A few of my social media friends have expressed an interest in getting to know more about me personally, especially about my life in Australia, so here’s an introduction.

Contrary to the opinion of my stepbrother, I didn’t emigrate for the same reason he joined the army – to escape an intolerable situation at home. His father gained some respect for me when I floored him when I thought he was beating my mother for standing up for me in an argument. I’d gone to my room but the argument continued, so I came back and did something I’ld never done before- punched him in the face and knocked him down! He came back with a knife and I took my mother’s advice and left the house for awhile. I’ve had a ‘phobia’ of knives ever since, with good reason – someone in Australia was sentenced to 18 months imprisonment for attempting to cut my throat!

My relationship with my stepfather improved when I was old enough to go out drinking with him on a Sunday lunchtime – this was in the ‘60s when pubs closed at 2.00pm and your local was the one where you could guarantee meeting the same people. I could go in on another day and play dominoes with Alec’s brother, but I recall one occasion when the landlord called out “Alec, your wife’s on the phone.” He told me to answer it and I refused as I knew what she would say and I couldn’t get home for dinner before he did – it would’ve been a long walk.

That said, I recall one Christmas dinner when we had the usual argument and I walked out – I would’ve walked several miles to my grandparents if my mother hadn’t got out the car to bring me back.

It wasn’t until much later that I learned that my eldest sister, who until recently I regarded as my best friend, had asked Alec to give her away in marriage and he advised her to ask me instead.

This is background to my decision to emigrate, not the reason for my decision. I had been considering it ever since my aunt had returned and applied under the £10 immigration scheme in 1972. At that time I was unemployed, I could expect to get seasonal work in the hospitality industry in the summer or return to my previous employment in a sugar factory which couldn’t guarantee me employment after the season finished as it was closing.

I had left my job in the sugar factory in time to go to Padstow, in Cornwall, and stayed there for the whole season returning only to attend my sister’s wedding and pick up a few more belongings. I left before the end of the season to attend Whitby Folk Festival and the only drink I bought the night before I left was Glenfiddich – I didn’t want to switch from beer to whisky if someone else was paying 😊

My boss was trying to talk me into staying for the remainder of the season and I told him that the only way he would keep me drunk for a fortnight – if I missed the train next day I’ld catch one the following day – so he instructed the barman to add a quadruple Glenfiddich to the double I already had in my glass. It didn’t work! I wasn’t able to catch the train at Bodmin Road and had to hitchhike to Exeter but I got to Whitby on schedule 😀

My second season in Cornwall started well but ended badly. I had returned before the start of the season and the landlord of a pub in the next village offered me a job. I told him I was committed for the season but only working 9-5 until then and willing to help out if needed. My first experience as a barman was being thrown in the deep end – two minutes being shown the ropes and it was just me, the landlord and his wife – on the busiest night of the year. It was the eve of May Day, a major event in Padstow, and friends from Yorkshire showed up wondering why I was behind the bar 😅

The season didn’t end so well, my boss’s 6-year-old son shot me in the leg with an air rifle pellet after narrowly missing blinding me. His mother admonished me for sitting in the bar awaiting a bus to the next village instead of continuing with my job. After three days in hospital I had to hitchhike to Poole in Dorset where my uncle made arrangements with my mother to pay my train fare to Yorkshire.

I returned to Cornwall once more but I already had a job lined up at the Raven Hall Hotel, between Scarborough and Whitby, to start in a few weeks time. I knew that I would be emigrating at the end of the season and took the opportunity to see parts of England I’d never visited before and probably never would again.

During the last two months at Ravenscar I was able to bank my wages (I didn’t have to pay for accommodation) and live on my tips as night porter. The season ended one week before the scheduled date for my departure, just enough time for me to say goodbyes.

I think my last goodbye was with my mother’s younger sister who had married a Londoner and lived there until he retired and she returned to Yorkshire. I had visited Margaret previously and had a drink with her in her local pub in Rotherhithe where someone thought I might be her younger brother 😅