NOSTALGIA

I have been thinking about my early life in a period of history that seems today to be extraordinary, but then was simply the way it was - freedom to think and act at a slower pace.

Let me start when I was in Switzerland, aged 14 and staying to learn French in a dark, 

Gothic kind of house with a family called Chapuis. Their daughter, I believe, had been a temporary nanny in our family, learning English and looking after us youngsters. 

When in Switzerland, my uncle, an MP, sent word to my mother that war was inevitable and I should return to England as soon as possible. 

So I set off by rail through France and then to England by ferry, to live on my own in our country cottage.

With my father recently dead, my mother kept the family finances together by working and living in London.

I was brought up in a family that thought highly of nature, sport, and self-sufficiency, but not of intellect.

So life at Wellington College was for me a bit tedious, except for being rather different from the other boys, which my tutor realised and encouraged. But except for sports, art, and being an efficient brew fag, I was ill-fitted for that kind of education, being enumerate to start with, and often lost in the corridors and passageways of a large institution. But I coped, having been brought up to look after myself.

The war came. And in 1939, with my mother at WVS (Women’s Voluntary Services) a message came through to where she was working from an American family wanting a boy from England to escape Hitler’s conflict. 

My mother asked me if I wanted to take up their offer. After all, it was thought, at that time, the Germans might well invade the UK and subjugate our country. My mother wanted at least one  of our family to survive. I accepted. 

So I took a train to Liverpool and boarded the Duchess of Richmond liner for my first of three wartime crossings of the Atlantic. Already at war, Nazi submarines were at large and dangerous.

(I returned in 1942, joined the RAF, became a pilot back in America, and returned to England at the end of the war in Europe.)

This was a short period of my life that, if unusual was, for one with little schooling, in a way educational. 

We live now in a world of non-stop communication when we are aware of dodgy politicians, thieves, and villainy of which we were largely unaware all those years ago.

Now, in a world of “Health and Safety” I am so lucky to be able to look back nostalgically to that short and youthful age of freedom and innocence. 

FLEA CONNECTIONS

It must have been in the early 1950s when I painted and sold landscapes and exhibited them to make enough money to live on and give myself a piece of art with part of the proceeds.

One of these “treats” came about after a show in Cork Street when I was prepared to buy something of interest to add to my modest collection.

There was a Rowlandson exhibition on show at a smart Bond Street gallery, and I had always been an admirer of his landscapes, peopled by rather portly 18th Century country folk, often with a sense of humour much to the fore.

This show had magnificent examples for sale, but large and expensive ones.

However, among them was a small work, done shortly before Rowlandson died, and the subject, Flea Catching, was not the kind of picture that was appreciated by the gallery’s clients. So it was unsold and reasonably priced. It became mine. 

This title in his own writing was Flea Catching Rowlandson 1824.

This title by Rowlandson was depicted in the same sepia coloured ink that was the picture’s predominant colour scheme.

It was just of two figures, a pretty girl with her arm down the back of the dress worn by an old crone.

I smile as I pass by it on the stairs of my house for its dexterity and period charm. The fleas were theirs, not mine. 

I know that I had written on this tale before, perhaps in a autobiography that I wrote when I had time and the new-found skill to use an Amstrad computer. 

***

The flea theme continues when I lived in two small rooms in London’s Pimlico district, leading a full life, and at the same time, overcoming two bouts of lung TB after the Second World War.

It was then when I was tackled by an aggressive flea that evaded my efforts to catch it. So I bought a rail/sea/rail ticket to Paris, selected a flea-less kit at the ready, and took off all my clothes, standing in an empty bath in readiness to change into my flea-free kit and leave the flea in the clothes to starve in the bath.

When undressing, the flea appeared and I caught it and dispatched it.

I dressed in my flea-free clothes anyhow and went to Paris. 

At that time we were allowed £20 with which to travel abroad.

After arriving in Paris I saw a Pascin drawing in a shop window in the Rue de Seine. It was for sale for £20.  So soon after setting foot in France I handed over all my money, turned around, and came home with it under my arm - all thanks to that flea. 

So in a very short time I acquired an 18th Century Rowlandson, killed a flea, visited Paris, and acquired a Pascin. 

***

That was not the end of my flea experiences. Two of these involved fleas in a car. The first was in India when Margreet and I in a rented car with driver to see the skeletal art of Fatahpur Sikri when a flea from a sheepskin covered seat decided on a change of diet and bit both of us.

The other time was when during my Grand Tour of art in Europe and driving across the Pyrenees from Spanish to French art galleries when I saw an old lady struggling up a steep slope with a heavy load. I gave her a lift, for which she was very grateful but left a flea behind her. I dealt with this devil by covering myself with anti-insect powder. 

***

But that was still not the end of my flea/art experiences. Now, somehow, a flea has invaded our bedroom. Rowlandson’s drawing was of no help in finding a remedy. We have now sprayed,  powdered, vacuumed and have set a trap that mimics the warmth of a furred pet that lures fleas to a sticky death. We have every faith in this simple contraption as I embark on an illustrated autobiography. 

If and when we catch this varmint, perhaps it might lead to some other artistic venture related to these evasive creatures. 

Fleas and art do seem to be connected in my life. 

AN EXTERTION

Let me say first of all that I’m getting on a bit. And one of the reasons for this longevity is that I make a point of exerting myself occasionally to extremes - and then resting quietly for some time afterwards to get my breath back and return to normal.

These exertions frighten Margreet but to me they are, conducted every so often to keep my faculties in working order.

I write this in mid-summer, during one of the heatwaves of 2026, and I have been thinking about, and dreaming of, mending cracks in our front door (now filled) and painting the fillings that appeared in this extremely hot weather. 

There has also been a need to repair and waterproof the roofs of my various bird boxes before the winter arrives.

This whole operation had been discussed and passed by Margreet who wants me to live 

for a lot longer into this my second century.

Nowadays I buy cheap brushes and throw them away after use. But in this case I can use the same brush twice - once with blue paint for the front door and then with black roofing mastic paint - if, that is, blue paint and the roofing paint mix. (which they did).

Margreet had embarked on one of those long Dutch conversations with her best friend in Belgium and I obtained her permission to go ahead with painting.

One window in Margreet’s den can be opened enough so that I can lean out rather precariously to reach two bird boxes that are secured to the house wall and painted to match the brickwork. But the roofs of these and three others have cracked and deteriorated in the 37 years since I made them. 

(Later) Margreet ’s conversation went on for long enough for me to paint blue over the filled cracks in the front door and then, with the same brush, give all bird box roofs a good coating of the black mastic paint that will waterproof my homes for birds.

And all this painting and repair work was done while Margreet conversed with her Dutch friend in Belgium when she was more or less unaware of me climbing up and down ladders, leaning out of windows and handling pots of paint and mastic. 

Her conversation over - a domestic hour or so gone - painting and repair work finished - paint-covered surgical gloves disposed of - paint tins sealed for future use - paint brush in the waste bin - butcher’s bib hung up.  Time for that rest and drinks - everyone happy. 

ELEVEN LITTLE PIECES

 

At a 101 I have slowed down with writing and painting, yet can’t stop. In my mind are small incidents in life that are not worth the space of a blog but are worth mentioning in short pieces even though I may have written about them in the past. 

1.

In the RAF I had just crashed a lovely little aeroplane in America and, having knocked out two instruments from the panel with my head, was not at all aware of the circumstances. 

In bed at the airfield’s hospital I was visited by the Commanding Officer and Adjutant. 

“I suppose you now want to give up flying and return to England”, said the CO. “No Sir, I want to get out of this bed and FLY”, say I. As the Officers left the ward, the CO was heard to say to the Adjutant: “That’s just the kind of young airman we want in the Air Force”. 

All continued well with my budding RAF career.

2. 

I was staying with friends in Norfolk, and, on a particular summer’s day, was asked to be the crew on a “Brown Boat” with a rather grand lady Commodore of the sailing club as Captain. She and I set out. “Free the weather sheets”, she commanded. I somehow muddled through.

3. 

In California my film prop-master son Robert fired off a real gun by mistake. It was reported to the LA Police who, if called out, have to make an arrest leading directly to jail. 

There were communal showers in prison and he recalled that if a piece of soap fell to the ground in one you did not pick it up!

4.

My grandmother, a diminutive lady of some presence, was leading my mother along a pavement in London’s Soho district when their progress was thwarted by a gang of young ruffians. Grandmother approached them.“Aside scum”, she commanded. They stood aside. 

5.

It was said amusingly in the RAF that mothers would say to their pilot sons: “Fly low and slowly to be safe”  - two very dangerous ways to fly an aeroplane. 

6.

“Children steal your life”. 

7.

For a happy life you should never be too rich or too famous. But a little bit of each works out very well. 

8.

Everything is missable. 

9.

Some people, when they are aware of my age, ask me: “What are your secrets?”.

So I have a standard reply which invariably ends with hoots of laughter. I reply that of the greatest importance is to have a partner with whom you can laugh a lot.  Next I recommend garlic. I don’t know why. Third comes red wine - of which I have partaken some in my life. And last - A good sex life.

10.

In January of 1946, as a young RAF Pilot Officer, now grounded because the war had just ended, I was posted to Pembrey in South Wales, for a reason I cannot recall except that it involved a Spitfire testing rocket-launching mechanisms near Pemdine Sands. 

I was invited to the home of a coal miner and his family. 

Coal was then strictly rationed, but not for a coal miner.

All I remember about this house was its blacked, cast-iron kitchen range that heated the house, dried the clothes and was the sole means of cooking.

But it was the fire glowing in its grate that caught my eye - perfect in the symmetry of its red coals. Then I saw why it appeared so orderly and perfect. Each piece of coal was placed on it by hand with such reverence that it could have been the conducting of a religious ceremony. 

11.

A fellow officer at Pembrey had a mother who, through illness, was quite unable to communicate. He was in contact with her through spiritualism. He asked if I might accompany him to a meeting in a public hall. Why not? 

He took a seat in front near to the medium and I at the back of the crowd hidden away as much as possible as a sceptical observer. 

He received no message, but I was singled out, as a crowd parted in front of me to be told that I had health concerns on my right hand side. But I was young and very fit. So I dismissed this information as hocus pocus.

Sometime later, at another RAF station, it was so cold that with no coal we had to forage the hedgerows for combustable material for our Nissen hut stove. 

I was soon given a medical and Xray on being demobbed, to be told that I had TB in the right lung. 

CARS

 

To my mind there are two kinds of car owners. One likes fancy, good-looking cars that are probably expensive, and the others want a reliable vehicle that will start without fail, go from A to B inexpensively, and not caring too much about its looks or attractiveness to thieves.

Margreet and I have reached a third kind - people who live in town, have the good fortune of access to excellent public transport and have no need of a car with its many related expenses.

As a child I was lucky that my family owned a Bullnose Morris with a dicky seat. From this open-air position behind the driver’s front seat, we children could enjoy the flowing air and the interesting countryside. But OT70 did need a push up a hill occasionally. From this open-air position we could invent many games to keep us happy - like Beavers (beards). The first to see a beard got a point, a big beard two points and a woman with a beard, game set and match. The points score would be very much higher today. 

Caps were worn back to front, petrol was added to the tank through a funnel containing a fine metal filter to prevent foreign bodies from entering the carburettor. Batteries had to be topped up and punctures were commonplace.

Engine temperature was watched by observing a simple dial on the bonnet, and oil levels were carefully checked. Most cars seemed to leak oil and left their mark when parked. Cars were not easy when I was a youth, but they were fun for us children. Then I remember we owned a streamlined Ford 10 and an Airflow Chrysler, the latter handed down to us by rich relations who would buy the latest. 

My own first car was a post-war sporting affair. This was an open two-seater with an outside exhaust. It was a fun car, but girls could burn themselves on the exhaust and get wet in the rain. It was made for me by a mechanic at Toton, near Southampton, who constructed cars out of spare parts. Mine was mostly Austin 7. But those Austins never had good brakes, so they were a bit dangerous to drive at speed, when mine might also become unstable. 

I belonged to an Austin 7 racing club. At one meeting I asked Collin Chapman (the founder of Lotus) why my car could misbehave at speed. He could find nothing wrong with it. 

I sold it to a City man who, when telephoning me, possibly to complain about some mechanical matter, told me that he had not taken it above 30 miles an hour.  

Then I owned a Citroen 2CV, an Ami 8 and lastly a VW Cabriolet. This open-topped car was lovely. It could reach 115 mph when going slightly downhill on a straight road, but conked out if driven through a large puddle at speed.

I once used it with the roof down to show a Russian colleague of my ex wife some thatched houses in the country owned by wealthy people. He wondered why they had roofs of straw.

But the 2CV and the Ami 8 cars did me proud. They were mechanically much the same, but the Ami 8 had a station wagon body. They were simple cars made by a genius who understood mechanical simplicity.  As long as the two spark plugs were thrown away in the autumn and replaced by new ones, starting them up in any weather was never difficult. Mine also had the centrifugal clutch - genius again - as was the suspension. 

Cars, to me, are now generally much more comfortable, very reliable, but far too complicated electrically - and much more expensive accordingly. But they are often necessary.

For me - no thanks. It’s  lovely to be without one. 

ANIMALS

 

Parts of what is to come may have been read before in my previous 450 odd blogs. With “animals” it is almost inevitable.

As others have often said, and it applies to me, my relationship with animals is much the same as with children. When they are well trained and obedient they are a delight, but if  untrained they are pests. Fortunately, most of my contacts with animals come within the first category.

As the son of a farmer I was trained to shoot and snare animals for the pot and was adept at plucking, paunching and skinning as we probably all were in the family.

Dogs were an important part of our country life, not only as pets but as working animals.

The two dogs in my memory were Bunty, a Cairn, and Ben a Spaniel. 

Bunty was a ratter par excellence as she could chase down rats and shake them to death - and there were lots of rats on a free-range chicken farm. 

Bunty’s puppies were a lovely crowd of individuals, Big Ben being one of my favourites. But as nice as they were they did smell horribly. So I was both sorry and glad when homes were found for them as pedigree animals.

Ben, had a special relationship with my chicken-farmer father. When we or a customer wanted a fine chicken to roast, my father would select one and Ben would immobilise it by pressing it to the ground with his paw. This must have involved a close relationship with animals and in telepathy. 

Peggy the horse not only provided my sister June with a steed for cubbing, but was also a carthorse for the farm. She was docile and pleasant enough. When I rode her I almost invariably fell off. Riding was a serious matter. My devil-may-care attitude was not appreciated. Peggy just carried on.

In their season, pheasants would be hung in the larder by their two tail feathers. Then, when they were pretty high in decomposition they would fall to the floor. Not until they did so were they thought to be ready for the pot or oven. That was the way with them at that time, and they were considered to be a treat. 

It was much the same with Stilton cheese, which had to be kept free of maggots and was refreshed with Port. 

Step forward a few years to just after the start of WW2 when I was a refugee in America.

For a “puber” as the Dutch say, alone in a foreign country, a dog in this case, called Smudge, became a good friend. That’s what dogs excel at. I needed Smudge. 

Jump forward in time again.

When the war had ended and me being invalided out of the RAF as a pilot with TB, a wealthy uncle, leaving his Côtes d’Azure house in the hot season to stay in his cool house in Brittany, asked me to stay in the South of France to pay his staff (of two) and feed the dogs (two) and parrots (also two).  I accepted gladly, living for free and able to paint and draw as I pleased.  

One parrot was an Amazonian Green and of no great character - if any parrot could possibly lack character.  The other was an African Grey who was bursting with joie de vivre. His name was Gérard. I was to cut some of his primary feathers at one side to prevent him from flying away (he might fly but would spiral to earth). I was warned that he could become nasty when his feathers were cut. This was untrue as he and I were friends and I had no trouble from him when using the scissors on his wing feathers. 

Gérard and I had a great time in areal manoeuvres as I would swing him around and up and down much to the delight of both of us. BUT, Gérard hated women. When one appeared he would chase them around on foot. Women just had to run faster than Gérard. 

Of the two dogs to be fed, the poodle, Pistache, was a nice enough woman’s plaything, but the huge, white bull-bating and muscle dog, called Brute, who could have killed any one of us with a bite, was friendly and so lazy that he could not even be bothered to lift his leg to have a pee, but would just do it as he walked along.

I exercised him by throwing stones for him to chase and recover - a game that he loved. But that was something that uncle said: “ruined his mouth” and asked (told) me to leave.

I no longer had to pay the staff or feed the animals, but had made such good friends nearby (one with six poodles) that I had several offers of accommodation as I awaited the arrival of a friend to accompany me on a drive through France to Rome and then Venice before heading for home.

In thinking about it, I do seem to get on well with animals and they with me.

(On being kicked out I chose the house with six poodles.)

AEROPLANES

 

From my boyhood of being mad on aeroplanes and flight, through to now, wanting to avoid airports and flying, encompassed a life of enormous interest in flying through the air in both peace and war.

I look back nostalgically on incidents that have shaped this extreme interest. 

My first real contact with aircraft was with an Avro utor biplane. For my part I already knew the principals of flying pretty well from my book, the Pictorial Flying Course, written by W.H. Johns, the author of Biggles Books. But actually climbing into the spare cockpit of this Alan Cobham’s Flying Circus aircraft to fly over the Solent and doing a loop-the-loop (7/6 all in) sent me on my way.

The next landmark, when I was seven in 1932, was a flight over London in a Klemm  Bat from Croydon Aerodrome (London’s main grass field airport at that time).

Kingsford Smith, a pioneer Australian aviator, was due to take me, my brother Ni and sister June on this flight, but the tail skid on his plane broke, as did the wooden replacement. So, with the boy’s caps worn back to front, the roar of the partly exposed engine up front, and hanging on to the sides of the cockpit for grim death, gave an idea how Germans felt when flying in this type of aeroplane that was secretly used for training Nazi Luftwaffe pilots in Germany at that time.

Then came the Second World War when I returned from America to join the RAF, 

to be told to wait in Civvy Street until pilot training was available. 

I took the job of a prop-swinger. This involved starting up the engines by swinging the props  of Tiger Moths for students to reach their first solo stage. 

The authorities at RAF Theale, having learned of my being a would-be RAF pilot allowed me to fly as passenger, and sometimes pilot, on weather flips. These involved flying up wind to forecast the weather, there being no meteorology at the time. 

This experience did me well when I was eventually back in the RAF as a trainee pilotMy first (the greatest day in my pilot’s life) was flying solo from a farmer’s grass meadow at RAF Shellingford (a few sheds, Tiger Moths and Nissan huts). 

Now, stationed in America’s Oklahoma, I completed my flying training in Cornells and Harvards to become qualified to fly Hurricanes or Spitfires. 

Fortunately, the war had ended in Europe and I was grounded and returned to England to become a Photographic Intelligence Officer. 

From a drawing trip around the world I returned home from the American continent in a “Whispering Giant”, a Bristol Britannia prop jet, as I was then nearly out of money and to fly across the Atlantic in the emerging new Boeing 707 jet was too costly. 

When automatic landing was invented, I flew to Paris in a Trident aircraft, landing in dense  fog at Le Bourget’s Paris airfield. From my own flying experiences, this seemed quite magical and a brilliant advance. 

But my fondest memories of those post-war days was flying to France in a Bristol Wayfarer. This involved motoring to Lydd, a greenfield in Kent, where handlers would drive three cars into the jaws of this bulky, twin engined, workhorse of an airoplane, take our seats next to the pilot and then trundle over the Channel’s waves to the Le Touquet airfield in France. This was old-fashioned flying at its charming best.

It was a wonderful way of reaching Europe and, I suppose, the last of those days of flying unsophisticated propeller aircraft in civil aviation.