Colin May
Colin May as a child
Colin May as a child
By Colin May
It is 75 years since Plymouth's blitz - the heaviest period of bombing occurred in March and April 1941. I remember living through it as a small boy, hearing the sirens at night and running down the road to the shelter. With planes overhead and bombs exploding it was very frightening. Not surprisingly, my grandparents, who my mum and I lived with while my father was in the Royal Navy, leapt at the chance to be evacuated to Dartmoor. Thus I moved from war-damaged Hyde Park to Walkhampton School.
I was happy there, but it was different - just two classes, under-nines and over-nines. We had slates and chalk rather than pen and paper. The adjacent field was great for playing and older children especially were encouraged to grow veg on the large allotment. A succession of rabbits in hutches were always a source of interest as well as a supplement to the meagre meat ration. In summer we picked rosehips – for the war effort! Mr Govier was the headteacher, and kids were expected to be seen and not heard so classes were subdued and the building was cold. A coal range heated the air - as well as our daily 1/3-pint milk bottles.
Home was a rented, detached bungalow, between Dousland and Peakhill, shared with two other unrelated families. It was a nice property, but without electricity, gas, phone or running water. And no car! Cooking and lighting were powered by oil, and water was pumped from the well. We had a radio powered by large accumulators and my mother played a piano for sing-songs and village socials. Of course the war dominated everything. Soldiers under training were frequently in the area, as were armed sentries guarding the approach to Burrator, and wooden posts on Yennadon Down deterred invasion by gliders. In Walkhampton rural life continued much as ever. The stream powered the water wheel which drove the machines in Mr Veale's workshops. Farm implements and machinery continued to be made and repaired, with the staff categorised as essential workers and exempt from call-up. They included Clarence Woon, the wheelwright who had been asked to let and maintain our bungalow by the Oldham family in New Zealand – hence its Maori name, 'Te Whare', The Homestead. He brought us heavy shopping in the works lorry and smaller items were bought from the village shop or Trathens Post Office when mother met me from school. Once we'd passed the interesting horsey activity at the blacksmiths, it was a long way for tired 5-year-old legs past Dousland soldiers' barracks to home.
My father had been away at sea for over 3 years, with infrequent letters delivered by our postman on horseback. As an engineer, he entered the airlock for each watch and descended the vertical iron ladder knowing if the ship was hit, death by scalding steam was the likely outcome. To say he, and we, were pleased when he came home in 1943 was a gross understatement! But we appreciated the sanctuary of Walkhampton and 'Te Whare'.