Trixie I must confess that I struggled for a while before deciding which Category (see right) would be appropriate for this blog. For a start, it had been motivated by a thought and, at the same time, involved a trip down Memory Lane. However, ultimately, the star of the piece was my trike; so, Trixie is the obvious choice.
Last Sunday; whilst realising I would become seventy-five on the following day, it occurred to me that it must also be almost exactly seventy years since I started school; and, that in itself was quite an interesting story............
Shortly after WW2 started; and not long before my father was invited to help the nation teach Mr. Hitler a lesson, my Godfather (who happened to be the youngest brother of my father's boss) offered to let my mother and I move from the bomb-ravaged city of Liverpool (where I was born) into a cottage on a small estate he owned in north Wales (where she was born).
At that time, that particular region of Wales was almost entirely Welsh-speaking and, especially after my father was conscripted, I hardly spoke English at all and there was a concern that I might encounter language difficulties when returning to England after the war. So, rather than attend the local village school, it was decided to send me to an English boarding school which had been evacuated into a manor house in the Conway Valley. As it happens, it was a girls' school and, perhaps, because I showed a little too much interest in the girls (or they in me) - but, for whatever reason - after about eighteen months I was moved to an English boys' school which had been evacuated to an hotel in Betws-y-coed.
Moving forward to the present day, as last Monday was also the first day of autumn, I felt that the forecast for a few days of reasonably mild weather might offer the last opportunity of the year to take Trixie for a jaunt; whilst, at the same time allow me to re-visit the past. So, since the manor house is now an hotel (and requesting that I stay in the room in which I had slept as a child) I booked in for a couple of nights.
Shortly after WW2 started; and not long before my father was invited to help the nation teach Mr. Hitler a lesson, my Godfather (who happened to be the youngest brother of my father's boss) offered to let my mother and I move from the bomb-ravaged city of Liverpool (where I was born) into a cottage on a small estate he owned in north Wales (where she was born).
At that time, that particular region of Wales was almost entirely Welsh-speaking and, especially after my father was conscripted, I hardly spoke English at all and there was a concern that I might encounter language difficulties when returning to England after the war. So, rather than attend the local village school, it was decided to send me to an English boarding school which had been evacuated into a manor house in the Conway Valley. As it happens, it was a girls' school and, perhaps, because I showed a little too much interest in the girls (or they in me) - but, for whatever reason - after about eighteen months I was moved to an English boys' school which had been evacuated to an hotel in Betws-y-coed.
Moving forward to the present day, as last Monday was also the first day of autumn, I felt that the forecast for a few days of reasonably mild weather might offer the last opportunity of the year to take Trixie for a jaunt; whilst, at the same time allow me to re-visit the past. So, since the manor house is now an hotel (and requesting that I stay in the room in which I had slept as a child) I booked in for a couple of nights.
Plas Maenan Hotel
I have since discovered that the day I rode up to Snowdonia and stayed the night at the manor was exactly seventy years - to the day - since my first night there in 1943.
On the way up to Wales, I called for a cuppa at the office of a man I used to meet often during my bus delivery days (who happens to be a fan of my son) and, although I quite enjoyed the 275 mile ride up from Surrey - and in spite of leisurely a soak in a piping hot bath - my elderly joints and back were aching quite a lot when it came time to go to bed; and the realisation that I had forgotten to pack pain-killing tablets seemed to accentuate the problem. So, I'm afraid I didn't sleep very well at all.
After a light breakfast, overnight rain meant that Trixie needed to be towelled down before I set off to visit my ninety-three year-old aunt in a nursing home in the Lleyn peninsula; and, although there was no heavy rain, even the mist seemed to be quite damp during the journey and I was glad of the opportunity to dry-off and get a bit of warmth during the time we spent together.
It was after lunch-time when I left and I wasted two hours trying to persuade a pharmacist who seemed unable (or unwilling) to show some discretion whilst dealing with my own surgery in an effort to get me some pain-killers. Eventually, I aborted the attempt and, later spent some time visiting a couple of childhood friends and relatives from the time I had lived with my grandparents during the last few months of the war.
Lyn Gwynant
On the way back to the manor - acting on the advice of friends - I visited another chemist in a different town who was far more obliging and I finally got my hands of pain-killers. Having done that, I followed a very familiar route through Snowdonia; passing my favourite lake on the way (see above).
I also managed to visit the cottage in which my mother and I had lived during the war and, having received the usual gracious welcome (I've called there a couple of times previously), I took a picture of Trixie for the photo album (see below - left). Later, having posed at the front entrance, I secured her to a convenient railing outside the side of the manor - almost as one might do with a pet dog (see below).
Although I had exchanged pleasantries with one or two fellow guests on the first night there, the second night seemed much more convivial. I don't know whether word had got round of my previous association with the manor; but, for whatever reason, I met and chatted with quite a few nice people - and, in particular a pretty young lass from near where I lived in Liverpool after the war.
On Thursday, it had been my original intention to head home via Cheshire and The Peak District (two regions in which I had lived) and spend the night with my sister and her husband in the east midlands. In the event, however, Mrs. Burt, the hotel owner reminded me of a lady who had written a book about her time as a schoolgirl at the manor during the war.
Her name was Mary Hopson and I had actually bought her book after a brief visit to the manor during my bus delivery days and I seem to recall that there was a reference to myself in one of the chapters. However, I had misplaced it; so, having checked there was a copy available, I 'phoned my sister to explain that I was changing plans and heading for south Wales - where Mary now lived.
As had been the case on Wednesday, the weather was leaving a lot to be desired; but, it could have been a lot worse; furthermore, I had long held an ambition to drive/ride right down the centre of Wales and I arrived in Monmouth around tea-time - not too cold and not too wet, but grateful for a warm welcome.
As it happened, the welcome could not have been warmer. In addition to being given the book as a gift, Mary and her husband David invited me to spend the night at their delightful home. The photo was taken on my very basic mobile phone.....
David and Mary Hopson
After a light meal, Mary left to attend a meeting and David and I had a most delightful evening exchanging anecdotes about our respective experiences. I had never met a former comprehensive school master who had owned a castle; so, it can be imagined what an interesting conversation we had.
On the following morning, whilst studying the road atlas, I realised that my route home passed a village where a chap with whom I had shared a tent during the nuclear tests at Christmas Island lived; and I was fortunate enough to find him at home and we chatted over a mug of tea until I set off to complete what turned out to be a fairly uneventful final lap of my journey home.
On the following morning, whilst studying the road atlas, I realised that my route home passed a village where a chap with whom I had shared a tent during the nuclear tests at Christmas Island lived; and I was fortunate enough to find him at home and we chatted over a mug of tea until I set off to complete what turned out to be a fairly uneventful final lap of my journey home.
