A Short History of a Nearly Nobody

Visiting my Grandfather in Weymouth was quite a trip. I traveled down on the bus from Kingston Russel which took about an hour and was usually a double decker so . could sit on top at the front. The route took us via country lanes through Martinstown and down through Upwey, finishing up at the old Bus Station behind King Street near the railway station. As my Grandfather still lived in Derby Street it only took 2 minutes to get to his home where we used to chat. Some days I went fishing on the New Pier at Weymouth harbor. Even caught a fish sometimes too, a small bream or whiting. As I was walking back to catch the bus I passed the Pavilion theater and noticed a workman high up on the building with water in a bucket (which he was spilling) and a whisp of smoke coming out of the wall nearby. I walked on down to the bus station and was amazed when the bus home drove up to the esplanade to see the Pavilion burning like an enormous bonfire. As the building was wooden no real surprise ...

More of Life at Kingston Russel Farm. I have been back in recent years with my parents (now sadly departed) and it brought back a flood of memories. Learning to drive a tractor, going into the dairy and seeing the cows being milked, collecting our daily quart of milk straight from the cooler, fresh and creamy. All things that helped me grow up and understand how to get on with country folk. All things that would not be permitted these days I am sure, due to all sorts of rules and regulation. Collecting birds eggs was also part of a normal boys life too. The man who lived in the house next to us was a professional rabbit catcher! This was in the year before the dreaded mixamatosis hit the rabbit population. I went out with him some times as he set 120 traps each day, those rather cruel things. He also had some ferrets and I was allowed to borrow one some Sunday mornings and go out on my own adventure. It seemed very exciting to take his dog, a ferret and some nets and find a rabbi...

Well it was time to move. My parents decided that they had lived too long with Grandad Martin and needed their independence, so we were going to leave the seaside for the country. So off we went, all the family together to look at country cottages. Winterborne Abas was the first village we visited but there was not much garden. The loo was a shed at the end of the garden too. Eventually we found paradise on Kingston Russel farm. About half a mile from the main Dorchester to Bridport road and one of a pair of two story cottages. Ours was the left hand one of the pair as you look at it from the front and had about half an acre of land. Just what Dad and Mum (I hope) wanted. It was a sort of dream land. Woods and fields for a young lad to explore, and a big dairy farm with friendly staff. Just before we moved I had sat my 11+ exam at St. John's School in Weymouth, and while waiting for results went to the village school in LongBredy. An interesting little place with one class...

And what do small boys do in Weymouth in about 1949. Well we roamed around the harbour and went fishing on either the new pier or the old pier. I remember that just off to one side of the old pier there was a place where it was almost allways possible to catch small bream, and these were taken home where my mother filleted and fried them. Really good they were too. Otherwise the fish were often rass or what we called rock salmon, which we just threw back in the sea. But best of all was going with my father in his boat to empty the lobster and crab pots or fish for conger eels by Portland Harbour wall. We would anchor just off the wall and try to catch these rather clever fish. They were tricky because they would take your bait and then back into the wall and hang on with their long bodies. To stop this happening it was necessary to strike and pull hard as soon as they took the hook and get them away from the wall before they could get a grip of it. My Dad was pretty good at it and ...

Back home after a total of nine day in the hospitals. I was transferred to From Vichy to Moulins only two KM from where I live on the Tuesday after the crisis. Now I am taking six medications per day and feeling very well with non symptoms except for a very occasional pricking sensation in my chest. My main concerns now relate to the level of physical activity I should allow myself, and gaining a full understanding of the reasons for, and possible long term effect of the medications I am taking. As my next consultation with the cardiologist is scheduled for early June, I want to bring it forward and get proper clarification on these matters.

The 29th of March saw me with a blood pressure reading of 17/12 and my partner calling the French emergency service number 15. A Dr. and nurse arrived very quickly hotly pursued by an ambulance. Yes it had happened, a partial blockage of one of the arteries that feed blood to a muscle of my heart was giving me some discomfort and needed urgent attention. So we rushed off, with all sirens going for a 45 minute ride to Vichy, the nearest hospital with the specialized facility to deal with me. I have begun to tell the story more fully in a separate blog, but it has a small place here too I think. Suffice it to say, the hospital staff did a great job and a stent was inserted about half an hour after i arrived. The result was an almost immediate relief from the distress I was in and me on the road to recovery........ I have now been home for ten days and feel very good. Need to take it easy and allow the heart muscle to repair, but should be as good as new in a few months as long as I do no...

1947. Sitting in the front row right under the eagle eye of Mrs. X. The lesson was "learning to write!! My writing book had lines to guide me so that I knew the correct height for each part of a letter as we started with learning proper script. We had to copy the letters only as a first exercise and later full words. If we made a mistake then the dreaded "ruler" would come crashing down on our knuckles. This certainly helped with "attention". To add to the excitement we were using pen and ink from the ink wells in our desks. All together lots of chances to make a mess and get bruised knuckles again. It worked!!! And so began almost five years at St. John's School Weymouth.