These old photos have been put online mainly for family, but regular readers of Wayfarer's may be interested too . . . Mark in 1955 “Is it legal to take stones from the massive deposits lying around the mountains? If it is illegal then who should I contact to collect said stones?” “No, it would… Continue reading Greenhayes Across the Years
Category: where I’ve lived
Happy Birthday Mary
Some pictures of Hastings that you and I will recognize from childhood. Much has changed since, I'm sure. Welcome to Memory Lane! . . .and there's a cave, long abandoned but didn't smell nice when I looked in as a child
My Best Film – Ever
I was 13, staying at Granny's house in Springfield Road, St Leonards-on-Sea. I lived on the Isle of Wight, but sometimes went there in the Christmas holidays. It was a rainy evening when I went to see the film, always on my own - I had no friends there.
A Brush With The Past
I've just finished my first attempt at watercolours since 1958. From the age of 12, I went to King James I School, in Newport, Isle of Wight. It was built as a grammar school in 1613, with some latter additions to accommodate up to 120 boys. Our art master was Mr Bell, a strict disciplinarian.… Continue reading A Brush With The Past
George Santayana
I came across his name when I was 17, but since then I've never seen it again till now: in the same book I borrowed, back in 1959. Despite extensive reading in the spheres of philosophy and religion since then, I've never come the name since, except in the book I borrowed then. I was… Continue reading George Santayana
Housewifery
HOUSEWIFERY is the efficient running of a house, and embraces problems of widely different natures. It includes the problem of running the house economically, seeing that the money available is spent to the best purpose. It includes keeping the house clean, for cleanliness and hygiene are the basis of healthy living. It includes a knowledge… Continue reading Housewifery
Face-to-Face
The ghost of Christine Keeler is returning to public view, in the form of a TV series now on BBC, and a forthcoming exhibition in London, which I heard about through Natalie D'Arbeloff's blog, in which she says Christine Keeler was, in that story, simultaneously absolutely powerless and absolutely powerful. She was neither victim nor… Continue reading Face-to-Face
What looks after us
Posted on Jan 4th , ’21 by Vincent I’ve been wanting to write about the role of angels in my life. Like most words in any language, it’s loaded with baggage going back millennia. Let’s strip off that heavy weight of meanings, leave it in a heap and walk lightly away. I want to go… Continue reading What looks after us
There and back
We had a ten-day window free, so we seized it, took a plane to Jamaica. It was partly a surprise visit to see Karleen's granddaughter on her 21st birthday; but also to catch up with many old friends. It was too long since we'd last seen that extraordinary island, Karleen's home for more than fifty… Continue reading There and back
The girl who torpedoed the Government
We met on a summer afternoon in ’59, two 17-year-olds, Pisces born within days of each other. We discovered we had much in common. Both from fatherless backgrounds, lacking any proper home. Each had been granted a single talent, you might say, in compensation for the lack. As her father-figure Stephen Ward said, she had… Continue reading The girl who torpedoed the Government
Pastures New
I posted this when I decided to transfer from Blogger to WordPress on 15th November 2015
Beggars and Choosers
I tend to put my trust in the reality I see with my own eyes. . . . Here we have immigrants of every kind, including the odd terrorist, as we know from rare arrests on behalf of the security services. Is there much prejudice in our community? Yes of course, as much as anywhere,… Continue reading Beggars and Choosers
Into the Zone: a trip
" /> The Precinct looking west Trip, n(1): 3. A short voyage or journey; a ‘run’. Apparently originally a sailor’s term, but very soon extended to a journey on land. 5. slang (orig. U.S.) a. A hallucinatory experience induced by a drug, esp. LSD. I’ve learned that following others isn’t my way. Nor do I… Continue reading Into the Zone: a trip
The Horoscope
After replacing my old bookshelves, I was restless for more domestic improvements, so launched into tidying up a collection of papers I’ve been carrying around for years, and throwing away the dross. That’s when I found a document dating from December 1974, which I’ve taken care not to throw away throughout the vicissitudes of 40… Continue reading The Horoscope
On fresh air alone
If you want to go somewhere and enjoy an undisturbed smoke I suggest the Nineteen-Fifties. If you were actually around at the time, it’s no problem—wings of memory will take you and your membership remains free for life. Otherwise you need to be escorted as a guest. I’ll do my best to take you to… Continue reading On fresh air alone
The Call to Service
(being the third of a trilogy on “Religion and Violence”, a theme covered in Karen Armstrong’s latest book, Fields of Blood) Background What I learned about religion in childhood came almost entirely from school. The single exception was a phase when my invalid Granny would take me through a series of booklets from the Bible… Continue reading The Call to Service
Borneo journal, January 2000
Took a boat out to the island of Manukan. Even riding in the boat was bliss, the prow banging down on the little waves as we sped along, lightly splashed with spray, hanging on to the rusty rails and the sun canopy supports whose welds were coming apart. One of those rare times when I… Continue reading Borneo journal, January 2000
Dreaming of Paris
I hardly know Paris.* That’s what inspires me to write about it, at book length if necessary; so that I can fill out that slight acquaintance with a body of research, and report back. The research is not to be carried out through the study of texts (other than my own notes), but through the… Continue reading Dreaming of Paris
At sixteen
With contemporaries: I’m at far right Here is the text of the essay I referred to in my last, as written in 1958. I don’t suppose it is intrinsically entertaining. To lighten it I’ve embedded some group photos in which my face may be seen, and an aerial shot of the place, Swainston Manor, which… Continue reading At sixteen
In memory of George Whitman, 1913-2011
I once spent a few weeks as George Whitman’s guest in his bookshop opposite Notre Dame in Paris. Today I heard of his death on the news. I’ve mentioned him three times on this blog: in May 2008, May 2009 and Feb 2011*. It has always been difficult to write about the man himself, for… Continue reading In memory of George Whitman, 1913-2011
In the thistle field, at dawn
I lie in bed watching dawn’s rosy fingers light up the house opposite, creeping lower as the hour advances. This street is narrow, its houses joined together (‘terraced’) in a continuous chain on both sides. You’d think there’d be scant room for the low-slanting rays to penetrate. But our house is near the street’s eastern… Continue reading In the thistle field, at dawn
How I Came Across Wittgenstein
The other day I was writing about being nineteen and somehow feeling the same way fifty years later. But it was a mysterious feeling because I could not adduce a single instance of nineteenhood to illustrate my point. So it is a coincidence that I first discovered Wittgenstein at that age. Discovered is hardly the… Continue reading How I Came Across Wittgenstein
Reason to Celebrate
Today I celebrate a milestone. It is exactly fifty years since I reached the age of 19, a special number for many reasons, and the last year of one’s teens. This morning I was given a mug bearing the words, “Today is all about YOU ... and there couldn’t be a better reason to celebrate!”… Continue reading Reason to Celebrate
Pygmalion & Galatea
Said Lehane, commenting on my last: “Would it also be sad to say that, through you, I’m kind of infatuated by this girl? Maybe on the way to falling in love with her.” Therein lies a phenomenon not unknown in the world of fiction. If a reader may fall in love with a character… Continue reading Pygmalion & Galatea
Such is Life
The postman left a package which felt like a small book. Not expecting any such thing, I was delighted; then opened it, and was Deloitted. Deloitte Touche Tohmatsu is the current incarnation of a company I left in 1985, known then as Touche Ross & Co, Accountants. I was in their management consultancy, but now… Continue reading Such is Life
This blessed plot
If I have a favourite spot it is Cowes, or more precisely five acres overlooking the Solent, the strait which separates the Isle of Wight from the English mainland. I lived there aged thirteen for a year; and again at seventeen, at a different house nearby. Each was a front-row seat at a non-stop theatre… Continue reading This blessed plot
Mau-Mau and Me
I lie soaking up warmth. Around me, steam rises like incense. I marvel like a savage at this jar of Royal Jelly and Pure Honey Moisture-Rich Cream Bath. What attracts me is the glittery swirls, as if the gunk inside were gold-dust bound with egg-yolk. As the list of ingredients doesn’t mention gold, the sparkle… Continue reading Mau-Mau and Me
Dress code
In my last, I claimed that my long-standing writer’s block was over, and promised to continue my memoirs from where they left off last February at the age of fourteen. There has been plenty of scribbling since then but nothing fit to print. I wanted by some means to indicate “the story so far” so… Continue reading Dress code
Pilgrimage to Cowes
I've had my camera two years but only recently realized it can hold hundreds of photos if I put in a larger memory card. Just as well, because I was able to take some beautiful photos of a recent visit to the island where I spent my teenage years, the Isle of Wight. Here's a… Continue reading Pilgrimage to Cowes
Cherrydown (3)
There’s still a ragbag of memories to share with you about the time I spent in that house. If they have any common theme, I suppose it is wonders and miracles. I’m not saying there actually were any miracles: just incomprehensible things. I mentioned in a previous post that my mother started to suffer from… Continue reading Cherrydown (3)
Norfolk House 1
(continued from here). . . Norfolk house was pulled down long ago. We moved there from Powys House, a tall granite Victorian building which still stands, a mile from Queen Victoria’s holiday home at Osborne. Norfolk House was in West Cowes: an Edwardian mansion with broad veranda and balcony overlooking the Solent, that busy strip… Continue reading Norfolk House 1
He was a veray parfit gentil knight
I’d almost completed a first post about my new School, dominated by the personality of its Headmaster. I was looking for a piece of his writing to demonstrate his pompous English style, when I found a perfectly charming piece which demonstrates nothing of the kind. In homage to his memory and to introduce this man… Continue reading He was a veray parfit gentil knight
New day-school
My most vivid memories are not of the first days at my new day-school, as you might think, but of coming back home each afternoon. I’d been five years at boarding-school and could not imagine a greater luxury. Let out at 3.45, I’d arrive home from a country-bus ride, ravenous. My mother let me cut… Continue reading New day-school
The police arrive
Normally the skirling of police sirens, whilst deafening, passes swiftly enough. This time I subconsciously detected something different. Like a pipe band silenced suddenly by punctures to their windbags, the sirens stopped in mid-skirl, which meant they had stopped at our doorstep. I looked out our first-floor window just in time to see the doors… Continue reading The police arrive
How I learned the truth
(Continued from previous post) My mother’s beloved Singapore roadhouse was called The Gap: a prophetic name. After the war, it was nothing but a gap; one that she mourned forever and never really replaced. The gap in my life was a father. When I met him fifty years later, he admitted having been in the… Continue reading How I learned the truth
The Deck of Cards
It was the glorious summer of 1960. I had just left school and the world was mine. I went to a seaside resort, Shanklin on the Isle of Wight. I knew nothing about women, girls I should say: I disregarded any over the age of 21. I got a job washing dishes at a hotel,… Continue reading The Deck of Cards
Liberation
In the last year I have been reminded, time and again, by smells and various other stimuli, of a period I spent in Holland when I was five. It was a young age for roaming alone in streets and woods, but that's what I did. I’d been dumped with an unwilling bogus “aunt” in a… Continue reading Liberation
Home Journal: Of Wasps, Angels and Field-Mice
Nominally addressed to a friend, Jacqui Ritchie. She was a counsellor in Wycombe Counselling. I had no intention to send it. We lived in The Haystacks As I write this in the garden, on the day that you and I met in Amersham, the sun shines and there's a scent of fresh-mown grass, son William… Continue reading Home Journal: Of Wasps, Angels and Field-Mice
a wayfarer’s notes 