Longtime Ago people

Tag: books

  • The Power of Inherited Memory: A Son’s Quest to Know His Father

    Some stories begin not with words, but with silence—an absence that echoes across generations. That’s where my conversation with David Williams begins. David lost his father at the age of seven. While most children have years to build memories, David was left with fragments: beach barbecues on Stanley Beach, bowling club outings, and the foggy recollections of a child too young to grasp the extraordinary man his father was.

    Llewelyn Williams was no ordinary man. Born in 1922, he joined the Local Defence Volunteers (later the Home Guard) at just seventeen, as war erupted across Europe. By nineteen, he was training as a navigator in the Royal Air Force. The selection process was brutally pragmatic—when young Lew expressed interest in becoming a pilot, an officer reportedly told him, “Any bloody fool can drive a bus. It takes brains to get it there and back.” His mathematical aptitude as a trainee accountant made him ideally suited for navigation—a role demanding precision and quick thinking under the most harrowing conditions imaginable.

    The statistics for Bomber Command aircrews were devastating. Of the 105,000 men who served, around 55,000 were killed—a death rate of over 50%. Each mission carried a 5% casualty rate, meaning few survived a full tour of thirty missions. Against these odds, Lew flew with a Halifax bomber crew, primarily targeting strategic locations in France. This may have contributed to his survival, though it couldn’t shield him from the brutal reality of war.

    On 25 June 1944, everything changed. His aircraft was hit by flak returning from a mission over France. As the crew scrambled to evacuate, Lew reached the escape hatch—just before the plane was hit again. He bailed out, the sole survivor of his seven-man crew. What followed was an extraordinary tale of courage and resilience. Injured but alive, he found shelter with members of the French Resistance. But their safehouse in Paris was raided by the Gestapo, and Lew was sent to Buchenwald concentration camp alongside his protectors.

    In a remarkable twist of fate, a Luftwaffe officer discovered Allied airmen being held illegally in the camp. This led to Lew’s transfer to Stalag Luft III—the very site of the famous “Great Escape.” As the war neared its end and the Red Army advanced, prisoners were marched to another camp before finally being liberated. Tragically, the chemicals used to delouse prisoners at Buchenwald would later cause the cancer that took Lew’s life in 1963, when David was just seven.

    What struck me most in speaking with David was how these memories weren’t his own—they were inherited, passed down through stories told by his grandmother Floss, his mother, and his father’s RAF friend Alan. These second-hand memories became the foundation of David’s understanding of the father he barely knew.

    Thankfully, David’s mother remarried a kind and loving man nicknamed “Binks”, who became a devoted stepfather and helped create what David calls “a very privileged upbringing… because there was a lot of love going around.”

    When I asked David what he would say to his father if he could speak to him today, his answer was quietly profound:

    “I’d probably like to say to him, I’m really sorry that you were only with my mother for about basically 14 years, but if it gives you any comfort, I’ve been with the same woman for 50 and I’m very happy.”

    In that simple statement, we hear how the values of commitment and family have transcended generations—even when direct contact was cut short. Though David lost his father young, the legacy of who Llewelyn Williams was continues to shape his son’s life to this day.

  • Family Histories: A Cross-Cultural Love Story Born from the Ashes of World War II

    In an age where we document every moment with our smartphones, I’ve found there’s something profoundly moving about oral history—those intimate stories passed down through generations, often teetering on the edge of being lost forever. In this episode, I had the privilege of uncovering the remarkable tale of Douglas George Thurston and Agnes Franziska—a British soldier and a German woman, my grandparents, whose lives became entwined in the fragile aftermath of World War II.

    The story unfolds through the voice of their daughter, Ingrid, my aunt, now living in Margate, Kent, as she reflects on her earliest memories of her parents. Douglas, affectionately known as “Busty”, emerges as a larger-than-life character—a big man with an even bigger personality, who would regale his children with stories, some perhaps embellished, but all delivered with the conviction of a natural storyteller. Agnes, by contrast, is remembered for her resilience, directness, and unwavering generosity—a woman who, in Ingrid’s words, “never held back, knew what she wanted to say and said it.”

    What makes this narrative particularly compelling is its historical context. Douglas was captured by the Japanese during the Fall of Singapore and survived the horrors of being a prisoner of war. Yet he refused to speak of these experiences. As Ingrid poignantly recalls, “There’s no glory in war,”—a sentiment that led him to decline an offer to write his memoirs, despite the potential for his escape story to become a film. Some wounds, it seems, remain too deep to revisit—even decades later.

    Their unlikely romance began in post-war Germany, where Douglas was stationed in Lippstadt. Their first meeting has the quality of a film scene: Douglas leaning against a lamppost as Agnes walked by with her friend and reportedly declared, “I’ll have the fat one. He looks like he can get us food.” What began as a pragmatic encounter blossomed into a deep bond that endured until death quite literally did them part. Agnes passed away from what Ingrid believes was a broken heart, upon learning of Douglas’s critical condition following surgery.

    Their cross-cultural identity shaped the family’s experience in post-war Britain. The children grew up bilingual, with their parents switching to German when they didn’t want them to understand. Summers were spent with German relatives, and despite the lingering anti-German sentiment of the time, Douglas and Agnes met prejudice with a matter-of-fact attitude: “It’s other people’s problems, not theirs.”

    Perhaps most moving is the legacy they left behind. Douglas instilled in his children the belief that “you can be whatever you want to be, but you work for it, it won’t come to you.” Agnes’s legacy was her extraordinary kindness—opening their home to anyone in need, from arranging a proper bed for a discharged soldier to live in their shed, to ensuring no visitor left empty-handed, “even if it was half a pound of butter.”

    This deeply personal glimpse into my family’s history reminds me why I do this. It speaks to the resilience of the human spirit, the healing power of love across divides, and the quiet heroism of ordinary people navigating extraordinary times. As I listen to these memories, I’m reminded that every family has stories worth preserving—narratives that help us understand not just where we came from, but who we are.

  • The Legacy of Bill McGuffie: Musical Genius, Flawed Father

    The Legacy of Bill McGuffie: Musical Genius, Flawed Father

    In this episode, I sit down with Moray McGuffie to explore the extraordinary life of his father, Bill McGuffie—a man whose brilliance in the world of big band jazz and film composition was matched only by the complexity of his personal life.

    Born in Glasgow in 1927, Bill’s musical journey began with a jaw-dropping moment: stepping in at age twelve to perform at a major concert, sight-reading pieces he’d never seen before. That debut set the tone for a career defined by genius, discipline, and resilience. His mother’s strict training methods—ruler in hand—shaped his early development, and even after losing a finger to gangrene, he adapted with a distinctive style that became his signature.

    By his twenties, Bill was performing with legends like Joe Loss, Ted Heath, Bing Crosby, and Bob Hope. He composed for Doctor Who (with Peter Cushing) and Hammer Horrorfilms, and his home was frequented by celebrities including June Whitfield and members of Monty Python.

    Yet behind the acclaim lay a more turbulent reality. Moray speaks candidly about his father’s volatile behaviour, especially when drinking, and the emotional toll it took on their family. Their relationship fractured, leading to ten years of silence before Bill’s death in 1987—a silence Moray still regrets.

    What moved me most were the intimate details: music scribbled on Player cigarette packets, a child’s drawing turned into melody, and the innocent memory of chasing a golf ball, unaware of the rules. These moments reveal a man who was at once playful, distant, brilliant, and slighty broken.

    This conversation isn’t just about one father and son—it’s about legacy, reconciliation, and the enduring imprint of those we love, even when love is complicated.

  • From Manchester to Namibia: The Extraordinary Life of Gary, the Safari Guide

    Growing up in Whitefield, a small town near Manchester, Gary always had an adventurous spirit. Even at seven years old, he was leading his younger brother Karl and their friends on what they called “adventures“—day-long explorations fuelled only by jam sandwiches and bottles of tap water. While other children spent their pocket money on sweets and toys, Gary poured his into Collins wildlife books, unknowingly laying the foundation for a life shaped by a passion for nature.

    I first learned about Gary’s remarkable journey while speaking with his brother, who recounted how Gary transformed from a restless young man in early 1980s Britain into a respected safari guide and adventurer. Faced with the economic struggles of Thatcher’s Britain and feeling suffocated by what he called the “rat race,” Gary made a decision at 21 that would alter his course entirely. With just £150 in his pocket and a suitcase filled with practical gifts from his parents—a travel iron and a hairdryer among them—he left for France, armed only with a cassette course from which he taught himself French.

    What followed was an extraordinary 15-year stretch during which his family barely heard from him, save for the occasional letter. These letters, now treasured family artefacts, offer glimpses into a life lived on the fringes of conventional existence. He worked for the New York Times in Paris, sold ice cream in the south of France, bartended in Berlin, and taught English in Spain’s Basque country, picking up languages and experiences at every turn. By the time he set foot in Africa, he was fluent in French, Spanish, and several other languages—skills that would prove invaluable as his travels took increasingly audacious turns.

    The African chapter of Gary’s story began with a perilous solo hitchhike across the Sahara Desert, through Mali and Timbuktu, into Equatorial Guinea and Cameroon. One particularly chilling episode saw him navigating Angola during civil unrest, where he had to sign a disclaimer with the British Embassy acknowledging they wouldn’t repatriate his body if he were killed by UNITA rebels.

    Eventually, Gary reached his destination: Namibia, a vast, untamed wilderness that would become his home for the next 35 years. In Damaraland, a Mars-like expanse of red basalt rock, he found work tracking endangered rhinoswith the Save the Rhino Trust. Living in a tent for years, working with local Damara tribesmen as trackers, Gary developed an unparalleled intimacy with the land and its wildlife.

    To the Himba people, a nomadic tribe of the region, he became known as “N’garikatuki”—the man of the mountains. In one particularly moving moment, Karl shared how, during a visit after many years apart, a Himba tribesman recognised Gary’s name by reputation alone, despite never having met him. His stories had become woven into their oral tradition.

    His adventures didn’t end with land-based exploration. During what he calls his “midlife crisis,” Gary bought a 30-foot yacht with barely any sailing experience and embarked on a solo circumnavigation. That voyage saw him face hurricane-force winds, equipment failures, and a treacherous Pacific crossing reliant on makeshift repairs. At one point, the boat was buried in a sand pit on a Fiji beach for a year while he returned to Namibia to earn enough moneyto continue.

    Today, Gary runs his own safari company, guiding small groups to hidden corners of Namibia that few others know exist. His deep-rooted expertise and ability to converse in multiple languages make him especially popular with French, Spanish, and Italian tourists. His knowledge of Namibia’s wilderness—paired with decades of extraordinary experiences—even caught the attention of filmmakers. French director Eric Valli, known for the award-winning film Himalaya, drew inspiration from Gary’s stories for La Piste (The Trail).

    Gary’s life, chronicled in dozens of letters to his mother over the years, provides a rare window into the kind of adventure few would dare to pursue. From facing down lions alone in a tent to sailing single-handedly across oceans, his journey—from Manchester to Namibia—is a testament to how far curiosity and courage can take us.

  • Family Memories from Post-War Britain: The Isle of Wight, Seaside Hotels, and Life After London

    This oral history captures a vivid snapshot of British life from the 1940s through the 1960s, told through my conversations with my Aunt Chrissie about her parents, Thomas Augustine Miles and Helen Gladys Reygate known as Rae. Their story begins dramatically in London, where Thomas and Helen—unaware she was pregnant—welcomed a daughter born four weeks premature, weighing only four pounds. In those days before modern neonatal care, that was a dangerously low birth weight. When doctors advised them to leave polluted London for their daughter’s health, they made the significant decision to relocate to the Isle of Wight, where Helen’s sister lived.

    That move was a turning point that shaped their lives forever. They initially rented a small house before acquiring Rose Court Hotel in Sandown. The hotel soon became central to their world, with the whole family involved—Thomas waiting tables, Helen cooking, and their children helping in the dining room and bedrooms. As the hotel operated seasonally, most of its income was generated between May and September. Careful financial planning was essential—whatever they earned in the summer had to sustain them through the winter.

    Chrissie’s recollections offer fascinating insights into post-war British holiday culture. Their guests were mostly working-class families from industrial areas like the Potteries, visiting during annual factory closures. These weren’t the package holidays to Spain that would later dominate British tourism—back then, a trip to the Isle of Wight, involving a train journey and ferry crossing, felt exotic for many working families from the Midlands. The hotel built strong relationships with regular guests, even ensuring their preferred newspapers were waiting for them upon arrival.

    Life revolved around simple pleasures. The local Catholic church was both a religious and social hub, hosting whist drives, dances, and other gatherings. Cinema outings were hugely popular in an era before television, with films changing frequently enough that locals could visit multiple times a week. Managing resources carefully was a necessity—worn bedsheets were cut and resewn to extend their use, and nothing was discarded if it could be mended.

    Later in life, Thomas and Helen moved to Steyning, West Sussex, purchasing a derelict house for around £4,000-£5,000 in 1969. Thomas, who had worked in construction, put his carpentry skills to good use renovating the property. He also worked as a steward at a Foreign Office estate, managing the bar despite being teetotal himself. Helen, meanwhile, volunteered for the hospital car service, reflecting their continued commitment to community life even in retirement.

    Talking with Chrissie also brought up stark reminders of healthcare before the NHS. She recalled waiting in long charity clinic queues, where doctors saw patients on a charitable basis until time ran out. When she needed treatment, her parents had to trek to clinics, hoping she’d be seen before the doctor finished for the day. It’s a striking contrast to universal healthcare, which would later transform life for families like hers.

    Some of the most touching moments are the insights into Thomas and Helen’s relationship. While Helen was the strong organiser, Thomas was the quiet pillar of wisdom. One memory stands out—Chrissie once found them having a cuddle, her mother saying she “still laughed at his jokes.” Another speaks to Thomas’s gentle encouragement—when Chrissie doubted whether she should complete her nursing training, he reassured her, telling her that the qualification would serve her for life rather than forcing the decision upon her.

    These recollections paint a rich portrait of post-war British family life—from economic struggles and the rhythm of tourism to simple entertainments and the adaptability required to keep moving forward. They remind me how much Britain has changed, but also how enduring family support and resilience have always been.