Longtime Ago people

Tag: travel

  • 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.

  • 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.