Germans as a stepping-off point for invasion. Perhaps Mum had no idea where the Scillies were nor how vulnerable they were to the dastardly Germans. Or maybe she was just determined to be with Dad whatever. She must have really, really, really loved him.
Another daring family trip – to war-torn London
Mum and Dad’s home was 42, High Street, Scapegoat Hill, a rented terraced house owned by the local farmer. One of Rhondda’s first memories was helping (for want of a better word) to drive the milking herd to the mistal, and she remembers shouting “Come on you buggers”. She had heard the farmer say this many times and of course assumed it was cowspeak, so she repeated the phrase. This is what kids do – they will repeat what adults say, much to the embarrassment of all around, except perhaps the farmer who no doubt thought it was highly amusing.
In February of 1945, Rhondda was just shy of her third birthday and Mum decided to add to her adventure to Afon Wen and her reckless visit to the Scillies with an irresponsible visit to the capital. Even though the blitz had finished, the V1 and V2 rockets were still landing on London and causing death and destruction everywhere. At this time, Dad was serving as acting petty officer on the SS Samkansa. Their route took them through the Panama Canal and on to Australia and New Zealand.It was while he was on leave that Mum and Dad decided to do a bit of sightseeing in London, presumably to see all the holes left by the V1 and V2 rockets.
A resourceful start in the snow
Just before they were due to set off to London, it had been snowing and the buses couldn’t get up to Scape, so Mum being as resourceful as ever decided that the only alternative was to walk down the hill into Gowca to see if she could catch a bus there. In truth, walking probably was the only alternative, save borrowing a horse. There very few tractors around in those days and certainly no 4x4s.
The most direct route from Scape to Gowca is down Old Lane. Struggling with a toddler in one hand and a suitcase in the other, Mum thought she could do better than this and put the case on the snow, sat Rhondda on top and slid it down Old Lane like a sledge, much to the delight of Rhondda who thought it was all a game.
This is the very bottom section of Old Lane. The photograph cannot show how steep this lane is, but perhaps it does show how it can lull the inexperienced into a false sense of ease, for just out of sight in the distance the lane really starts its relentless climb.
Scapegoat Hill wellies all wrong for Gowca, never mind London!
Scapegoat Hill is 1,100 feet above sea level and as a consequence if there is any snow about, they will get it up there. Just a few years later in early 1947 a snowstorm covered everything to the height of the bedroom windows and cut Scape off for many weeks. However, other villages down the Colne Valley rarely experience anything like the same weather conditions.
Even though 1945 was not as bad as 1947, the contrast in the weather conditions on the day Mum and Rhondda set off was such that by the time they had reached Gowca, there was little snow to speak of, so they had to embarrassingly travel all the way to London in bright sunshine still wearing their wellies.
Old Lane continues to challenge
The WARTS (Walkers and Ramblers Tenacious Stalwarts walking group) often stagger up Old Lane on our regular Friday walks for breakfast at the Bolster Moor farm shop café, which may include a wee nip of brandy in our coffee. This is of course medicinal; after walking up Old Lane at our age we need all the recovery help we can get. Old Lane is so steep and relentless that when we get only half way up we still have two thirds of it yet to go.
It is now just a footpath, but once it was wide enough for a horse and cart. Climbing up is bad enough, but while walking down is easier on the cardiovascular system, at the bottom your knees feel like they will explode. Still, I certainly would not risk taking a horse a cart down it. What could possibly go wrong? I don’t know if anyone actually risked it in those days.There are better routes to take a horse but not as direct and certainly not as much fun as it would be in the snow.
Fun time
A local newspaper reporter was sent to interview one of the oldest residents in town. The old man invited him in and the reporter said, “How old are you?”. The old man answered, “96”.“And what do you attribute your longevity to?”, asked the reporter. “I have never drunk, smoked or cavorted with wild, wild women.” Just then there was a crash upstairs. “What was that?”, the reporter asked. “Oh that’s just Dad, he’s drunk again.”
