DEEP DOWN IT MAKES SENSE

Looking back, it seems that although I never actually served in a submarine, my life has been connected to the Silent Service for quite a number of years, in the Senior Service and also civilian life. 

Leaving my parental home in Whitley Bay, I joined the Royal Navy on 18 October, 1965, after taking a long train journey (about 14 hours) from Newcastle upon Tyne mainline station via London to Torpoint, Cornwall. I was reading the science fiction novel Childhood’s End by Arthur C Clarke). I was inducted in HMS Raleigh, one of several RN training establishments, where I learned to march, tie knots, tackle obstacle courses, pass the swimming test wearing overalls, and many other nautical things that comprised Part I Training. From here the ratings were dispersed to a variety of establishments for specialist training, depending on their allocated branch. My branch was Supply and Secretariat (S&S): I was a Writer, which seemed appropriate since I’d written a novel when I was sixteen.

After specialist training in Chatham (Part II Training) I was drafted to the brick ship HMS St Vincent, Gosport, Hants, working in the Captain’s office. [This establishment has since been converted into a school]. My Service Certificate attests that I volunteered for the Submarine Service – though there were not many billets for writers; the branch only served on the larger submarines, not the conventional diesel vessels.

My first seagoing ship was the tribal-class frigate HMS Zulu (F124) which I joined on 27 April 1967 at Rosyth. Our office comprised a staff of two writers and a petty officer writer. Unfortunately in May, while the ship was exercising off Scotland, I developed a resistant cough which alarmed the Sick Berth medic so I had to be landed at HMS Neptune, Faslane – the Clyde Submarine Base. I was diagnosed with urti (upper respiratory tract infection). The shore-based sick bay was my first encounter with submariners.

I was fortunate to have a room to myself – the coughing was quite horrendous and disturbing to anyone else in the vicinity; for me, it was just painful. On the left-hand side of the bed was a bookcase crammed with books. Hitherto, my reading material at the time was spy novels and thrillers, science fiction, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Conan Doyle and Wilbur Smith adventures. In the bookcase, however, I found a good number of books by Agatha Christie, Raymond Chandler, and Georges Simenon, which I read voraciously.

A couple of hospitalised old salts popped in to see me – they’d heard my coughing, no doubt, since it was quite alarming and pronounced – and introduced themselves and asked me if I was on a boat. I said, ‘Yes. HMS Zulu.’

‘That’s not a boat,’ I was told most firmly, ‘it’s a ship. A boat is a submarine.’

‘Oh.’ Well, you live and learn.

When I finished my first seagoing deployment on Zulu – flying from Singapore to UK – I was drafted to the brick ship HMS Dolphin on the staff of Flag Officer Submarines (FOSM) in Gosport on 1 December 1969. Dolphin was the base for the First SM Squadron, comprising conventional submarines and here also was sited the distinctive Tower for training submariners, the SETT – Submarine Escape Training Tank. The SETT was commissioned in 1954 and continued pressurised submarine escape training until 2009.

I worked in the Drafting Office for submariners, an office above Alecto Colonnade. The whole office was transferred to a new building, HMS Centurion, Gosport in May 1970; other drafting office personnel (responsible for surface ship postings) – Commodore Naval Drafting – joined us from Haslemere, Lythe Hill, Surrey. Centurion was ‘commissioned’ 16 October 1970 as the RN pay and records establishment; its computers then were ICL machines.

While there I drafted Supply & Secretariat and Medical personnel to Nuclear, Polaris and conventional submarines. At that time, the squadrons consisted of: First – conventional based at Dolphin; Second – conventional and also Valiant-class submarines based at Devonport; Third – conventional based at Faslane; Seventh – conventional, based at Singapore, though disbanded in 1971; Tenth – the Polaris ‘bombers’ also based at Faslane.

Better to appreciate the living conditions I was assigning the men to endure, I requested a trip on a submarine. Happily, I identified the conventional submarine HMS Artemis which was scheduled for exercise off the Bay of Biscay followed by a brief visit to Newcastle upon Tyne. I joined Artemis alongside at Dolphin and sailed with her for a week or so. As it was a conventional boat, space was limited, the crew hot-bunking – one man on duty, the off-duty man in his bunk, and then vice versa. My bunk was different; it was in the fore-ends, among the torpedoes, with a polythene sheet stretched above me to catch the odd drip from the pipes that snaked along the deck-head. Lying there, I could hear the water rushing against the boat’s hull. For a brief watch period I steered the craft, used the periscope, and later climbed up into the conning tower, where the fresh air was most welcome; while up there, I participated in the excitement of ‘dive, dive, dive’, shutting the hatch on the way down. Needless to say, the rough seas of Biscay did not bother us. At the end of the exercise I thanked the crew and disembarked when the boat moored at the Tyne quayside; and I went home to Whitley Bay to see my parents for the weekend! Then I rejoined the office, greatly appreciative of the confined conditions the submariners lived and worked in.

Out of this experience I wrote my first short story sale, ‘Hover-Jack’ for the weekly magazine, Parade published in 1971: a spy story featuring a Soviet submarine and the Isle of Wight hovercraft!

The Navy News published two of my articles on the mechanics of drafting to submarines: ‘Giving deep thought to submarines’ and ‘How they filled Cornucopia’.  I created the fictional HMS Cornucopia for illustration purposes. At the time – I cannot speak for the present – there were never enough volunteers for submarines. Naturally, drafting officers would accept those who volunteered – providing they passed what was termed Part III Training, which entailed classes in the Submarine School in Dolphin, which included safety procedures and undergoing the Escape Training in the SETT. To fill the SM quota, certain personnel would be drafted into submarines who had not volunteered; their initial draft was for five years, after which they would be returned to the surface fleet. However, when the five years were due to expire the vast majority of those non-volunteers elected to remain in boats – around 90% –  partly due to the additional pay but also by then they were well-versed in the ethos of the Silent Service, which was essentially a small navy within the Royal Navy.

Every RN rating completed a drafting preference card (DPC), asking for a preferred base – in those days there were a lot more bases than nowadays. Every individual’s personal card showing current draft and previous billets, together with his DPC and was held in a whirligig (see photo below; I'm at the end of the office, with beard).

  

The idea was to balance sea-time with a certain amount of shore-time; this would vary depending on the particular branch. Submarine squadrons also had a ‘spare crew’, men drafted here who still might have more sea-time to clock up before being sent for a longer stay in a shore base. This spare crew was available at short notice to plug gaps due to illnesses and other absences; it was popular for some who preferred going to sea, but not for everyone, as they found it unsettling.

Several of the FOSM staff visited Barrow-in-Furness to give talks about the process of determining who to draft. While there we descended into the dry dock of HMS Conqueror. The words iceberg and surface sprang to mind; the screws were huge, gleaming, almost like gold, like something out of science fiction.

My time with submarine drafting ended in 1974 when I was drafted to RNH Mtarfa, a RN hospital in Malta near Rabat three months after marriage. On return in 1975 I underwent the Leadership Course at HMS Royal Arthur, Wiltshire, and then joined HMS Mermaid (F76) in March 1976, a few days after our daughter was born.  

In June 1977 I was reacquainted with submariners, being drafted to HMS Neptune, the Clyde Submarine Base; it was the day before my birthday, great timing! This was the home of four Resolution-class Ballistic missile Polaris submarines – below is a photo of one in the 1970s.

I was in charge of the Central Records Office, staff comprising seven naval personnel (male and female) and I also had the responsibility for several civilians, such as messengers, the typing pool, and the print room. The Head Messenger was a mine of information, since he’d been there a long time; he was due to retire and join his family in Canada so was not averse to apprising me of certain civil service goings-on.

For example: Every civilian was entitled to a certain number of days per year sick leave without the requirement of a doctor’s note; they made sure they took their ‘sickies’ – effectively looking on them as additional leave entitlement.

Before my time there, during a mail strike, two Glaswegian messengers were tasked with taking the RN van into the nearby town of Helensburgh and picking up the mail – and regularly popping into the local hostelry for a couple of bevvies before returning to the base with the mail sacks. No problem. However, after the strike ended, they continued doing this for well over a year.

Thus apprised, I pointed out to the pair that there was no longer any need for them to make the journey and taxpayers’ money was being wasted. They objected and brought in their union representative. The Commodore was not best pleased as this business was about to be blown out of all proportion, with a strike being threatened. I was told to sort it out, and arranged for a meeting with the union representative and the two messengers. That weekend at home I didn’t sleep too well. Fortunately, on the Monday, after I put my reasoned argument, the union man admitted that the two guys in question had enjoyed a good run but it must come to an end; we agreed on a compromise, giving them until the end of the month to desist.    

I left Neptune 9 October 1979, and returned to HMS Centurion until my draft to the Leander-class frigate HMS Diomede (F16) and had no further involvement with submarines whilst serving in the RN.

During our fifteen years living in Spain, Jen and I visited Cartagena a few times and saw the submarine Peral on display in the harbour. The craft was the first successful full electric battery-powered submarine. It was built by the Spanish engineer Isaac Peral for the Spanish Navy and launched in 1888. She was armed with two torpedoes. Yet, after two years of successful tests, the project was terminated.

Near our home in Spain is the town of Torrevieja. Here, in the harbour, is a submarine tourist attraction – S61 Delfín – Spanish for Dolphin.

Returning from our family’s lengthy sojourn in Spain, we moved to Blyth, Northumberland, which had been a submarine training base over many years.  During the First World War Blyth was the base for the depot ship Titania and submarines of the Eleventh Flotilla that were to support the Grand Fleet. Apparently, at the battle of Jutland, a Blyth-based submarine took part in the engagement and was credited with sinking a German warship.

At the time of the Second World War the Blyth base was named HMS Elfin and became a training base for about 200 officers. There is now a blue plaque signifying the position of the submarine base (see photo below); near the Blyth Boathouse and Caboose restaurant.

The S-class submarine HMS Seahorse was a member of the 2nd Submarine Flotilla whose wartime base was Dundee. After a number of unsuccessful patrols in the north-sea, the boat would often stop at Blyth, as the base was nearer its patrol area. On the night of 25 December 1939, before Seahorse would depart for her sixth war patrol off Heligoland Bight, seven submariners visited the Astley Arms, Seaton Sluice. Tickets for a raffle were being sold for a bottle of Johnny Walker Whisky. By the time of the draw, the submarine was at sea. As luck would have it, the submariners had won the bottle, but it was not collected. Seahorse’s orders were to initially patrol off Heligoland and then move to the mouth of the Elbe on 30 December. She was expected to return to Blyth on 9 January 1940. It was assumed that she was struck by a mine but after examining German records at the end of hostilities it was considered possible that she could have been sunk by the German First Minesweeper Flotilla which reported carrying out a prolonged depth charge attack on an unknown submarine on 7 January. Another possibility is that she was rammed and sunk by the German Sperrbrecher IV/Oakland southeast of Heligoland on 29 December. Seahorse was the first British submarine lost to enemy action. The whisky bottle remained untouched at the Astley Arms for many years until it was eventually transferred for display at the RN Submarine Museum in Gosport, Hants.

On display in the Blyth Community Hospital is the name-plate of HMS Onslaught. (I used to draft personnel to this Oberon-class boat). On the boat’s visit to Blyth in 1979 the officers and crew were given the Freedom of the Borough of Blyth. Onslaught was decommissioned in 1990, having served for twenty-eight years, and eventually scrapped at Aliga, Turkey in 1991.

Not far from the hospital, outside St Mary’s Church alongside Blyth’s regenerated town square, is a memorial and an anchor. The anchor (seen below through the silhouette) belonged to the T-class submarine HMS Tiptoe. She was named by Winston Churchill, implying that the boat could approach the enemy silently as if on tiptoe. The Royal Navy naming committee was against the name, arguing that ‘it was derogatory to one of His Majesty's ships’, but the Prime Minister had his way. The vessel had links with the Royal Ballet and Moira Shearer; its crest features a ballet dancer.

So far, that seems to be my involvement with submarines and submariners. I think it is quite apt that I should settle in a town that honours the Silent Service.

***

Jargon:

Boat: Submarine

Branch: Specialisation, such as Seaman, Communications, Medical, S&S, and Weapons.

Draft: Soldiers and airmen are posted but naval personnel are drafted.

Deck-head: ceiling in a ship or submarine

Fore-ends: the front of a submarine

Target: any enemy surface vessel

Reminiscences – Polka-dot parade

Fifty years ago today (19 October 2015) I joined the Royal Navy; I was a few months over seventeen.

In those early days I jotted down occasional impressions, and some of them have already been posted in my blog under the ‘reminiscences’ heading.

Here’s another, from early training days in HMS Raleigh:

The day it snowed we were the Guard. The snow did not lie very thickly, but it whitened the parade ground. Our guard marched at the slope to the rear of the parade. After the ‘Halt!’ command we were ‘into line left turned’.

The entire parade was wearing gabardines. At the ‘off caps!’ order I was confronted by an amusing sight. While the parade stood at ease, their caps (held to their rear) appeared like a series of polka-dots; this was accentuated by the white base of ground snow. And with the varying heights of numerous individuals the caps rose and fell in rows very much like lines of surf. If you can imagine the bounce of a ping pong ball slowed-down, it would look something like these rows of white caps.

Anyway, the polka-dot parade abstracted my thoughts from the cold.

I retired from the RN on 2 August 1989.

First week - new issue of uniform,

including boots;

we had to sew on our branch and name badges;

the car was not mine!

Reminiscences - where did those 49 years go?

On 19 October 1965 I joined the Royal Navy; 49 years today. I was seventeen.

The journey to join HMS Raleigh as a recruit has been covered in the blog here

Part of page 2 of my Service Certificate

 

I finally left the navy 2 August 1989, having served almost twenty-four years.

In that time I was fortunate not to be at sea for a lot of my career. I sailed in three frigates: in the Cod War our ship was holed below the waterline; skirting the edge of typhoons in the China Sea and hurricanes in the Caribbean, the ship superstructure was buckled. I’ve participated in realistic landing and insurrection exercises in Portland including nuclear and biological attacks and undergone advanced first-aid classes. I’ve been inside communications centres and on the ships’ bridges - the nerve-centres - and bounced around in Gemini assault craft.

I’ve sailed in a conventional submarine and the hunter-killer HMS CONQUEROR and also toured the ‘nuclear forests’ of a Polaris submarine. On South Georgia I walked inside a glacier and slept overnight at Leith's ghostly deserted whaling station. I’ve flown in Wasp helicopters and been winched onto a ship's deck. Having flown from Karachi to Islamabad, Pakistan, I drove up the Khyber Pass where I met some Pathans, quite forbidding characters draped with ammunition-belts; from here I looked out over the Plain of Kabul. (See this blog here ). I snorkelled in the Red Sea, trekked the mosquito-riddled jungle of Belize and stood atop the Mayan pyramid of Altun Ha.

I learned Chinese kung fu (quanshu) in Malta where I teamed up with Gordon Faulkner to write the first of a fantasy series set in mythical Floreskand – Wings of the Overlord (see below). I’ve fired automatic pistols, rifles and machine guns, though not in combat, and carried the bodybags of airplane crash victims and viewed corpses post-autopsy. I’ve manned and loaded ship's guns and my memory can still smell the cordite. All useful material, I guess, for a writer.

Before I joined the navy, I dreamed of being a writer, and had written two spy novels (unpublished). While following my career as, appropriately, a Writer in the RN, I still pursued that goal in various guises – editor of ships’ magazines, selling short stories and articles, and sending out many a manuscript that would fail. The navy taught me many things, not least to be persistent and never to give up. Finally, I started getting novels accepted in 2007 and thereafter; an ‘overnight success’ that has taken roughly fifty years.

Never give up.

[This is written from the perspective of a writer. Great joy also came with marriage, the birth of our daughter and our grandchildren].

 

* * *

WINGS OF THE OVERLORD by Morton Faulkner

 

Available from Amazon UK here

Available from Amazon COM here

Available post-free worldwide from the book depository here

 

 

Blurb:
So begins their great quest that tests the trio to the limit. Exciting obstacles include raging torrents, snakes, feuding warrior hordes, lethal fireballs, terrifying electric storms, treacherous mountains, avalanche, betrayal and torture. The travellers start out barely able to tolerate each other but, gradually, as their problems are overcome, they grow closer. The strength of comradeship is evoked and also selfless sacrifice. Their story is rich in history and threatening events that beset them on their quest.

 

 

Reminiscences - A lifetime on Zulu

A lifetime ago, it seems now. And, reviewing the distance travelled, the places visited, and the experiences gained over that draft of two and a half years, it seems like it was a lifetime onboard.

I joined HMS Zulu, my first seagoing RN ship, in April 1967 while she was undergoing refit in Rosyth. This was in the days when the Royal Navy was much larger than at present and their ships travelled the world, calling in at many ports. Different, nowadays, I know…

 

 

We sailed for Portsmouth on 29 April, 1967. We then went to Portland for a week’s trials, visited Amsterdam, my first foreign port call, though I had been abroad with a school trip on MS Dunera, visiting Vigo, Lisbon and Jersey. Then we went to Greenock, Glasgow, Douglas in the Isle of Man, Liverpool, Llandudno, Swansea, and back to Portsmouth on 10 June. Yes, we got about in those days. It wasn’t just plain sailing, of course; between destinations we’d be undergoing training, Action Stations and all manner of drills. [Action Stations, drills, Work Up all deserve separate blogs, believe me.] And of course we worked weekends and the weather wasn’t always docile as we crossed oceans and seas.

The ship had a ship’s magazine, roughly 8 sheets of foolscap, printed from Gestetner skins with contributions from the crew. The magazine was called Warrior and I inherited it from my predecessor, though I wasn’t the editor, (the Captain’s secretary, a sub Lieutenant was the editor); I was just the sub-editor and typist then…

 

 

This was the masthead I designed; published every Saturday at sea. [Perhaps some snippets will crop up in this blog in later months…] There was recreation time, naturally, Sundays if not on duty. And there were film nights – Zulu was on permanent loan to the ship and we viewed it often. [You can read about this film here]

A whole day at Portsmouth and then we went to Rotterdam for four days, Portsmouth, Bangor in Northern Ireland – we became the ‘ship at the bottom of the street’.

 

'Ship at the bottom of the street', Bangor, NI - from the Spectator newspaper

 

Thence to Hartlepool, Rosyth, Portsmouth, Portland in February 1968 until 3 April – Work Up, during which time we were worked hard. There followed Rosyth, Bootle, Cardiff, Portland, Penzance, Greenock, Campbeltown, Greenock, Fairlie, and Rosyth.

The advantage with being on a ship was that wherever you travelled, all your gear, everything travelled with you – unlike the mobile units of the Army or Air Force.

Sailing from Rosyth, we arrived in Gibraltar on 8 July 1968; my first visit, though not my last, here. Approaching the Rock from the sea is captivating, a beautiful even romantic sight.

Two days later we arrived in Malta. Little did I know how much this famous island would figure in my later life! That was just for a day’s sojourn, however. Then we were off to Izmir, Turkey and stayed for two days. While we were in the Mediterranean, monitoring the Soviet warships, among other things, Malta became our base of operations, so we kept popping in and out, staying for the one day, mostly. Naturally, as we had onboard duties, there was no question of going ashore on every occasion. These stays were scheduled for stores, new personnel and fuelling, among other things.

 
We visited Elba, one of Napoleon Bonaparte’s homes-in-exile; a beautiful island, then Kavalla, Greece, with its gorgeous unspoiled beach, and after a final stopover at Malta, on to Gibraltar, arriving 5 September. As this was a slightly longer stay, I joined some shipmates on an MFV across to Tangier, taking in the sights, including the suk and camel-riding! We sailed from Gibraltar four days’ later, arriving in Portland for a couple of days, then on to Den Helder for an official visit, and back up to Rosyth for three weeks, to allow personnel to get some leave in.
 
Then it was back to Portland on 21 October, Gibraltar for a day, Malta for four days; here, I toured the island using the local bus system. Then on to Naples; sadly, Vesuvius was clouded over but Pompeii was so memorable, even to this day, and of course since then more excavation has occurred.

Pompeii - Vesuvius in background...

There followed a brief official 4-day visit to Nice, where I attended a church service (that was all I was permitted ashore since I was growing a beard and it wasn’t quite presentable).
 
We docked in Portsmouth 4 December for a day, then went to Rosyth for a lay-off and seasonal leave break (ship maintenance), though of course personnel had to be there on duty over the period.

A new year and new ports of call. Portsmouth for four days or so, then on to St Helena (felt as though we were following Boney – visited his attractive villa, (where the wallpaper purportedly poisoned him), then on to Durban (apartheid still much in evidence, a visit of mixed feelings, beautiful country, and saw Zulus too), then on the Beira Patrol blockading Ian Smith’s regime, stopping off at Mombasa for seven days in March, then we sailed for Mahé in the Seychelles, an idyllic island, though only there for two days, followed by a three week stay at Bahrain where we met up with the RAF personnel stationed there, enjoying their bar facilities and swimming pool (I almost got roped in to go for the Guinness Book of Records for typing).  After this, it was Muscat, Bahrain, and across the ocean to Karachi.

 
The ship stayed in Karachi for five days and for the long weekend I and a handful of other chosen few were selected to fly up to Islamabad as guests of the diplomatic corps serving there. We ended up being driven along the Khyber Pass to the border with Afghanistan – a fair portion of that is narrated in Under the Queen’s Colours - see here

After Karachi, back to Bahrain, Dubai, Doha, Colombo, Ceylon [now Sri Lanka] (another beautiful island). We left Colombo on 21 August and four days later we arrived at Singapore, where we stayed at the dockyard for almost a month while the ship underwent maintenance and local leave was taken. Exotic smells, food and weather – clockwork rain, no less!

Thence on to Yokohama for a week and to Hong Kong for two weeks, then Singapore. I flew back to UK from Singapore (my draft completed, already scheduled to join HMS Dolphin (Flag Officer Submarines) in Gosport; I was tasked with taking the masters of our ship’s commission book to the Portsmouth printers, having been a sub-editor on this project. (The ship went on to Durban, then Portsmouth and arrived in Rosyth 21 December.)

A memorable and in many ways remarkable two-and-a-half years.

 

Reminiscences - Ceremonial divisions in the rain

Back in 1969, during training in the Royal Navy. Jargon was everywhere. Certain groups of individuals belonged to Divisions; and to compound matters, Divisions also referred to the mustering in those groups on the parade ground. The entire collection of divisions or groups on the parade ground were referred to as Parade. I hope that’s clear…

Rain - Smithsonian/Wikipedia commons

Normally, if there is likely to be inclement weather, the parade is mustered in a drill shed for ‘wet weather routine’. However, on this particular day of insistent rain, due to the fact that it was Tuesday – Ceremonial Divisions day – the omnipotent officers decided to proceed as usual, with the Parade dressed in gabardines. Beneath our rain-proofs we wore our best uniforms. 

Parade got wet.

As we stood there, at ease, then ho!, at close order, the open order, at wet ease again, dribbles of rain drooled annoyingly off our cap brims onto our collars. Meanwhile, our Divisional Officer stood in his Number One uniform, including sword, without benefit of a gabardine. Presently, a rating crossed the parade ground at the rush and handed an oilskin to a neighbouring D.O.

An order was given: ‘Parade – up collars!’ Of course, by now, our collars were soaking; if our necks had been even slightly dry and warm, now they were wet and cold, and most uncomfortable.

During the intervals between orders, I listened to the sibilant patter of rain. It ricocheted off the parade ground like enemy fire; we appeared like toy soldiers, or rather wet toy sailors (or perhaps more aptly, penguins).

When the order ‘Paray-d will march past, into threes, right turn!’ was given, a husky growl of ‘Oh, for f***’s sake’ issued from the rear of our class, sounding very much like our Petty Officer Bishop. He was a tough taskmaster, but he clearly felt for his lads.

As ordered, we marched past the Commanding Officer, Commander et al, and our trousers were spattered with mud and drenched through and through.

As we marched in that rain, I felt oddly stimulated by it. Perhaps the act of marching got the blood flowing, warming the body? Anyway, there were no lasting effects, save that the uniform required laundering, and it was quite an experience, never repeated. Minor natural adversity, perhaps, but it was strangely exhilarating. Wet but exhilarating.

[These reminiscences were written at the time, 1969. Now, I doubt if ‘exhilarating’ would be appropriate!]

Next – The Polka-dot Parade

 

 

Reminiscenses - The Navy Lark up the Khyber

THE NAVY LARK UP THE KHYBER

 

Nik Morton

 

Our dilapidated bus trundled along at five in the morning. Sleep stubbornly clung to my eyes. We were leaving our ship HMS Zulu behind, alongside at Karachi. The ship was only in for the weekend. Eight of us were fortunate enough to be invited up-country by the Diplomatic Corps.

            A few fears were voiced over the wisdom of our heading for the airport. This concern had grown from the alarming incidents reported in the press. It was Friday, June 20, 1969 – not long after the cricket uprisings. And airport shootings were still going on. Jokes seemed to dispel our fears. I didn’t fancy getting shot when only ten days away from my twenty-first birthday.

            We passed new houses, mansions compared with others, many old shacks still in evidence, and the roads and pathways were quite primitive. Everywhere had the flavour of a newly colonised place, barring the odd twentieth century intrusion of advertisement hoardings. Oxen and rickety old carts rumbled past, men and youths pedalled bicycles with bare feet. Out of another world, office blocks gleamed glassy-eyed.

            The pervasive aroma, compounded of sickly-sweet spices and body effluent, hovered even that early in the day; but I soon became inured to it.

            Arrived at the airport, we were pleased to see no machine-gun posts and no mobsters. It seemed like a normal medium-sized air terminal.

            For the short time in the lounge, we supped over-sweet coffee. A cleaner swept the linoleum floor with a brush made of leaves, depositing more leaves than collecting dust. A monstrous woman entered, her sari half-concealing an airport uniform adorned with badges or medals: I had doubts as to her flying abilities. One of the pilots sauntered in with an unmistakable bottle of brandy in his hip pocket: I hoped he wasn’t flying high with us onboard. And lastly, an ashtray that was simply that – a massive brass circular tray full of ash with a couple of fag ends dotted about its black-speckled grey surface.

            Then the tannoy system broadcast, “Flight 300Y” with an exquisite oriental accent.

            “That’s us!”

            It was my first time in an airplane. The experience of boarding was new, to be captured, but also disappointing in a way. I’d always fancied flying in a smaller craft than this. It was a Trident 1-E, capable of seating eighty-six. The PIA air stewardess wore the airline’s modern semi-traditional uniform. She dutifully issued everyone with the inevitable boiled sweet and ensured all passengers were comfortable. One anomaly was the life jacket under my seat: the only water this plane was likely to cross was the Indus.

            Then, at 7.20am, the jets heated up and went through their reverberating paces, rose to a roar then a banshee wail. The great bulk strained at its leash, the rear of the aircraft seemed to tug on acceleration and we were suddenly speeding down the runway.

            One second, earth hammered beneath us and the next, it was dropping away at an incredible dizzying rate. Hedges shrank into snakes of grass; trees became miniscule bushes, houses collapsed into matchboxes. Everywhere I looked – yellow muddy brown waste with odd interspersions of un-English green.

            The slight queasiness in my stomach was more through anticipation than with climbing into the clouds. It was transient, anyway, and I was pleased that at least I wasn’t airsick.

            It was our first real glimpse of Pakistan. Most of us knew of its relatively recent history. An Islamic Republic and self-governing member of the Commonwealth since August 5, 1947, it was created from those parts of the Indian sub-continent that had a predominantly Moslem population. “Both East and West Pakistan each constitute a province under a governor,” intoned the airhostess throatily. (However, from July 1, 1970 this single province of West Pakistan was dismembered into the four provinces that it originally comprised: Sind, Baluchistan, Punjab and North West Frontier Province.)

            Apparently the name “Pakistan” was invented in 1933 by Rahmat Ali for the northwestern Moslem areas and was taken from Punjab, Afghan (North West Frontier Province), Kashmir and Baluchistan.

            Karachi squats and overflows on the north of the Indus delta, and stands shyly on a backwater opening south on the east-west stretch of coastline that marks a sharp change in the shoreline’s direction between Cape Monze and the delta. To the west it is screened from the sea by the rocky point at Manora, cemented to the mainland by a sandspit. The Manora headland provides the city with a natural barrier as protection from monsoon storms. Toward the land – desert. And to the north, a hilly thirsty landscape, the limestone spurs of the Kirthar Range breaking down southwards into sandy wastes. Now we were passing over these monotonous expanses of recent alluvium riddled by creeks. To the seaward, we were told, lay mangrove swamps; the land below seemed largely incapable of supporting life.

            Wraithlike, only the air-conditioning humming in our ears, the Trident penetrated the cloud-layer and settled at 25,000 feet.

            A mild lurch or two, signifying turbulence, was our first indication that we were passing over high land. The Sulaiman Hills – known as Takht-I-Suliman, or Solomon’s Throne. The legend of the mountains began when Solomon visited Hindostan to marry Balkis. As they were returning through the air, on a throne supported by genii, the bride implored the bridegroom to let her look back for a few moments on her beloved land. Solomon directed the genii to scoop out a hollow for the throne on the summit of the mountain. The hollow is a cavity some thirty feet square, cut out of the solid rock at the southern extremity of the mountain, and is now a place of pilgrimage for both Hindus and Mohammedans. The shrine is about two miles south of the highest peak. The whole mountain culminates in two points, both over 11,000 feet high.

            We crossed over the Thal desert, for the most part absolutely without vegetation. Also the salt flats of the Indus. Hereabouts, an irrigation project progressed, to colonise the desert.

            The whole area is frequented by hurricane, diseases are numerous and commonplace, the population is far too large, and inevitably famines kill millions.

            The plane’s landing at Chaklala airport was as unimpressive as its take-off – a compliment to the pilot, I guess. We hardly felt a thing, only the sudden thud, slight screech and then constant rumble as we coasted along the runway, vivid hedges leaping by. My first flight was over.

            On leaving the plane, most of us were instantly repelled: the air was unbelievably hot, stifling. It was almost like walking into a solid wall of musty scorching dry heat. And the sun was high, even though only 8.45am. To add to the morning’s brilliance, the white runway glared, reflecting light and heat. I was glad I’d brought my trilby hat.

            We were met at the barrier by one of our hosts, Bernie, accompanied by an official native DS driver. Bernie was deeply tanned, thinning on top. His eyes sparkled and his big teeth shone white: very friendly, sardonically humorous. We loaded up and were driven off in a mini-bus.

            The heat was unbearable, the car seats sticky; with no reasonable shade in the vehicle. Dust from the roads didn’t help, either. We headed for the town centre of Rawalpindi and ultimately Islamabad.

            Passing through Rawalpindi – or Pindi as the colonials called it – a more picaresque aspect of Pakistan life-in-the-street confronted us. The poverty, the urchins, the dilapidation were there. But the colours seemed more gay, the air partly fresher, and the people more mobile. Turning one corner, I was surprised and amused to observe a general store and chemist advertising its drugs and elixirs, capable of healing ten score of diseases and afflictions, from the common cold up to and, amazingly just falling short of, death.

            The bonnet veered up and we motored up a concrete ramp, towards a steadily climbing row of houses. Islamabad New Site – an unromantic name for the place. And at first glance the buildings appeared quite unsightly. Vaguely reminiscent of children’s building blocks, all painted white and browned and mellowed in the oven. Spindly trees tried in vain to either break up or improve the wide concrete pavements. The houses were mostly obscured from the road by large walls where a few plants hung forlornly. The mountain range facing the New Site and rising back of and beyond the near lowlands turned out to be the Hindu Kush.

            Somewhat awkwardly, we trouped in to the house Bernie indicated. We had no idea what to expect and I for one entered with some trepidation.

            Inside, it was simple luxury. Fitted carpets, new spotless blonde wood furniture, variable air-conditioning, every facility and, most pleasantly, a lived-in atmosphere.

            Introductions were soon made. Apart from the presence of Bernie, those already there to meet us were women. Their intentions were quickly made clear. We were to be “farmed” out to those present. Everything was informal and even jocular. The sour-tasting tea and chinwag cleared the air and the ice had cracked if not completely broken for most of us.

            Without any preamble whatsoever, I was “claimed” by Mrs Mary Guest.

            “Surely, though, you’re the host?” I said.

            “Very droll.” She smiled. Her blue eyes shone, cheeks mottled red and healthy.

***

This is the first excerpt from a piece published in Under the Queen's Colours (Voices from the Forces 1952-2012) by Penny Legg (2012) - kindle version here.

 

Reminiscences, Naval-02 - 'New Entry'

October, 1965

[More notes scribbled at the time.] The preceding blog can be read here

On arrival in the Royal Naval training camp, we were informed we’d be staying in the New Entry Block for a week; virtual isolation.

New Entry consisted of a row of connecting huts (or messes, as we learned later), a dining hall, and a NAAFI hut out the back of the mess. Firstly, we were led into the kitting-room and were confronted by Mr Marney, who seemed to have adorned New Entry since time immemorial. Set out on metal counters were neat piles of bedding, with the respective cards for same. Mr Marney was Irish and spoke rapidly, and every word seemed to be learned off pat (no pun intended), for he frequently repeated himself word-for-word for the benefit of any inattentive listener: a human record which in that week we desired to be turned off many times. In fairness, it was the only way to process the new recruits – a kind of mass production line.

Outside our hut:

Mick, me, Wyatt and (foreground) Taff

We were all issued with a wooden block, letters of our name glued together to form a name-stamp. In one of Mr Marney’s ‘classes’ we stamped our names on all our items of clothing and bedding, using black paint. My stamp read R.W.N-MORTON, as Nicholson-Morton was a bit too long! We were also issued with a ‘housewife’, a small cloth bag, which contained cotton thread, sewing needles, pins, scissors, and darning wool. The scissors were inscribed with our names – I’ve still got mine, a blade incised in script R. Nicholson-Morton.

By coincidence Mick Siddle’s gear was next to mine. Having been instructed to carry our stuff and follow Mr Marney, we carried the gear and followed the man: we were learning fast.

The hut next door (down a small flight of five steps and along the connecting corridor) was Mess 11; a number of us were escorted within its hallowed walls, yet another contingent of prospective matelots. [Some 49 years later, my house number is... 11...]

Apparently, this was a bad week for recruiting numbers; only 87 had joined up. We filled three messes. I don't know what constitutes a good week these days, but I suspect that the numbers are quite low, thanks to political meddling.

***

If you want to read more about the joining process, try the book Odd Shoes and Medals. This is the memoire of Ron Hudson, who joined the RN a over decade earlier than me, but the process was very much the same.

Non-fiction from Manatee Books. “War broke out when I was eight. My short pants had holes in the backside, which was doubly embarrassing because I didn’t have any underwear and anyone could see my bum. So I used to walk sideways to school if any other kids or grown-ups came by. Miss Grafton, the teacher, let me stay at my desk during playtime to avoid embarrassing exposure. She liked me a lot and I used to take love letters for her to an American soldier. “

These reminiscences cover a span of over seventy years and will jog several memories and remind people that the so-called poverty of present times is nothing compared to the 1940s and 1950s.

Young Ron and his sister Audrey were shunted from one home to another, in excess of a dozen, ‘fostered’ by ‘aunts’ and ‘uncles’, and indeed for many years the pair of them didn’t know where the other sibling lived!  His absentee father barely gave him a thought – though he did present him with ill-fitting clogs, once…

Occasionally, he was bestowed with kindness and, despite moments of great despair, he carried on and eventually joined the Royal Navy. Ironically, for the first time he found a place he could call his home: the navy. He travelled the world, saw the sights, and ‘learned a trade’. When he was demobbed prematurely by politicians, he embarked on a career in British Gas, and has a few amusing tales to tell about (nameless) customers! He set up his own business and became the oldest registered gas fitter in the country, until he retired at age eighty.

As told to Nik Morton

 

Paperback available from Amazon.co.uk here

Paperback available from Amazon.com here

 

 

 

Reminiscences, Naval-01 – ‘Journey of 16 hours’

When I joined the navy, I’d already succumbed to the writing bug, having written two spy novels (still unpublished). So it seemed logical for me to write down any impressions and events I encountered. As life and work intruded, these notes became thinner… and stopped after a couple of years; though my letters home did contain certain impressions and memories for some years afterwards.

It was October, 1965, and I was a few months over seventeen. Dressed very smartly, my parents saw me onto the train at the Newcastle upon Tyne platform, pleased to learn that I was travelling with other young men destined to join the Royal Navy at HMS Raleigh. My two fellow travellers were Michael (Mick) Siddle and Thomas (Tom) Gibbon.

Newcastle upon Tyne central railway station

 

We waved our good-byes as the train departed at 7:05a.m from the old Victorian station and settled down. We were so polite – would you like an apple, an orange? Sure? Would you like some chocolate? Oh, it’s melted… We buried our noses in our respective if not wholly respectable periodicals.

Even a short while afterwards, when I first jotted down these reminiscences, I found it difficult to recall the entire journey. Most of the time, for me, it seemed somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, and I always felt I was on the borderlines.

Even then, Tom was pretty tall, about 5ft 7 and he masterfully contorted himself into positions unimaginable to sleep in: legs on one side seat, body on the other, his midriff sagging in between; yet, he slept. He was about sixteen. Mick remained silent most of the journey, alternating between reading and sleeping, being on the same seat as Tom. He was seventeen and a half, a few inches taller than my 5ft 6.

We all had long haircuts. And we were thoroughly bored.

I ploughed through my book, prophetically Childhood’s End by Arthur C. Clarke, until my eyes became bleary and the words on the page floated away, far away. Then I would stretch awkwardly the length of my seat and sleep lightly, using my overcoat as a pillow.

At one station, well into the night, the train stopped. Tom and Mick left the carriage for some milk from a vending machine on the platform. I finished off my portion of Tom’s pomegranate.

Another time I was on the verge of sleep when our speed decreased, and we shunted into a station which glared out of the black night. This brightness was eye-watering to sleep-laden eyes. The place was undergoing modernisation – neon lights everywhere, cold white concrete, men’s badinage and hammering reaching our ears. Steam sifted from somewhere on the track. The train stopped there a while, then a shrill whistle and we left the raucous place behind, slid into the black night again, and the train’s motion encouraged sleep.

I felt a hand shaking my shoulder shortly after I had finished Childhood’s End, about 4:30a.m. Sluggishly, I climbed out of oblivion, reflexively but probably ineffectually chopped out at the disturbance, and checked my blow in time. Mick had awoken me as we were pulling into Bristol shortly. [In later training, all men were warned to have a care when waking someone to go on watch – many a black eye has been sustained as the sleeper jerks awake!]

 
At 5a.m. we alighted from the train onto a deserted station, which speedily filled up with sailors and airmen in uniform. Mail-trolley wheels rumbled, echoing. Doors banged. A porter was whistling somewhere. In the British Rail café, while we ‘partook of a light refreshment’ – I used to write like that, then – we looked about, at a couple of sailors and civilians. We must have appeared a woebegone sight, lost to our mothers if they could have seen us.
 
Around 5:30 we boarded the train for Penzance via Plymouth. As the train pulled out, a cock crowed and a Petty Officer in our carriage exclaimed, ‘Bloody hell!’ at realising he hadn’t returned the BR café’s cup.
 
A little later on, we glimpsed the red sunrise.
 
The second half of our journey was as tedious as the first. My stomach was in knots and I was just waiting to be sick, it seemed inevitable, but just then, as we passed through Teignmouth I was surprised to see phosphorescent breakers. The sea was angry, a brownish-blue, the cliffs coloured red. I ducked my head out the window and the wind thrashed my hair; it was exhilarating and quelled my roiling stomach.
 
We slept, if restively.
 
About forty-five minutes out of Plymouth, I glanced out to see a thick seething mist that meandered about skeletons of trees. Shortly afterwards, we pulled into Plymouth station, an ultra-modern building of glass panes and light brickwork. Outside the large glass doors, the three of us met up with a group of new recruits. It was easy to identify them; we all looked about the same, lost and all-in. Lads of all sizes, from towns and cities, from Scotland and Ireland, even Rhodesia, we gathered outside the RTO office to the left of the station entrance. A large well-built lad (we later learned his name was Mick Deering) collected the forms we’d brought with us.
 
Tired, in a cold station, surrounded by strangers, my first impression was resignation: I’d come this far, I wasn’t turning back now. I was blessed – or cursed – with a good imagination and it was tempting for it to go on overtime, but I decided to leave my mind open, prepared to meet anything. Those who had been in the Scouts were probably better prepared than most. Maybe my time in the Sea Scouts would serve me in good stead.
 
We clambered onto an RN bus which drove us down to the River Tamar, where we boarded the Torpoint Ferry, which was pulled across on chains. On the other side, we were herded into another bus, and some of us by then broke out into song, started up by Mick and Tom in typical Geordie fashion. Already, new friendships were being forged. What seemed like fifteen minutes’ later, the bus turned into the gateway of HMS Raleigh, our home for the next few weeks.

HMS Raleigh

 
We were in, almost beyond the point of no return. Silence fell then.
 
This was our journey’s end – at least as far as those who stayed were concerned.
 
Next reminiscence: New Entry

Ten years in Spain - Going south-1

On 18 December this year, Jen and I celebrated ten years living in Spain. Where did those ten years go?

The following is a shorter version of an article I supplied to the Portsmouth Post, published in #11.

GOING SOUTH

Far too fast the time approached for Jen and me to leave the country.  Like many plans, the final part always seems some time in the future.  But our future had finally arrived.  We’d sold our house, handed over the keys and crammed the trusty Hyundai Accent car with four suitcases, photograph albums, important papers, many and various other items and of course the European legal driving paraphernalia (car-lamp kit, two warning triangles, fire-extinguisher, headlamp converters and GB disc). 

Having said adios to our daughter, on the early evening of 16^th December we drove round from Gosport and arrived at the P&O Bilbao booth at the Continental Ferry Port in plenty of time – 5:50pm for the 8pm sailing.  Not that we were anxious to get abroad; we just wanted to settle into our cabin. We’d booked a single ticket on the Pride of Bilbao. 

It was straight forward.  All we had to do was hand over our booking reference number and passports at the booth; in return we got complimentary breakfast vouchers and a boarding pass.  We were directed down one of several embarkation waiting lanes and switched off the car lights and engine.

Some drivers appeared impatient to go and started their engines – or perhaps they were cold and needed warming up.  Even when movement at the front of the queue was perceived, there was still a reasonable wait before you could get moving.  One thing you need to learn if you’re going to live in Spain, is patience. 

We had hoped to video the event, driving into the maw of the ship’s bow, but a security man stopped us before we got the camera going.  There didn’t appear to be any warning notices, but we didn’t particularly want our camera confiscated by over-zealous security-conscious people.  (What a short video picture would tell any potential terrorist is open to question and also opens up a big can of worms about infringement of freedoms using the anti-terrorist excuse…  But that’s another article, I suppose!). 

Because some shipping was in the way, our sailing was postponed by thirty minutes, which of course would have no bearing on our arrival time in Bilbao.  The southern journey takes thirty-six hours and the return north only takes twenty-nine hours; it has nothing to do with the curvature of the earth or going uphill or downhill – it’s just easier on the passengers to be awoken at a sensible time for disembarkation – 5:45am wake-up call instead of potentially 1:0am.

After managing to extricate our overnight bags out of the car without dislodging all the other luggage, we wended our way through the alleys between the parked cars on the car deck and went up to Deck 5 where we were given a key-card each for our cabin.

Landlubbers should be wary of door-sills separating compartments and at the entrances to cabins; of course they’re not designed to trip you up but to ensure water-tight integrity in the highly unlikely event that the ship takes in water.

Our cabin was on the Port side, near the sharp end and we found there was a distinct knack to using the key-card – insert the card and yank the handle and push at the same time.  The cabin was well-appointed, with two windows – no port-holes for us! – an en suite bathroom with shower, shower- and shampoo-gel, washbasin, WC and hair-dryer.  The double bed was approaching King-size and was fitted with a radio.  The TV on the dressing-table received a few British channels; there was a bowl of fruit and coffee- and tea-making facilities; coat-hanging space and two Terry-towel housecoats; two chairs. 

Having unpacked clothes for two days, we reconnoitred.  It was chilly – no, it was cold – on the upper deck.  Some distance away were a number of Royal Navy ships alongside another jetty. 

It’s advisable to check out the Guest Services counter on Deck 6 – which is situated in an area that more resembles the lobby of a glitzy hotel than a ferry, complete with upholstered seats, glass ceiling, café tables, a smokers’ corner and an information desk.  Here you can find out about the entertainment scheduled for the two days. 

Ship's lobby

Nearby on the same deck can be found the Exchange Bureau, the Beauty Salon and the Travel Traders shop where you can purchase legally required driving items such as fire-extinguishers etc.  One oddity was the lack of maps for Spain – plenty for France.  Maybe they’d sold out…  Bargains were definitely available.

Besides the Felix, Tapas and POSH bars, other attractions available were two cinemas, the Casino, the Megadrome video arcade, the children’s play area and children’s club room.  While those inclined could try the fitness machines, saunas and swimming pool down on Deck 2.

Possibly because of the time of year, but nowhere seemed crowded.  Wherever we encountered ship’s staff, they were cheerful and helpful.

By now we were getting peckish so decided on Langan’s Bar Grill.

The enormous ship reversed out from the quay, Captain Phil Hill in charge.  This manoeuvre sent the cutlery and tables rattling in Langan’s, a roomy place whose walls (or bulkheads) were adorned with photographs of the famous frequenting the London restaurant.

While we passed the lights of Gosport to our right, viewed through the restaurant windows, we listened to the attractive slim pianist playing ‘Les Miserables’, ‘She’ and Saint Saens’ ‘Softly awakes my heart’ and other delightful tunes.  Our waiter, Josean was a charming Basque.  Jen enjoyed her excellent Chicken Caesar and I had a medium rare rib-eye steak which tasted just right; both accompanied saute potatoes and two adequate dishes of vegetables.  Dessert was pannacotta with mango salsa, which Jen enjoyed while I succumbed to the apple and blackberry crumble with custard – irresistible!  The service was prompt and worthy of four stars, I reckon.

Echoing the safety procedure prior to taking off in a commercial airliner, the tannoy announced the essentials about klaxons sounding seven times and muster points, ending with the reassurance that there are enough lifeboats for everybody on the ship.

Many of The Pride of Bilbao passengers join the ship for the journey both ways, spending a few hours ashore in the famous Spanish city before re-embarking.  There are reasons for this – not least being the entertainment on offer, the choice of restaurants and the wildlife studies.

There are five restaurants: Langan’s Brasserie, Langan’s Bar Grill, Four Seasons Carvery, Café Olivos and the International Food Court.  Silverstones lounge boasts a stage and live performers, the Soundwaves resident band, disco dancing and bingo.  There’s even a ship’s radio – Pride FM – where listeners can win prizes.

Ironically, we’d attempted to catch Calendar Girls at the Portsmouth UCI cinema twice but it was fully booked on both occasions so we gave up.  As luck would have it, one of Tuesday night’s two films was Calendar Girls, so we finally got to see this great British movie.  The occasional explosion from next door’s cinema showing of The Pirates of the Caribbean didn’t detract from our enjoyment – both Mirren and Walters holding their own against a superb collection of actors.

Next morning we used our complimentary vouchers in the International Food Court.  The cafeteria’s choice of food was broad – I settled for a good substantial cooked breakfast while Jen just had cereals and tea.  At 10:0am we attended the presentation on the Biscay Dolphin Research group given by Clive Martin.  It was well supported and the ninety minutes flew by because it was so interesting.

One small but fascinating aspect of the ship’s fixtures was that every wall clock had not one but two hour-hand pointers; one marked with the Union flag, the other with the Spanish flag, to denote the respective times in each country.

We’d obviously not given enough thought to the fact that there aren’t any mobile phone masts in the middle of the Atlantic or in the Bay of Biscay, so we were incommunicado for most of the sea-time – briefly picking up a signal off Brittany and again when within striking distance of Spain.  So for those who curse the ubiquitous mobile phone, maybe a cruise can give you the respite you feel you warrant!  (If you need to contact someone urgently back in the UK – or anywhere else – there were satellite phone booths opposite the Guest Services desk).

The skies were grey and the sea had a slight swell, the winds Force 4 or 5, temperature about 11 degrees.  Plenty of white horses as we travelled about seventeen knots.  We went outside and climbed up to the helicopter deck - Deck 11 - and encountered winds so bracing we could barely stand!  That was enough fresh air for a while, we thought. 

As we’re both keen moviegoers rather than disco-dancers, on Day Two we decided to watch two films – Seabiscuit seemed appropriate since we were at sea … (This film was well received by critics but wasn’t big at the box office, which was a shame as it was a moving and inspiring true story, well acted throughout); and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.  Other current movies available were Kill Bill, Finding Nemo, Down with love, the Singing Detective, the Italian Job, Bad Boys, American Pie 3 and Once upon a time in Mexico.

During the day we enjoyed a couple of slight snacks at Olivos café – with good coffee though they were somewhat perplexed at having to serve a cortado (small black with a dash of milk).  The second evening meal was as good as the first.  Langan’s swordfish was the best Jen had ever tasted and my Seabass was moist and tasty.

Through the cabin window we could see thousands of stars. 

The wake up call was 5:45am UK time for our final visit to the International Food Court for breakfast and the walk down to the car deck.  Happily, we’d made note where we left our car – the section and the white-painted number on the bulkhead – because of course there were a lot more cars there than when we embarked.  We moved our watches on an hour for Spanish time.

Disembarking was very efficient.  Even when a couple of drivers hadn’t got down to their cars, the ship’s crew took charge and got the vehicles out from behind the empty stationary cars.  We docked at 8am Spanish time and were on the road within thirty minutes.  A cursory passport check and then, with Jen navigating, we followed the blue motorway signs for the A8.  We were heading south to our new life in Spain.

Going South part 2 - to follow...