The Kingsway House

In the latter part of 1949 or early in 1950 we moved from the old bungalow in Upanga Road to a new house which my father's company leased in Oyster Bay, an area which was being developed along the coast to the north of Dar-es-Salaam. My mother was obviously very pleased with the house but, having been used to the shaded garden and lush vegetation of Upanga Road, I found the rocky area which served as a 'garden' very bare and unfriendly. I remember spending a great deal of time collecting lumps of the coral rock on which the house was built and piling them up to make homes for the local lizards.

The firm provided my father with a very smart new car, a Ford Mercury, so he could travel round Tanganyika promoting the company's interests. The African Mercantile, as well as being a shipping agency, was the agent for a large number of commercial goods. My father's interests were, and always continued to be, his work as a ship's agent, so he disliked this part of his job. Fortunately, it didn't last long because later in 1950 he was transferred to Mombasa.

Lapland

I have only once been in a place where the cold was dangerous: Lapland, in January. The road surfaces were 6" of packed grey ice; daylight lasted four hours; at one point the temperature at midday plunged below -30C.

We were there for a week, for a wedding in an ice chapel. On the other days we did what tourists do - take a sledge ride behind reindeer, try out snowshoes, venture out at night to search for the aurora. One event was ice fishing, where we used an augur to screw a hole through a metre of ice to fish for char and trout. When we pulled a fish from the hole it froze instantly with a sharp crackling.

Our early ancestors should never have left Africa.

A Cat & a Tray

There are few objects of which I have very early memories but this is one. It's an Arab tray, made of brass and exactly three feet across. According to the carefully typed lists of her important possessions which my mother made towards the end of her life, it had an "origin uncertain," but "came with C. when we set up house in Zanzibar," 'C' being my father, Cecil.

It's most likely to have been bought by my father in Port Sudan, Zanzibar or Dar-es-Salaam, all places where he had worked before he met my mother. I don't know what the Arabs, who came down to East Africa in their ocean-going dhows to trade and settle, used these trays for, but have always imagined it piled with rice on top of which was a whole, roasted goat, all swimming in fat.

As far as I'm concerned it never did anything except prop up a wall in all of my mother and father's houses until I inherited it, since when it has propped up our walls - except it did once do something very, very special.

When we lived in the old German bungalow in Upanga Road, Dar-es-Salaam, the tray was kept in a small, dark, room at the back of the house. One day - and I remember this vividly - my father told me to come with him, leading me to the little room and pointing at the tray. After a minute or two, from behind it emerged....

....the most beautiful black-and-white kitten, my first cat, who went by the name of Tinker MacKellar Haylett.

I don't recall where the 'Tinker' came from, but he had the name MacKellar because he was given to my father by the captain of the Clan MacKellar, a Clan Line ship which came in to the African Mercantile agency. Tinker was the only remaining kitten of the ship's cat, all his brothers and sisters having been taken by gulls. One thing was never explained: how the ship's cat found the tom who sired the gorgeous, placid, affectionate cat whom I loved dearly.

When we moved to Mombasa, where this picture was taken, Tinker came too. For some reason, he couldn't travel with my mother or father so my father's boss, a very pleasant man called Cyril Hunt, took Tinker with him by air, sewn into a large kikapu, a basket woven from palm fibre, which was placed at the back of the 'plane's passenger compartment. At some point in the flight Tinker walked up the aisle and jumped up onto Cyril Hunt's lap.

Estcourt Road

When Gill was seven the family moved to 'Redbricks' in Estcourt Road, Gloucester, the house so-called because all the others in the road had purplish-red bricks. She's not sure why they moved from the five-bedroom house in Denmark Road to a four, but 'Redbricks' was detached and in a more prestigious area, just off the Gloucester bypass but on a parallel access road.

The garden was smaller than Denmark Road but it was neat and well-ordered. Most of the plants visible in this picture are roses. Gill's mother, Bea, used to buy the same annuals every year in the spring - salvia, lobelia and candy-tuft, red, white and blue - which Gill and sister Pauline thought was very boring. Later, Gill and Pauline had their own section of the garden, beyond the trellis, where they grew flowers from seed and radishes. Tufty the tortoise lived at the end of the garden.

This picture shows the back of the house and Gill's paternal grandparents. From left, Gill, Bea, George Rogers, Nellie and Pauline. The arch opened in to what was called a loggia, which had a tiled floor and where Bea and Don sat in deckchairs. The back of the house faced south, and Gill remembers Pauline coming home from school and sunbathing against the back wall.

Gill continued to attend Elmbridge Road Junior which had just been built. In this picture Gill is about ten and she's with her friend Sheila Browning. They were in the school rounders team, Gill the bowler, while Sheila was good at batting.

The Bernard Mizeki Staff

I have many memories of my first time at Bernard Mizeki College, where I worked as a volunteer teacher and odd-job-man from early February until August 1963, but I didn't have a camera with me and didn't, at the time, feel the need for one. Fortunately, the BMC Facebook page does have pictures of a few of the people with whom I worked.

It was the first headmaster, Peter Canham, right, who made Bernard Mizeki College such an exceptionally good school. As a private school, it was his task, along with the governors, to raise the money to build, staff and ensure the future of the school. An ex-colonial civil servant, he ran the place with superb efficiency, leaving the teachers free to get on with their jobs. He had strong views on what an 'education' was. In the days when 'blacks' (the other racial groups were 'whites' and 'coloureds') were only allowed into one of Salisbury, the capital's large hotels, he took the prefects to the Ambassador's and made them sit down to a full evening meal - so they could learn the etiquette of 'public' eating.

It was because of my experiences at the school that I later went in to teaching but I never again came across such an inspirational headteacher. Later, it was the lack of true leadership skills which made so many of the schools at which I taught for almost 30 years such disappointing places.

The teaching staff included Blair Murray, left, while at centre is Arthur Collishaw, also a teacher but one of the two priests at the school. At right is a man we simply knew as Dokwani, who worked with Basil Farrant, the estate manager.

Wilf Stringer, left, ran the primary school, where I did some teaching, but the VSOs and I found ourselves frequently at his house as it seemed to contain an inexhaustible supply of beer.

The school had lent us an ancient Lambretta as a means of getting around its extensive campus but it was extremely unstable on the dirt roads. Since all three of us, and sometimes more, piled on to it to drive the mile down to the primary school to visit Wilf of an evening and, more challengingly, ride back again, we became quite used to ending up in the dirt.

David Witt taught maths. He was unusual in that most of the European teaching staff were single men while David had a wife, Bibi, and three children. The family were wonderfully kind to us young men. Their front door was always open and I fear we probably trespassed far too much on their warm hospitality. I recall David building a balsa wood model 'plane complete with spirit engine. Since I trained the school's cross-country team, and the school owned 5,000 acres, David used to launch his 'plane into the air and the team would set off, across the bush, to retrieve it.

All of these people, and others beside, were great fun to be with, warm-hearted, dedicated, understanding, and generous. We young men, who came for a short time and then went upon our several ways, benefitted hugely from the experience they gave us.

Many thanks to BMC Facebook members for the photos.

Home Leave

My parents hadn't been 'home' - that is, to the UK - for years because of the war, and they were fortunate to get away in 1946, on a Harrison Line ship. This was my first experience of England, and of the English and Scottish relatives. The picture shows me with my mother, with Lex Wilson, left, my mother's cousin and always referred to as Cousin Lex, and his wife Nell, right.

Getting back to Dar-es-Salaam wasn't as easy. My father went ahead of us and we had to stay with various relatives until we could get a passage, which we did on a ship called the Malda, on which we had a fairly rough voyage back - and, to add to the fun, the children, of which there were thirty aboard, began to go down with measles.

My father's company gave him home leave every three years, so we were back in the UK in 1949, sailing 'home' on the Llanstefan Castle, after which, once again, we did the round of relatives. My cousin Carolyn is at left, then my mother's mother, holding Richard, then me, my mother's sister Noel, my cousin Michael, and David Wallace, Noel's husband.

On this trip we had to contend with rationing, British beaches in British weather, and with my cousin Carolyn, who thought she owned us. My impression from this, and from subsequent 'home' leaves, was that Britain was cold, grey, poor and miserable.

St Ethelbert's

We're still trying to get a sense of this modern England to which we've returned after over twenty years in the north. As with the volume of traffic, we're struggling with the industrial scale of Suffolk's farming: this is the wheat field onto which our house backs, the picture taken in the low sunlight of midsummer's evening. It has no weeds; almost every plant is the same size; there are no insects to threaten its productivity.

It's along the edge of this field that we escape the town, as we did today....

....on a four hour walk to the northwest of our house, much of it trudging along footpaths across similar monotonous fields of sugar beet, onions (above) and potatoes between which are squeezed the remains of the far older world of Suffolk's historic landscapes. Our objective today was the village of Falkenham and, in particular....

....it's church which, being dedicated to St Ethelbert, a Saxon king who was murdered by the Mercian King Offa in 794, must have been established well before William the Conqueror arrived on these shores.

It's a beautiful church lovingly maintained over the centuries and surrounded today by a community of some 250 souls of whom 16 had made it to nine o'clock matins, which had finished a few minutes before we arrived. Talking to members of the congregation who had stayed behind for coffee reminded us that the ancient heart of England still beats in its villages where a few people are struggling to maintain the country's traditions. For example, one of their concerns was that this tiny church still boasts a peel of six fine bells but, with only six ringers, they were rarely able to do them justice.

We set off for home eastwards across Falkenham Marshes, walking around more monotonous fields  until we came to the River Deben, which we followed until we were almost home, at which point we diverted to the local pub. The roads around it were empty, presumably because everyone was watching a small field in Russia. The pub, too, was empty, but as we sat in the sunshine in its garden we were reminded that some English traditions are alive and well: Suffolk and Norfolk still brew the world's finest bitters, amongst which Adnam's contributions are difficult to beat.

Fatuma

My mother continued to work for the Tanganyika government in Dar-es-Salaam as she was a first class shorthand-typist. My parents therefore employed an ayah to look after Richard and I. Her name was Fatuma, and shortly after I was born she joined the existing staff at the Upanga Road bungalow, a cook and what was called a 'house boy'.

This picture was taken in front of the bungalow, probably in 1948. The front drive circled a large mango tree, and Fatuma and the other ayahs used to sit under the tree while the children played around them. The bungalow was raised on concrete stilts, and I can remember playing in the dark area underneath it.

Ayahs had many uses. This is my third birthday. My mother is holding Richard, I am to the right of them, and Fatuma is helping. I rather assume that all the other parents had left their children in their charge.

Fatuma was a lovely lady, a cheerful soul with infinite patience. I remember a truck full of workmen passing us on the road near the house and calling out to us. Fatuma was laughing but said they were admiring my red tricycle. I'm quite sure they were admiring Fatuma.

Most of the European families seemed to have ayahs, and they lurked on the edge of proceedings ready to leap forward when needed. This is the Crole Rees' birthday party on the beach. I am at right, separate from the other children. There are several later photos of me slightly to one side of everyone. At that stage I don't think I wanted to be antisocial, I just felt.... shy.

Other Beaches

An old man sits in front of his beach hut soaking up the sun on an almost cloudless English morning. It's the day after mid summer's day yet the promenade below the hut is almost deserted except for....

....the occasional dog walker or elderly couple. Offshore....

....there are boats to watch, a couple of creel boats, a passing bulk carrier, the Stena Line's daily sailing out of Harwich, but the old man has his eyes closed. He's listening to the bump and swash of the waves on the shingle and remembering....

....other beaches.

MV Arbitrator

In the summer term of 1962, having taken my A levels at 17, I applied to the Voluntary Services Overseas organisation for a place for a year on one of their schemes before I went up to university. In those days, VSO largely dealt with what were later called 'cadet' VSOs, young men and women in their late teens. I was interviewed but failed to get a place.

Instead, I was persuaded to stay on at Bradfield to become head of house - picture shows members of the JCR in the autumn term 1962, with me second from left, front row. I enjoyed the term but didn't want to waste a year, so the headmaster, Anthony Chenevix-Trench, who had a contact at VSO, found me a placement, at Bernard Mizeki College, Southern Rhodesia, on the same terms as a VSO - if I could find my own way there and back.

My father, although retired, had contacts in the Harrison Line, and they agreed to give me passage, as a supernumary on the grand pay of a shilling a week, from Tilbury to Cape Town.

I travelled on the Arbitrator, a motor vessel built in 1951 by William Doxford & Sons in Sunderland.

We left Tilbury in the first days of January 1963 during a bitterly cold winter. We made our way up the North Sea in thick fog, and needed an ice-breaker to cut our way up the Elbe to Hamburg. By the time we reached the English Channel a full gale was blowing, and the weather deteriorated further as we entered the Bay of Biscay.

The rest of the passage was slow because the Arbitrator kept breaking down. However, it was a pleasure to be back in the warm trade winds. I spent my mornings working with the two officer cadets, doing anything from refilling the lifeboats' water containers (in the Biscay storm - the first officer had a sense of humour) to painting the ship, from lubricating the propeller shaft where a bearing was running hot, a horrible job, to steering the ship, a job I loved.

I arrived in Cape Town on 2nd February and spent two nights in an hotel. On the evening of 4th February I climbed Table Mountain and sat at the top looking down on the harbour, where the Arbitrator was making a wide turn as she left port. I remember feeling both terribly alone and very excited.

I was in Southern Rhodesia by the 7th February, having travelled up on the sleeper train from Cape Town, a four day journey.  I then spent two terms at the school - see earlier blog post here.

Pigs on the Lawn

There's no apparent logic in why sitting on a Suffolk lawn on a sunny summer morning should suddenly conjured up the memory of two pigs. Perhaps it was the heat - this picture of them was taken at siesta time on a very hot day in Namibia, at a camp called Okonjima which specialises in dealing with captured or injured big cats, returning some of them to the wild.

The warthogs were constantly round the visitor's rondavels, and often to be found....

....rooting around on the camp's carefully manicured lawns. While they kept their distance, humans didn't bother them.

I have a sneaking respect for warthogs. They are one of Nature's least beautiful beasts but they're plucky and canny. They have to be: they are a lion's favourite meal, so those teeth aren't there just for show.

In some villages in Tanzania warthogs are a common sight; in some they are never to be seen. The reason is simple.  The trick the hogs have is to know the religion of each village. The villagers in the former are Muslims who have no interest in pork, in the latter, Christians. Lions, the hogs know, are less likely to roam in places where there are humans.

Richard

My brother Richard was born in September 1947, and came home to the Upanga Road bungalow. In one way, Richard's arrival must have been as much of a disappointment as mine. My mother used to say that my father always wanted a daughter, and the child she miscarried early in their time in Dar-es-Salaam was the daughter he should have had. The miscarriage happened because my mother went down with a bad go of malaria and was treated with quinine.

Not that we have ever had too many complaints about our father though we did have one: he used to tease us that he would swap us for the two daughters of some family friends, two girls whom we thought were horrible. At least early on in our lives, he used to come down to the beaches which we so loved. The object Richard is reaching out for is a cigarette tin. These carried fifty cigarettes but, filled with stones, made a great toy for a small child.

As far as I recall, Richard and I got on well together but he was very different. In her 'Life', my mother wrote that, "Richard was very determined and Jonathan was very good with him." In this picture we're on the drive with the big mango tree behind us.

One of the things Richard did was to get hold of my mother's button box and swallow several of its contents. My anxious mother called the doctor and was assured her that they would, in due course, appear at the other end. He also rode this tricycle down the magnificent flight of steps at the front of the bungalow in an accident which drew blood.

Denmark Road, Gloucester

In 1945, aged one, Gill's family moved to Gloucester when her father was appointed deputy clerk of Gloucestershire County Council. 

They lived in a house in Denmark Road in the city. One of Gill's early memories is of the bitter winter of 1947 when the snow was deep in the front garden.

The house had an exceptionally long back garden, with a greenhouse and sandpit.

Picture shows Gill's mother, Bea, sewing in the sitting room at the front of the house. This must have been quite early in their time in the house as the outlines of the previous owner's pictures and mirror are still clearly visible on the walls.

Gill is four in this picture, a Polyphoto taken with her bear, Binny.

Gill, centre, with her older sister Pauline and her mother Bea on holiday in either Tenby or Newquay.

Beinn an Leathaid

Another sudden, vivid memory picture came this morning, flashing into my consciousness and then slowly fading. It was of Beinn an Leathaid, an elongate hill on Ardnamurchan, not a very special one, and the picture was of its bare hillside. In this photo, the hillside is to the right while the Allt Rath a' Bheulain, the burn than cuts the very open glen to its west, is also shown.

Both ben and hillside show signs of human activity - there's a low stone wall at centre of the picture - mostly relating to extensive drainage works carried out in the 18th century, but a feature which....

....for years we thought was a shepherd's hut turned out to be the remains of an illicit 19th century whisky distillery, built at a time when local whiskies were highly sought-after. We found two others on western Ardnamurchan, and all were sited below waterfalls and well away from habitation in secluded glens.

It's perhaps unkind to suggest that Beinn an Leathaid isn't in any way special: just about everywhere we walked on Ardnamurchan is crammed with memories from our 21 years there. In August 2015 we were making our way up the Allt Rath a' Bheulain towards the saddle, from which there are fine views north across the Minches to Rum, Muck and Skye, when we came across the largest herd of red deer stags we'd ever seen, some hundred of the beasts.

Beaches, Beaches

My mother worked full time, and had commitments in charitable areas as well, but we seemed to go to the beach at every opportunity. Little wonder: the Dar-es-Salaam beaches had white sand and palm trees, were protected from the great waves and the sharks of the Indian ocean by a reef as mile or so out, the water was warm, and, in those days, there were very few of the tourists who crowd them today.

In the album, the above picture has the caption "First Steps", so even that important event in my life happened on a beach.

My father didn't really like beaches - I only have one picture of him in a swimming costume, and he looks uncomfortable in it - but in these early photographs he was frequently there. Here, he is with Richard and I and a model dhow, the traditional cargo ships of the East Coast and Arabia.

The pictures often show us with friends. This raft, called Kon Tiki, was owned by Christopher Hall, who is punting it, with me as his passenger.

The beaches were usually in bays, with headlands between. These were formed of old coral reefs which had been uplifted, and into them the sea had cut rock pools which were filled with sea creatures, places of fascination for a small boy. My mother captioned this picture, "The Fisherman".

The Skeleton Coast

Namibia's Route C39 from Palmwag and Springbokwasser west across the Namib to the coast, visible at left in the picture, is a dirt road. The land it crosses is flat, featureless, stony desert except where it is broken by occasional hills. It appears to be totally barren of all life, which is unsurprising as this is one of the driest places on our planet.

The C39 meets the C34 at this junction. Turn right to Torra Bay and, several score kilometres beyond that settlement, the road runs out. Turn left and the C34 takes you to Swakopmund, Namibia's second city. The sign is very firm that you should make one of those choices: going straight on....

....is not an option as these beaches used to be a major source of alluvial diamonds. Most of the deposits, even those on the sea floor off the coast, have been worked out, and one sometimes wonders whether it isn't the owners of the diamond fields who put up these notices but the local tourist board, to add atmosphere to what some might consider a long, boring drive.

Other than the narrow shingle beach, there is almost no acknowledgement that this is a coastline. The desert seems to plunge, uninterrupted, beneath the waves. Yet this indescribably barren, featureless coast has an awesome beauty.

It is the Skeleton Coast, famous for the shipwrecks which are scattered along its length. They are there because of the swirling crosscurrents, the heavy Atlantic swells, the constantly moving sandbanks, the dense fogs caused by warm, moist air flowing in across the icy Benguela Current; and the mistakes men make.

The Zeila, a large stern trawler, is typical of these wrecks: she foundered in 2008 while being towed to Bombay for scrap. There are more wrecks here.