Longtime Ago people

Tag: history

  • What Do We Inherit Beyond Our Names

    When doing my podcast Longtime Ago People, I often find that family history lives in the narrow spaces between memory and place, and this conversation with Ian is exactly that. I’m tracing a life carried between Sussex and South Africa, beginning with our two grandmothers who were sisters and a child born far from England by the quirk of a passport. The thread starts in Windhoek, runs through Cape Town and East London, and eventually loops back to Steyning in the coronation year.

    A father’s diagnosis forces a young family across oceans, and his loss reshapes everything — money gone, home gone, and a mother suddenly having to learn to work again. The tone isn’t sentimental; it’s exact. Night school for shorthand, a first secretarial job in Portslade, and the quiet shock of moving from servants to scarcity. The theme running through it all is resilience anchored by kin.

    What lifts the story beyond grief is Granddad Jim, a Sussex original whose life reads like a ledger of rural enterprise. He auctioneered cattle and furniture, bought a pub, wrapped horses’ hooves in cloth to smuggle French brandy over the Downs, and kept the family table full through fishing, shooting, and rows of vegetables by the cricket ground. He rented out his bathroom on Friday nights when neighbours still bathed in tin tubs, posted auction bills from a black trade bike, and told stories with two small boys tucked under his arms. These scenes ground the episode’s themes of family resilience, intergenerational memory, and rural English life. They’re practical lessons, too — how work ethic is modelled, how food systems looked before supermarkets, and how care often arrives as time and skill, not cash.

    South Africa stays vivid in Ian’s memory: manikin cigars flying from a carnival float, smoke from a grassfire racing uphill, a beach lagoon walled off from sharks. Decades later, he and his brother return just before COVID shuts the world down. Cape Town shines with its wind-and-mountain logic — property value by elevation and shelter — while East London feels uneasy, its parallel roads lined with idle youth and homes wired against crime. The Garden Route unspools like Australia: long distances of scrub and stone between townships. The journey becomes a reckoning with belonging and safety, a study in what endures and what declines, and a reflection on migration, identity, and diaspora memory.

    The professional arc arrives almost by accident. Piloting, once a dream, loses its glamour when a family member’s blunt briefing: minutes of thrill bookending hours of vigilance. Then a sixth‑form gap puts a teenager at the front of a classroom, just after the moon landings and their Hasselblad photographs made discovery feel possible. Teaching fits. It offers meaning and movement without leaving home entirely. This shift speaks to career pivots, vocational calling, and the way chance responsibilities can reveal an aptitude we didn’t know we had. Alongside, there’s mechanical comedy: a hand‑painted blue Riley that stains every fingertip and a lumbering Commer camper that rolls backwards down Welsh hills.

    Threaded through it all is the social history of a Sussex village becoming a commuter town, yet somehow keeping its charm. Names recur like waypoints: Jarvis Lane, the River Adur, Worthing, Chichester, Portslade. A red Sunbeam glows on a garage forecourt; a grandparent’s quiet loan steadies younger parents at a hard moment. The values are precise: loyalty within extended families, the dignity of manual skill, and the unashamed use of shared assets when times turn.

    In the end, the episode argues — without ever needing to say it outright — that identity is built from food gathered and cooked, from stories retold, and from choices made under pressure. Loss can’t be undone, but love can be practised like a craft, one task at a time.

  • 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.

  • Dreams Made Real in Spain

    The bonds between parents and children often reveal themselves in the most unexpected ways, sometimes only becoming clear years after they’ve passed on. During a recent conversation I recorded with my brother-in-law, John, on the Mediterranean coast of Spain, a quietly profound revelation emerged: sometimes we find ourselves living the dreams our parents once had, without even realising it.

    The story centred around a son who discovered that his life by the coast quite likely fulfilled his late father’s deepest wish—to live by the sea. “I just found out the day before yesterday from my sister that I’m probably living his dream,” he told me, visibly moved. This realisation wove an emotional thread through the episode, connecting generations in a way neither could have predicted. Even when his father lived inland, he found solace in the hum of the M25 motorway, which “sounds like the sea”—a poetic detail that speaks to the persistence of our deepest yearnings.

    Music came through as another powerful bond between father and son. From Johnny Cash and Elvis Presley spinning on the family record player, to him introducing his dad to bands like Madness in the ’80s, it became a shared language. His current love for alternative country music traces back to the country melodies his father played. That focus on lyrics and musical meaning shaped his own approach to music—a musical inheritance that outlives absence.

    Above all, what struck me was the portrait of a remarkably inventive man. From hand-sewn wetsuits to early tennis ball machines and eco-friendly burning blocks, he embraced life with boundless curiosity and ingenuity. His workshop turned out satin lampshades and imaginative contraptions, though never patented—they were gifts of the moment. Through these stories, the adventurous spirit of a man who loved golf, and motorcycles came vividly to life.

    When we considered how he might respond to modern technology—mobile phones, AI, and digital photography—John believed he’d embrace it all, grounded by his DIY spirit and authentic taste. That reflection ushered in a poignant truth: “When people are no longer there, everything they ever thought or believed just disappears.” And yet, these conversations hold something precious—they preserve more than memory. They capture the essence of someone who shaped not just one life, but maybe a geographical legacy.

  • 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.

  • Life on the Isle of Wight During and After World War II

    The Isle of Wight holds a special place in British wartime history, as well as in my family’s memories. It served as a crucial defensive outpost against potential German invasion, and through the stories passed down to me, I’ve gained a glimpse into island life during that pivotal period and the years of recovery that followed.

    During World War II, the Isle of Wight was transformed into a military stronghold. The coastal beaches, particularly those facing France, were heavily fortified with enormous coils of barbed wire to prevent enemy landings. People could still walk along the shoreline, but the defensive measures were unmistakable. Perhaps most striking was the intentional damage inflicted on the island’s piers—they were deliberately broken halfway along to prevent enemy forces from landing at the far end and making their way inland. This strategy extended to all piers on the island, creating a formidable barrier against invasion.

    The military presence was significant, with RAF personnel stationed at key lookout points, like St. Boniface in Ventnor, and army units in Sandown. These installations served as vital early warning systems, monitoring potential threats from the Channel. The concern was very real—had the Germans captured the Isle of Wight after taking the Channel Islands, they would have gained a dangerous foothold for further invasion of mainland Britain.

    Daily life during wartime revolved around rationing and resourcefulness. Food shortages meant families had to be creative with limited ingredients. The weekly butter allowance was minuscule, about the size of what would now be considered a restaurant portion. Meals often featured corned beef, stretched further by serving it in Yorkshire pudding batter. People grew their own fruits and vegetables, composting everything possible—including tea leaves, which were reused multiple times rather than discarded after a single use.

    Housing arrangements reflected the communal spirit of wartime Britain. Many island residents took in soldiers and RAF personnel who were stationed nearby. These billeted servicemen came from diverse backgrounds across Britain, and for some, it was their first experience of modern amenities like indoor bathrooms. The bonds formed were lasting—after the war, many returned with their families to visit the places and people they had come to know during their service.

    The post-war economic recovery on the island was largely driven by tourism. Many families, including mine, transitioned into the hospitality industry, opening guest houses to accommodate the growing numbers of domestic tourists. In many cases, this happened almost accidentally—homeowners with spare rooms realised they could supplement their income by taking in visitors, gradually expanding their operations as demand grew.

    Running a guest house was labour-intensive. Proprietors did everything from cooking and cleaning to entertaining their guests. Without modern appliances, laundry was particularly challenging—washing sheets, towels, and linensfor multiple rooms without the benefit of automatic washing machines or dryers. Homes were gradually converted to accommodate more visitors, often through the owners’ own renovation work rather than professional contractors.

    Tourism on the Isle of Wight peaked in the late 1960s, when domestic holidays were still the norm for most British families. The island had a special allure—the ferry crossing created a sense of adventure, making visitors feel as if they were embarking on a significant journey. Some tourists from northern England even asked if they needed passports to visit, reflecting how exotic the destination seemed to those who had never travelled far from home.

    The seasonal nature of tourism created distinct patterns. Northern factories would close for specific “wakes weeks”, sending workers from particular regions to the island during the same period each year. This fostered a community atmosphere, with guests returning annually and forming friendships with other regular visitors from their hometown. The guest houses often served as social hubs, with activities like billiards, music, and evening refreshments bringing people together.

    The personal stories of those who lived through this era provide invaluable insights into a rapidly changing Britain—from the hardships of wartime to the optimism of the post-war tourism boom and the cultural transformations of the 1950s and 1960s. Through these memories, I’ve gained a richer understanding of how ordinary people adapted to extraordinary circumstances, building businesses and communities that shaped the Isle of Wight for decades to come.

  • 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.