In 1964 I sat in the driving seat of my father's army Austin Champ, dreaming that one day I could drive a vehicle like him. My dad clicked the shutter and captured that moment. Today I drove back to 11 Morfa Crescent in Tywyn for the first time in 50 years, to that house I lived in when I was five years old. Memories came flooding back. Like me, the house had changed, but the fundamental characteristics of both still shine through after half a century. I feel very emotional just looking at the picture I have created recognising all that has gone between those two times; most of a lifetime in one picture.

It's not perfect. The picture taken in 1964 caught just the end of the house on the left, and half the front of our house on the right (allowing me to line it up), and both ends of the jeep were cropped off leaving just 3/4 of a vehicle. But I also had no idea what camera my father used or the focal length of the lens. Only after a 3 hour drive to get to my current home did I realise I didn't match the perspective perfectly. But actually I'm happy with the result. Today took me so far back in my life, I'm really lost for words.

Me in the driver's set in 1964. Me, standing in the background, 50 years later in 2014

Tags:   morfa crescent tywyn gwynedd wales before and after austin champ memories roots then and now

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Sometimes you see something and it takes you right back in time. That happened to me on Wednesday night and it transported me back more than 40 years. The evenings are getting a little lighter and the journey to and from work becomes seasonally slightly less mundane. After all I estimate I have now travelled between the same two points at least 10,000 times. But on Wednesday evening, just as the light was fading and I was swinging through that little dip and series of curves near Marton on the A34, which is a bit like the famous Eau Rouge section in the Belgian Grand Prix, I suddenly saw something to my side that made me gasp in delight.

Now it wasn’t the sort of thing that will make most people get excited about, and yes, my strangeness will now be exhibited in full once more, but sometimes something brings back such strong memories and emotions, you can’t help yourself. Or perhaps you can, and it is just me that struggles in this respect. What did I see? Nothing less than the angular outline of a Zetor Crystal 12011 tractor!!!!!

But the light was fading fast so I thought I would carry on and leave for work a little earlier the next morning and take a closer look at it then. Imagine my horror when I came round the bend the next morning to find the Zetor gone, not least because I had foregone some much needed sleep, but also because I really wanted to see the hare and tortoise again (don’t worry, all will be revealed later). I must admit I felt a real loss which was only lifted when I passed the same agricultural equipment supplier’s premises on my way home and with great relief spotted that angular cab top safely tucked up in the back of the yard.

Finally this morning, on a bright and frosty morning I got there and stood before the great machine in awe. There was no one about, so I tried the cab door, and when it opened, climbed inside in glee. Settling into the rather dirty, hydraulically sprung seat, I took in the cab layout I hadn't seen for so long, and then looked down at the dials and controls below the large steering wheel. I had to see if it was exactly the same as I remembered from all that time I spent driving a Zetor Crystal 12011 as a teenager.

Growing up on a farm is a unique experience. You probably get your first chance to steer a car when you are somewhere around 5-7 years old. Steering a tractor comes a bit later but by about 13 you might be entrusted to move a tractor forwards a short distance in a wide field while your dad throws some hay or turnips off the trailer to the sheep behind you. And by the age of 15 you are a competent, if perhaps fairly wild, farm worker with your own MOT failure car you could use up and down the farm road as fast as you liked.

At that time, and in that part of the country, the Ford Major tractor was king. The Nuffields and David Browns never seemed as reliable or as useful. Although the acquisition of a green and yellow, brand new John Deere machine from America surpassed all in terms of unreliability. But the John Deere did have a nice seat and a Duncan cab which at least afforded some shelter on three sides from the worst of the Caithness weather, compared to the older tractors that were normally totally open, or at best had a flimsy wooden cab. A passenger had to cling on to the rear linkage and try to get their head in under the back of the cab. That was not easy when the tractor was bouncing from rut to pothole at full speed on a farm track. Only those who have done it will know what good training it would be for a stunt person.

So when the Zetor Crystal 12011 came on the market in 1974 it was a major revelation to us stuck at the end of the world in Caithness. It was big and angular, with a huge glass enclosed safety cab. And it was powerful compared to anything we had previously had...120 Horse Power. It had a sweet sounding six cylinder 6.8 litre engine, so different to the clattering and popping old Ford Majors. It was tall, the whole thing seemingly made out of steel girders with no attempt to keep weight down. There was a jump seat behind the driver's and on a cold day three of us sons could fit in there while our dad drove us to school through the snow. The roof of the cab could be opened up on hot days and the back window opened too! It even had a cigarette lighter. These were all revelations compared to the older farm equipment we had.

But sitting to drive it was the best bit: the climb up to the cab in your mud caked welly boots,: settling into that hydraulically cushioned seat, hands on that big steel steering wheel, booted feet planted on the big pedals to either side, and looking out over that long red bonnet. And somewhere down there, the hare and the tortoise. Bearing in mind that this was back in the old Soviet days, their machinery was tank like and pretty crude. The dash console seemed to be a slab of 1 inch thick cast iron, which was roughly engraved with symbols, such as "STOP", an arrow and a cog symbol for the Power Take Off (for non-farming types that means for the implement drive shaft on the back and is not some James Bondish rocket boosted hedge and gate hopping vertical take-off system which would save time getting from field to field). But the symbols that endeared the Zetor to us most were the Hare and Tortoise, the symbols for ......guess? Fast and Slow!

When several machines were out working on the farm I tried to make sure I grabbed the big Zetor and leave the other workers with the older machines. As a 15 year old I felt immense power sat in the driving seat and everywhere I went was at full speed (probably barely 20mph) with the handle cranked round to "Hare" . The machine seemed invincible! Of course hour after hour, day after day, might be spent going up and down a field towing a hay baler at 3mph but on the road (once I was 17) the separate, and very stiff, throttle lever was pulled round as far as it would go. This got me into trouble twice.

The first time was in summer when I was thundering down our single track farm road. It is pretty straight but there is a kink near the Tups Quarry and a slight brow. I had spotted the red car approaching with a cloud of dust about 400 yards away but as we closed to 100 yards the car pulled into the gateway of the Tups Quarry (I wondered where my quarry fetish started) on the brow. And I thought, "I'm in the big tractor, I can pull onto the verge and let him come on down the road". And so I pulled onto the grass and carried without letting up. But frustratingly the seed and fertiliser salesman stayed where he was and instead of us having passed each other already I found myself crossing the gateway entrance to another field, tractor dropping into the hollow only to hit the upside of the entrance twenty feet further on. This compressed the suspension in my seat so that as the tractor lifted over the lip of the gateway entrance I was fired up against the roof of the cab. My head smashed off the inside of the very rigid safety cab frame so that I collapsed on the floor of the cab alongside the brake pedals, my face pressed up against the glass panel facing directly out at the salesman below me in his stationary car. With the one lever pulled round to "Hare" and the separate stiff throttle pulled round for full speed, the tractor carried on down the verge of the road, me struggling to get upright again and gain control of the machine, whilst a vivid memory of the salesman's face with wide eyes and a big 'O' for a mouth was etched in my mind forever. On that occasion I was embarrassed. The next time I was scared.

The second time was in autumn and I had just taken a load of lambs to the market. Rather than eat a super warmed Scotch Pie from the Thurso Auction Mart shop with sheep's muck stained fingers I decided to go down town to get some fish and chips which I could enjoy with sheep's muck stained fingers. Thurso High School was out for lunch and there were streams of pupils (they call them students now) heading down past the auction mart and railway station, down the long street to the town centre. Now in that community nothing impresses the girls more than a young hard working lad in a big tractor and so I steamed off past the pupils, some being girls that I knew who had been a year or two younger than me. With one lever round in "Hare" and the other sticky throttle lever jammed wide open all went well until a Police car pulled out of a side street ahead of me, and then slowed down behind two cars turning in front of the Royal Bank of Scotland. Needing to slow down I closed the separate stick throttle but to my horror nothing happened. And then I noticed that the hand lever throttle and the foot throttle are connected by a push rod system. But having pulled the hand throttle fully open, with some wear over the years, the bar that the foot throttle presses if you put your foot on it, had come over the top, and was holding it down to the cab floor in the fully open throttle position! (Did you follow that? I don't think I can explain it more easily without doing some drawings) In a split second I was in a muck sweat realising I had to do something very fast to stop four tonnes of tractor steaming over the police car and two cars in front and in through the front of the Royal Bank of Scotland. Pressing the clutch down fully with my left boot I tried to bridge the two separate brake pedals you have in a tractor (one for each big rear wheel) and apply equal pressure to both to prevent the Zetor weaving all over the road. There were a few scary seconds as I tried to pull the tractor up and I did manage it, just, but I swore never to be caught out by the foot throttle pedal being locked to the floor of the cab again.

But I do have fond memories of the Zetor Crystal tractor. It was an excellent, robust machine, and though worked very hard, I could see that apart from some dirt, it was just the same machine as I knew back in the mid-1970s. I don't think I ever used the Tortoise speed settings. I always went everywhere in Hare. I still do. It might seem very strange to 'normal' people, but seeing those Hare and Tortoise symbols on the dash panel once again this morning really made my day!


If you've made it all the way down here, I'm sorry it wasn't more thrilling or entertaining but I needed to get some memories out before I lose my mind. Or do you think I have already?

Tags:   zetor crystal 12011 tractor farm czech hare and tortoise north calder farm work horse legend story

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What’s in a name?

I was christened at a tiny little Church of Scotland beside the picturesque mill at Westerdale in Caithness at the northernmost tip of Scotland……….the pearl of the Pentland Firth! I was given the name Michael Innes Newton. At the time I didn’t really take it in as my memories of life at four months old are faint, if non-existent. But the old cine-film clip of me in my long, flowing white christening gown, having a sip of champagne, and the reaction on my face, is quite a picture. But it’s alright. Going public on this for the first time, I have probably just about got to an age where the social services will not remove me from my parents for allowing me to abuse myself at such a young age.

Of course every school child had heard of Sir Isaac Newton and it was common for my middle initial to be assumed to stand for ‘Isaac’. I was coy about revealing it was Innes, and for those who chose to call me Isaac, I didn’t correct them as it gave a false impression of my intelligence and I was grateful they didn’t nickname me ‘Idiot’ Newton (which even my own mother has called me a few times). But it seemed in those days that school teachers called their pupils by their surname and Newton stood me well in that when things were done in alphabetical order, as they always were in the military style junior schools I went to, I was never first to be called out and scrutinised on whatever the task was or left to the end by which time all the other kids’ heartbeats had returned to normal and were ready for playtime. And ‘Newton’ was a ‘normal’ name that wasn’t easily twisted into something that could be made fun of, although one teacher tried to bounce an apple off my head. Naturally I could easily persuade the more gullible that I was a direct descendant of the famous man (and you try to prove I’m not! Because I’ve found it equally difficult to establish that I am).

It was only when it came to naming my own children that the Innes part of my name became more important. With a bit of maturity, and some background to the name, I recognised its individuality, and place in history. With an English father and a Scottish mother it was a powerful part of my heritage, with a strong presence in a specific part of Scotland. It took time for me to like that name, to a point where I am now quite flattered if people call me Innes, instead of Michael or Mike (please never call me Mick, especially not with a Scouse accent).

But just over a week ago heading off on some sort of home coming trip to Caithness and beyond, on a whim, I decided to go from Edinburgh to Inverness via Aberdeen. It’s the very long way round but I had time on my hands and I thought I could kill two birds with one stone: meet up with friends and go and see Dunnottar Castle, a place I had never visited despite living in nearby Aberdeen at one point in my life. I had sauntered around the cliffs to either side of the very dramatic and picturesque castle for quite some time, when I noticed many of the people visiting the castle were also walking along the coast towards a monument of some sort with grand coliseum style pillars on top of a hill. I eventually headed off towards it, and spotted a likely lad heading towards me. “What is it?” I asked pointing to the structure on the hill. “It’s a war memorial”, he said, “to the dead of the First and Second World Wars”, and indicated it was worth taking a look at, before we got into a half hour chat about photography….….and Dinorwic quarry.

I followed an ancient Polish couple along the path, and up the hill. It is in a glorious setting with wooden benches arranged to look out over Stonehaven, the sea, and in the other direction, along to Dunnottar Castle. There were yellow daffodils blowing in the hilltop breeze, aptly the dead and the dying, surrounding the old war memorial. Under its columns I looked at the central granite cenotaph and my eyes immediately fell on the name Innes half way down its side.

The lead letters read “Innes. A. Berowald. Lieutenant. Gordon Highlanders”. It really jumped out at me. I knew well that the very first Innes was named Berowald. Clan Innes claims descent from a Berowald, a Flemish knight, who was given the lands of Innes by Malcolm IV of Scotland in 1160. To see that name inscribed on the memorial had special poignancy for me as I, as a young officer cadet, also wore the uniform of the Gordon Highlanders. I wasn’t previously aware of this soldier, but somewhere back in time he was a distant family member of mine. I enjoyed seeing Dunnottar Castle, but actually finding this Innes, Lieutentant Berowald Alexander Innes, Gordon Highlanders, b 1872, d 1915 in France, meant more to me.

I’m no Kardashian, so my name is something I carry with pride. Today I'm even more proud to be called Innes.

Tags:   berowald innes stonehaven war memorial scotland gordon highlanders

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I became sixty years old just eleven days ago. "Ah, it's just a number!" everyone says, "Sixty is the new forty!" It's true I don't feel sixty. Perhaps more fortytwenty or twentythrice! But then I can't remember what it felt to be like when I was twenty, or forty....or fifty nine. Perhaps my mind is going. But it is a number that makes you stop and think. Eric Bristow, five times World Darts Champion died yesterday. Dropped dead aged 60. Ray Wilkins, football legend, died a few days earlier aged 61. Both had heart attacks. It's on my mind. Ok, no, I'm not about to write my own obituary (I hope), but I thought I might just summarize where the last sixty years went because I can't remember it all.

I don't feel that old, but on those online pages you fill in for some official application or form where you have to scroll back to your date of birth I'm finding it seems an indecent long way I have to scroll down the page, and continue off the bottom of the page to find the year 1958. Wow, weren't things different then?

I was born in the stunning village of Richmond, North Yorkshire, with its huge 950 year old Norman fortress. My father was a Royal Signals officer, based at Catterick garrison. But military life in those days was such that after a short life in two different homes there we took the great HMT (Her Majesty's Troopship) "Nevasa" all the way to Singapore via every British Empire dominion on the way: Gibraltar, Malta, Cyprus, Suez (Egypt), Aden (Yemen), Bombay (Mumbai, India), Colombo (Ceylon/Sri Lanka), Rangoon (Burma/Myanmar), Port Klang in Malaysia and down to Singapore.

I was just a baby and my fair skin was often sunburnt under the blazing sun where we lived on the Equator. I started to walk and swim there and spotty and jerky cine films my dad made showed me enjoying playing in my pedal car, which I never pedalled and always 'drove' backwards. It also shows my mother doing speed trials in our family car, tight manoeuvres in and out of cones, with short sprints against the clock. I was brought up loving the thrill of speed. At that time my father also raced in the Singapore Grand Prix, but it was a very different event to today's Formula One!

I believe we had four different homes in Singapore. Although my father was an Army Officer, he spent long periods with the Royal Air Force flying in Shackleton maritime patrol aircraft out over the South China Sea, as the RAF were short of radio officers and my father had the necessary skills. He also killed a venomous snake that came into the house and was making its way across the carpet towards me.

After four years we flew back to Britain on a Britannia turbo prop aircraft. I don't know how many stops there were on the way or how long it took, but it was a slow aircraft, at least 200mph slower than today's jets. And of course everyone could smoke as much as they liked so that your arms sat in the overflowing ashtrays.

Back in Britain we were posted to the little town of Tywyn in mid Wales where my father was adjutant at the nearby Tonfanau camp. Boys of 15 could leave school and join the Army, finishing off education whilst training as Junior Leaders. It was a way in which boys struggling with their direction in life could be given some self respect and discipline and make them into men who could lead by example. I went to school in Tywyn and remember trying to learn Welsh. Our large Army detached house on Morfa Crescent still stands, with a fantastic view out towards the almost 3000 feet tall Cadair Idris mountain. I still remember the fish and chip van, playing on the beach, collecting fallen coal by the railway line, and taking the train to the bookshop in Barmouth. I also remember my time in Aberystwyth hospital where I nearly died from blood loss after a botched operation to remove my tonsils and adenoids, as was standard practice in those days.

But soon we were on the move again, and we were based in four places in northern Germany......four more different homes in Minden, Bad Oeynhausen, Bunde and Lubbecke. I think in those years I never really settled at school. I barely remember any of them. Not the teachers, not even any friends, with the possible exception of one boy called Simon Panton, who I have never heard of since. I certainly can't visualise any of the schools or even any brief friends I might have had. Life was so transient. We lived in Army housing estates, nice spacious houses, but we didn't mix with the German kids and certainly not with the Russian military and their families who lived in 'hostage' enclaves near us, like human shields in the event of war. And we were right in the front line of the Cold War at that time of my life, where all the Forces did regular turnouts to exercise for immediate action on a regular basis. It used to be quite a sight, endless convoys of trucks and armoured vehicles heading out of base to their battle positions. What do I remember from Germany? Nice ice cream, trying on lederhosen, playing in the woods, my bicycles, grey towns, the adult's Sunday lunch drinks parties after church, learning a bit of German, hot summers swimming outdoors, great sledging in winter. And long, long car journeys from Germany to Caithness and back to visit my mother's parents in either a Rover P5 or Austin Westminster

And I remember starting prep school at Brambletye in Sussex at the age of nine, and flying to and from Germany on my own, to stay at school normally 3 months, sometimes more, without seeing my parents at all. My time spent at Brambletye is written up elsewhere on flickr and mysteriously has accumulated over a million views.

Whilst I was at school in West Sussex my parents and brothers moved again, this time to Dorset where my father was based at Royal Signals HQ in Blandford. I remember a very modern house there and a very chalky landscape but not much else. But it was also whilst I was at boarding school that my parents moved from Dorset nearly 800 miles north to Caithness in the extreme north of Scotland. My father left the army and became a farmer, on the farm that my grandfather, and my great grandfather, and his father farmed on, called North Calder. Having lived in so many different places this became the place I finally called 'home', the place where I had time with my parents, and brothers, to grow up in a stable family and the wild expanse of barren Caithness on the doorstep.

By the age of 13 I was finished at Prep School and my class mates moved on, many to elite private schools such as Eton, Westminster, Harrow, Wellington, etc. I went to Thurso High School comprehensive. But I was lucky. This was the nuclear age, and at nearby Dounreay Britain's best nuclear physicists and engineers were being sucked in to develop the worlds first Fast Breeder reactor and engines for nuclear submarines. I was phased into the top stream at school with all the sons and daughters of these brilliant minds, and whilst always towards the lower end of that 'A' stream class the standard was so high that something like 30 out 32 went to University and that was back in 1975 when there were only five Universities in Scotland. I grew up a farmer's son, heavily involved from the age of 13 in harvesting work, feeding and managing the livestock. The landscape was open. Wild sea to the north stretching all the way to the North Pole, and a line of mountains to the south. Mid summer days were so long, yet mid winter so dark, wet and cold. It is one of the windiest places in the world. But whilst life up there was brilliant for a soul that loved freedom, I could never chain myself to a farm for ever. I wanted to travel.

But I went to University like all the others, but all it did was make me decide I couldn't take any more of being in a classroom. Fortunately my lack of focus on studies meant I only stayed a year and that forced my hand. I wanted an adventure. In our family every other male before me had stood in uniform, and it was natural for me, partly with my military style upbringing at boarding school, to look to the Forces for a career. I really wanted to be a pilot, a fast jet pilot, hugging the contours of the land at high speed as was the tactic of those days to get under the radar. I knew I would qualify as a pilot on pretty well every criteria but to my dismay I found that the distance from my elbow to fingertip was a fraction outside the limit prescribed to ensure I could operate every control whilst strapped in an ejector seat in a high G turn. But I was also extremely keen to be an Infantry Regiment officer and again I knew all I had to do was apply. But by this time the Army was facing severe cutbacks and there wasn't such an allure to patrolling the streets of Belfast during the Troubles. I wanted to see the world.

And so I joined the Merchant Navy as a trainee Deck Officer (Navigator). Sure enough it gave me the travel and adventure I had dreamt of, seeing amazing sights, experiencing wondrous events and weather, and taking me literally to every corner of the world. I had no idea that some of those experiences would even ensure that the BBC and numerous newsmedia would keep coming back to me repeatedly for forty years looking for new angles on some of the stories I was involved in. But in all it meant that by the age of 22 I had already been to well over 50 different countries in North, South and Central America, Africa, Europe, Scandinavia, Middle East, Asia and Australia, New Zealand, and with a crew, top news story in the UK.

It had been quite a journey to get to that point, But that was the first third of my life. What's happened in the last two thirds? Where have I been, what have I done? In some ways it has been the 'consolidation' phase of my life. A hazy rush of work, wife, family and more work. But now at the age of 60 that part is coming to an end. It's the next bit I have to work on now. The end game, the last chance to have fun and enjoy myself. And do it before I end up like Eric Bristow and Ray Wilkins. I must. I've got just one life!

Who am I? With an English father and a Scottish mother, born in Yorkshire and having lived so far in 26 different places that have been my 'home', I can only call myself 'British'.

What am I?

I'm still just a boy.


PS. I feel like I want to have the life of the 100 year old man who jumped out of the window and disappeared. If you have never read the book I can't recommend it highly enough. Adventure. Exploratation. Humour. Chance, opportunity and coincidence. An amazing life. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Hundred-Year-Old_Man_Who_Climbe...

Haven't seen the movie, for those who don't have sufficient time or imagination, but it looks quite amusing too: www.youtube.com/watch?v=P-k7DUQPHfQ

Tags:   selfie 60 age sixty years old born in 1958 yorkshire lad british me memories history life portrait ~flickrinnes #flickrinnes

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PART 6:
That was it. For the last ten days we had shared our ship. Now we were going to share our country and heritage. And our home would become their home. Any last barriers that there might have been, came tumbling down. The refugee’s trust was complete. Any reason to keep a small division in case the situation became more complicated, evaporated and the crew relaxed the rules. It meant the adults came into the accommodation freely to use the crew showers and toilets. Whilst they respectfully allowed the cadets to wash in private, their inquisitive toddlers often tugged the shower curtains aside. Their older brothers and sisters roamed the ship’s accommodation, knocking politely on cadet’s cabin doors before peeking their heads round the corner with big grins across their faces. ‘Will you come out to play?’ they seemed to say, not realising that some crew members were trying to get some sleep after a night on duty. Whilst they waited for a favourite cadet to emerge from his cabin, a gang of them would make themselves busy, searching out some brushes so they could sweep the alleyways. It was not long before they found their way to the Officer’s smoke room. It became an overcrowded crèche. Off duty crew kept the children entertained, introducing them to games of darts and cards. But mostly they sat in front of the TV watching videos. They craved the cans of ice-cold Fanta freely served from the bar refrigerator savouring their first tastes of the sweet, fizzy drink.

A weight seemed to have been lifted off everyone’s shoulders and now the atmosphere was totally relaxed, with an air of expectation . They spent the day sitting patiently on deck as if waiting in a train station or airport, ready to leap up as their train or plane departure was announced. They chatted excitedly amongst themselves, flashing brilliant smiles at any of the crew that might pass. News that two chartered Boeing 707 aircraft were on their way from Britain to pick them up on the 12th had circulated the ship. They could hardly believe their luck!

A BBC News Correspondent and film crew arrived on the ship that afternoon. They filmed the refugees at ‘home’ under the awnings and the children playing darts in the smoke-room. They also filmed a little ceremony up on the ship’s bridge. It was led by Captain Vo, Captain of the refugee boat who presented his French made sextant to Captain Connell, watched by the members of the Vietnamese Committee. They also filmed me, and when I asked them where it would be shown, they said it would be beamed to the UK by satellite that night and shown on the BBC Nine O’Clock News. That night my mother, in Britain, saw me and discovered I hadn’t had my hair cut for two months!

The worsening weather should have put a dampener on things. It was getting cooler and the sky more overcast. On the 12th October the authorities warned a typhoon was about to hit western Taiwan. With 346 people living below a thin plastic awning on deck there was a frantic rush to prepare for the storm ahead. The crew worked quickly to ballast the ship down so it lay much deeper and heavier in the water, a smaller profile to be blown about. The mooring ropes tying the ship to the quay were doubled up, and all of the refugees were herded into the safe, steel casing of the ships accommodation. That night as the storm neared we were packed like sardines in Wellpark’s cabins. Designed for less than 50 souls there were now almost 400 sharing the same space.

I don’t know who slept in my bunk that night. All I know is that there were already six other people in the cabin when I returned to try and get a few hours sleep. I got a taste of the life the Vietnamese had endured on the hatchlid outside as I fell asleep on the carpeted steel deck of my cabin. I was dead to the world and never heard the cabin door open three hours later when another cadet came in to wake me to start my watch. He grabbed me by both ankles and pulled me across the floor to the door. The pain caused by the friction of my bare back burning on the carpeted floor tore me from my deep sleep rapidly even though it was only 4.00am in the morning. But 12 days of working an average of 18 hours or so, was beginning to test our stamina.

Everywhere there were bodies. The ship’s alleyways were narrow and we had to step across them, men, women and children as they slept on. It was impossible to be silent. Huddled up next to them were their only worldly possessions: often only empty 5 litre fruit tins, soft drink and beer cans, that they used to collect their meals from the ship’s galley in. And in the crush it was all too easy to kick a can, or stand on a hand..

It took two days for things to return to normal. The typhoon never did hit Taiwan, but sheered away to the south blowing itself out in the empty Pacific. But it rained constantly. The cargo hatches were closed up and no grain was unloaded.

News began to filter through to us from the UK. We got snippets of headlines, and an impression of the story being told back home. It quickly became our perception that the story was being twisted, and manipulated. Perhaps it wasn't helped by our company trying to gain maximum publicity from the event. Given that we knew the truth of every little detail, we fully appreciated why you often shouldn't believe what you read in the papers. We became angry that the media changed small details.

It was Saturday 14th October when the fire alarms went off suddenly. The bemused Vietnamese had a ring side seat to see how we reacted in an emergency, just as we had done when their distress flare was seen 12 days earlier. There was small fire in the ship’s engine room. Two of Wellpark’s engineers quickly extinguished it and the Taiwanese fire brigade were returned to base before they reached the ship. It was a last thrill in the happy adventure that had been life on Wellpark for the refugees, for that night they were supposed to leave the ship at midnight.

They didn’t go. There was an unexplained delay. Some of the Vietnamese started to get nervous. Was this a delaying tactic, a trick, before bad news would be forced on them? In fact it was nothing more than a technical problem with one of the airliners. One of the two aircraft had developed a hydraulic fault in Karachi. All day long they kicked their feet, waiting for the signal to go. They had said their farewell’s in the vacant hours of waiting, touring the ship to find crew members who had helped in some way, perhaps to lend a needle and thread, supply pen and paper, or card and scissors so the children could make things. It seemed that everyone wanted to shake my hand. As a parting gift I was given a gold cross pen, a shoe bag crafted out of second hand clothes with my name embroidered on it and a cleverly made pineapple out of blood transfusion. They were little things that meant so much and I swore I would keep them forever.

Most of them wore a baggage tag tied to their clothing. It bore their name and an official stamp, the only means of formal identification as they did not have passports. And the women wore make-up. Having searched each of them as they were rescued from the sea two weeks earlier and knowing they had nothing but the scanty, dirty clothes they stood in, I never understood where they got lipstick and eye-shadow from, especially as all the crew on Wellpark were men. Had one of them got a secret?

As crew we were resigned to them going. We had a job to do carrying cargo around the world, but each of us dreaded the emptiness we knew we would feel when they had gone. The delay of the aircraft only intensified the dread of the depression that would set in afterwards. The last night was not a joyous occasion, just an interminable extension of the waiting game.

It dragged in to the next day. The planes had finally arrived in Kaohsiung that morning. The refugees , we were told, would go at 3.30 pm . Then it was put back to 8pm. In fact it was almost 10pm by the time they left. 10 buses turned up to take them. There were final ‘Goodbyes’, promises to write, promises to meet., parting handshakes and hugs. And there were tears. Just a few wanted to stay on Wellpark, the only place they knew that was safe and secure. Carefully they walked down the long, steep gangway, past the press photographers and into the coaches. We stayed to wave, but in the dark, and from position high on the ship’s deck we only managed to see a few waving hands at the windows. The faces were out of sight.

Two and a half hours later Wellpark was at sea, urgently trying to make up time and get to dry-dock in Korea. We had taken the ship out of port after midnight and filed back quietly into the ship’s accommodation. It was a miserable place. The Vietnamese had helped to tidy up before they left, but there was still a gulf of difference compared to the way the ship had been two weeks earlier. It had to be put back in shape. But the weather was grim. Outside the ship was battering into a stiff wind , occasional rain, and plumes of spray erupted over the bow to drench the main deck and accommodation. After a short sleep the ship's crew set to work cleaning every part, toilets, showers, cabins, alleyways – everything.

As recognition of the lack of sleep we had had in the last two weeks we worked only until lunchtime. we were exhausted, and desperately needed a chance to recharge our batteries. I was just about to get some sleep myself, when it struck me how unusually quiet the ship was. I took a quick look up the alleyway. Everyone who wasn’t on duty was already fast asleep. And it was only 6.00pm! Outside the wind borne spray hosed the ship from end to end. By morning there was nothing to show there had been 346 Vietnamese on Wellpark for 14 days: not one sign.

But in the minds of 49 crew of Wellpark there was a memory that would stay bright for a lifetime. And a wish that some day those memories could be relived – those happy days of the Wellpark family.

Other chapters of this story are here:

PART A www.flickr.com/photos/pentlandpirate/1438584566/in/set-72...
PART 1 www.flickr.com/photos/pentlandpirate/1436299943/in/set-72...
PART 2 www.flickr.com/photos/pentlandpirate/1437528215/in/set-72...
PART 3 www.flickr.com/photos/pentlandpirate/1461744696/in/set-72...
PART 4 www.flickr.com/photos/pentlandpirate/1460893557/in/set-72...
PART 5 www.flickr.com/photos/pentlandpirate/1437563459/in/set-72...

You can also join the Wellpark Reunion site here : wellparkreunion.ning.com/main/authorization/signIn?target...

For a full history of the ship see www.shipsnostalgia.com/guides/MV_Wellpark

Tags:   wellpark vietnamese boat people refugees denholm pentlandpirate innes newton people uk glasgow vietnam rescue cadet training ship scotland scottish British 1978 bulk carrier south china sea escape travel britain

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