大象传媒

This is an extract from the memoirs of Ivor Bail added to the site with his permission by Byron Whitehead of the Folkestone Heritage team. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

Two well-known characters in the village at that time were, Mr Floydd, and 鈥淥ld Bill鈥�. Mr Floydd was an artist, often found among the riverbanks with his easel and oil paints, expertly painting the scenery, always good for a chat, he was a very interesting gentleman, a mine of information. And a successful artist, with paintings of merit, accepted and hung in The Royal Academy of Art.
Completely different, the other well-known character was 鈥淥ld Bill鈥� the tramp, who popped up around the village, mostly outside the Abbey, to entertain (fast dwindling) visitors with musical interludes on harmonica and bone clappers. Bill lived in a cave, not far from the Abbey on the road to Chepstow. Various stories existed, explaining the reason he had adopted this lifestyle, who knows how true they were?
Back in Folkestone my parents were experiencing the hazards of 鈥淭he Battle Of Britain鈥�. Instructions to civilians had been issued, ordering their evacuation at short notice, leaving the town in the hands of the military. My parents kept a case packed with essentials, behind the front door, ready for such an event, invasion seemed imminent.
In Tintern, the 鈥淟ocal Defence Volunteers鈥� were formed after a nation wide appeal, they paraded in the village hall (what an asset this building was) for drill instruction, only a few rifles were available so wooden substitutes were used for drill purposes until eventually they became fully equipped and operational. Saturday afternoons they marched through the village, with rifles smartly at the slope to a field by the railway station, to engage in target practice, with targets against the railway bank. Mr Ware was a proud member of this unit, and by all accounts a crack shot. They may well have been a formidable force against a parachutist, if they were dropped in. They never did, so the church bells, which were to be rung as a warning 鈥� never were.
Rumours of parachute spies secret landings, were quite common. And folk were suspicious, and on the alert for strangers if seen. There were stories that spies came disguised as monks, more of a joke than factual, but still possible.
People in those days took heed of all the official warnings. Which reminds me of the time Kenneth and a friend, Bill decided to go for a chalk chase, Bill set off towards 鈥榳hite-Lye鈥� leaving a trail of arrows chalked on the road, clues for Ken to follow, in order to catch up. Unfortunately for them, their activities were observed, and misunderstood. The locals did their duty and contacted the police, thinking they might be spies. The chalk chasers soon found themselves in custody trying hard to prove their identity cards were genuine.
The 鈥淏attle of Britain鈥� reached its conclusion in September that year, with victory by the R.A.F, and the danger of invasion receded. Bur the German Lufftwaffe changed tactics, switching to the bombing of our large cities. On several nights, the glow of 鈥榠ncendiary bomb鈥� fires, and sound of distant explosions, were seen and heard on the skyline, searchlights sweeping the darkness, sometimes successfully pin pointing an aircraft, with the beams. The horror of war was just a few miles away, we were witnessing the air raids on Cardiff and Bristol.
Only on bomb fell on Tintern, as far as I know, this from a stray aircraft, jettisoning it in order to make for home. The river Severn being a good navigational guide, unfortunately it fell on a bungalow near 鈥榳hite-lye鈥�. And practically demolished it, the occupant, Miss Summer, I believe escaped with minor injuries.
In December 1941 I reached school leaving age, (14 years then) and so returned to Folkestone, to start work. Sadly wishing my foster family and school friends farewell.
I had escaped the dangers endured by my parents. Invasion, thankfully, never came, but the war was not over, and I was to see a great deal more of it. 鈥� but that鈥檚 another story.
Sixty years on, I dedicate my short story to the foster parents of Tintern, and especially the lovely 鈥榃are family鈥�.

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