大象传媒

4)THE SUMMARY OF OLLIE鈥橲 STORY 鈥� With her Father away in the 鈥淩.A.F鈥�, working as a design engineer and instrument maker on the SPITFIRES and LANCASTER BOMBERS, she recalls her first journey, taken with her Mother, sailing across the choppy, waters of the North Sea, on a Grimsby cargo boat, to the remote Faroes Islands. There, she lived with her maternal Grandparents in the family鈥檚 isolated, turf-roofed farmhouse. The vivid memories of her family, their home and the strong sense of a close-knit community 鈥� give an evocative picture of everyday living on the beautiful Island of Faroes in the shadow of the Second World War鈥�
OLLIE鈥橲 STORY 鈥� My parents Bruce and Anne met at a wartime dance on New Year鈥檚 Eve, 1939 in Grimsby, Lincolnshire 鈥� married on Midsummer鈥檚 Day 1941 in my Mother鈥檚 local church, 鈥淪t Stephens鈥� 鈥� and set up their first home in nearby Cleethorpes. It was there, in due course, that I was born 鈥� Olwyn (Ollie) Christine 鈥� their only child.

But by then my Father, who had earlier joined the R.A.F, was away working as a design engineer and instrument maker on the Spitfires and Lancaster Bombers. And it was during this time that he met with a serious accident. Whilst cycling down a country lane - in the blackout - back to his 鈥淩.A.F鈥� Camp Digby in Lincolnshire, he collided into an unseen vehicle, receiving severe facial injuries.
Immediately he was taken to 鈥淩.A.F鈥� hospital at Cranwell, and he was fortunate to be attended by the renowned surgeon Sir Archibold McIndoe, who travelled down from Glasgow, Scotland to perform his pioneering operation on my Father. After a lengthy convalescence, he recovered sufficiently to return to his 鈥淩.A.F鈥� base where he resumed his duties. So sadly, like many other wartime Fathers, he missed the early days of my life.

Later on, when I was just a toddler, my Mother became unwell. So the decision was made for us to go and live with her parents, Christina and Ole Olsen, a trawler skipper, and her Uncle David, a sheep farmer, on the Faroes, a little group of Islands near Greenland in the North Atlantic waters.

Although it was a dangerous time to be travelling by sea, on one wild and bleak day, my Mother and I sailed across the choppy waters on a Grimsby cargo boat to the capital town, Torshaven and thence onto a fishing boat, over to the Island of Sand 鈥� one of the smaller of the Faroese Islands. There, in the peace of the family鈥檚 old farmhouse, we made our home.

Angled into the hillside- as protection against the elements 鈥� and made of stone and wood- its roof was thickly thatched with turfs of grass. Solidly built as a two-storey dwelling, there was also an interesting byre, which ran beneath the entire ground floor. Access to this area was by means of an internal staircase that led directly to the kitchen. On one side of this cheerful room, stood a sink with a water pump, where I was routinely washed, and on the other, a black- leaded range, from which endless meals streamed forth.

In her youth, my Grandmother -鈥淕rama鈥�- had left the Faroes to train as a professional cook in Edinburgh, Scotland. So although the staple diet of the Islanders, by today鈥檚 standards was limited, Granny used her skills to provide wholesome dishes from the local produce. As well as lamb, beef, dried sea birds, fish and the ubiquitous whale-meat 鈥� she baked bread, cakes and pies and of course there were plenty of sweet potatoes, turnips, milk and eggs from the farm. So we fared better than many people on the mainland during those ration stricken days.

The farmhouse was simply furnished with rag rugs and sheepskins covering the stone floors and rustic style furniture. One of my favourite pieces was Grama鈥檚 rocking chair. Here she sat to knit her fine Fair Isle garments with wool from my Great Uncle David鈥檚 sheep to the accompaniment of a big wooden wireless. We listened to the voices, from which miraculously emerged from inside of the set! Later I realised how much this vital link to the outside world, must have meant to the household back then. Directly opposite the kitchen was 鈥渢he parlour鈥�, kept only for high days and holidays!

Upstairs there were two bedrooms, reached by a ladder staircase, with windows overlooking sandy fields and inlets from the sea. Now and again, after a night of stormy weather, flotsam and jetsam washed upon the shore and many of these objects of interest often found their way into the farmhouse!

Behind the kitchen was the washhouse, where the copper was lit for the weekly wash. And beyond this was the outhouse. There, barrels of fish were salted, carcasses of beef and lamb were cured and sea birds hung from racks above.
Then there was the unforgettable 鈥渙utside privy鈥� - housed in a small shed - quite a distance from the farmhouse, with its sheets of threaded newspaper flapping in the wind!

Our nearest 鈥渘eighbours鈥� were herds of cows and flocks of sheep and every so often some of these sheep wandered down from the hillside onto the roof of the farmhouse. Here they grazed from above!

Most of my family made their living from farming, fishing and whaling. And during these years large quantities of fish and whale-meat were delivered to ports on the mainland, by the Faroese fishermen, to help feed the British population. However, there were several local fishermen 鈥� and my Uncle Toby was one of them 鈥� who were tragically killed whilst fishing in the deep waters near to where the floating mines had been laid.

But despite these casualties of war, the daily life of the Islanders went on much the same. I well remember being taken 鈥渁cross the water鈥� to visit the relatives, who lived on the neighbouring Islands on a small fishing boat. Every time we boarded, my poor Mother was sick, when the huge waves lashed over the sides. It was quite a frightening experience for a small child.

Then alas, my Mother鈥檚 health worsened. As there were only limited medical facilities on the Faroes 鈥� and Denmark was already under German occupation 鈥� she decided to return to England for treatment, leaving me in the care of my Grandparents.

After several months my Mother partially recovered and arrangements were made for me to join her back home. But unfortunately the weather closed in 鈥� blanketing the Islands in a thick mist- that meant that I had no other choice but to stay put! And it was there, that I spent my first Christmas - on the Island of Sand.

As Christmas trees are not native to the Islands, they are imported from the mainland. And on Christmas Eve, my Grandparents gave their little tree pride of place in the parlour. I have fond memories of watching Grama bake special cakes and heart -shaped ginger and cinnamon biscuits, to hang from the branches. At its foot, the Christmas crib was set up 鈥� small hand carved wooden figures, stood in straw, provided by Great Uncle David. As darkness fell, the tiny white, candles that decorated our tree, our windowsills and those of many of the Islander鈥檚 homes were lit.

On Christmas morning, I awoke to find my stocking filled with little things that delighted me 鈥� sweets, nuts, a wooden toy, a pair of Fair Isle gloves, knitted by Grama, and a tangerine tucked into the toe.

The journey to the Island鈥檚 little Chapel - on board Great Uncle David鈥檚 horse and cart - was a real adventure. Grama was quite a generously proportioned lady, but despite her bulk, she always dressed smartly for such occasions, in her 鈥淪unday Best鈥�. I was warmly wrapped up against the bitter wind and carefully lifted on board. We squeezed together on the back seat and the horse ambled along over the sands. From across the fields came the bleating of the sheep, and as we came nearer to the chapel, we heard the sound of carols at the door. Clutching Grama鈥檚 hand, I tiptoed beside her down the aisle to join the congregation at their simple, Christmas service.

Later the family sat down to a Faroese feast. There were fish balls, cold lamb, beef, with sweet potatoes, turnips, Klenater- biscuits made from potato flour and cardamom, fried in hot fat- followed by Aebteskiver- delicious sweet doughnuts, rolled in sugar.

The happy day wore on. Peace gradually descended on the farmhouse and soon I found myself tucked up in bed. It was a Christmas that I have remembered for the rest of my life.

When Spring came to the Islands, clumps of Faroese flowers appeared in the fields - some sweet smelling- and high above I could see Great Uncle David鈥檚 shepherd鈥檚 hut and sheep pens. Sometimes newly born lambs were brought into the warm kitchen to be bottle- fed, and to my joy, I was given them to hold in my arms.

Then in the Summer, when there was almost around the clock daylight 鈥� 鈥淲hite Nights鈥� 鈥� we walked on the shore by the rock pools, where I found secret places to play. I have never forgotten the sights and the sounds of the plump puffins, kittiwakes, colonies of eider ducks and the gulls and guillemots wheeling and screaming above the cliffs. From these cliffs - where it is said the legendary trolls lurk 鈥� fresh waterfalls cascaded into the sea, hundreds of feet below.

When the rain lashed down 鈥� and it seemed to rain almost every other day 鈥� we watched the seals bobbing up and down with their pups and the porpoises and dolphins diving in the choppy waters.

It was not long before I began chatting fluently in Faroese, which is a mixture of the Icelandic and Norwegian languages. But once I returned home to England, sadly, it faded from my memory.

It was an idyllic life for a small child and seemed to be miles away from a world at war. But elsewhere on the Island, were reminders of the on -going hostilities. There, camps had been set up for British forces, who came to protect the Faroese people - then under the Danish Crown 鈥� soon after Germany invaded Denmark in 1940. And inevitably, the sudden influx of young men on the local girls, led to a boom in wartime weddings!

But undoubtedly the strategic significance of the Faroes, Shetlands, Orkneys, and Iceland 鈥� linking Europe- were the Islands most important wartime role. Then the Royal Navy, operating from their huge base at Scapa Flow, courageously attempted to protect British ships from enemy action when Hitler鈥檚 U boats stalked the North Atlantic waters.

After peace was declared, my Mother travelled to Copenhagen, Denmark for further medical treatment and soon after, my father was demobbed. Meanwhile, I stayed on the Island until my parents found a temporary home in Rugby, Warwickshire, before they decided to make a fresh start in London. There, my Father was lucky enough to find a position with 鈥淪miths Industries鈥� and a spacious old house, for us to live, on Clapham Common, South West London.

And so it was that in 1946, Grama reluctantly brought me back to England on a Cargo boat and finally I was reunited with both my Father and Mother.
But the vivid memories of my Grandparents, their family, their home, and the strong sense of a close-knit community, left me with an unforgettable picture of everyday living on the beautiful Island of Faroes- in the shadow of the Second World War.

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