Our journey to Wales started in 1944 when, at the age of nearly 10, flying bombs (which we called Buzz Bombs on account of the noise of the engines) started falling on London. After two near misses damaged the flats we lived in - and the blast blowing me across the room, luckily with no injury -

I suppose my parents thought we would be safer elsewhere.

One morning, with no warning I remember, we were taken to Paddington Station and put on a train with lots of other children and waved goodbye.

Eventually we were told to get off at Treorchy, lined up in two’s and marched out of the station, over the bridge past a cinema on the right (now demolished) and a big building on the left - the Park & Dare.

Down the road to a school, we were then lined up in the hall and people came in to look at us and, I suppose, select us.

I must say, that living in that house with that family, I was treated marvelously and never felt like a stranger. They had two children, Jean about 3 yrs older than I, and Dennis about 17, and although I did not mix much with my brothers while we were there I know they were happy as well.

We made friends with local children and other evacuees and went to the local school - where I remember a master who was very strict and walked about with a cane that was bent from frequent use.

We lived a life that was far removed from the bombing and damage we were used to in London and used to climb the mountain behind the houses and go up to a quarry near the top, dammed streams to make a pond and never had a care in the world.

I even got certificates for good attendance at school.

Mr Oram (George) was a special constable and I recall him being called out when a load of POWs escaped from somewhere.

He also ran a cycle shop next door (owned by Phil Jones, I think) and he had a small ‘Opel’ car in which we went out on several occasions - once to Barry Island, where we sat on the beach. I also recall seeing Snow White & the Seven Dwarfs, Gone With the Wind, and San Demetriou London in the ‘Pictures’ and also small plays at the Park & Dare which I think they called charades.

Again, one day with no warning, we were told we were going home. I remember now sitting on the train, looking out of the window and seeing Mrs Oram crying and saying ‘Don’t forget to write’. I said I would, but to my eternal regret, never did.

I went back to a different world, to a rough area of London, to a not very happy house living on the edge of poverty, where I was now the eldest of six with two more soon to follow, and a new school - which I got to by virtue of the fact that I had passed my exams in the school in Treorchy.

I have always remembered my time in the valley with great affection. I loved it there.