The Magistrate in the children's court looked across the top of the large, polished wooden desk and said to the young boy facing him,

'I don't want you to think that what we are about to do is a form of punishment for what you have done. We think you need to be guided into a more useful way of life. It is our intention to find a place for you in a school where you will be among boys of your own age, and where you will be taught to take your place as a responsible member of the society in which you live. In the meantime, and whist we are looking for such a school, we shall place you in a remand home for boys, where you will be well cared for.'

These are probably not the exact words spoken, but they broadly cover the intent of what was said, and were in fact, a prophecy of what did eventuate. The place was the Children's Court in Lytham St.Annes, Lancashire, in the north west of England. The date was Thursday September the 1st. 1938. I was the young boy facing the Magistrate. I was eleven years and one month old.

With the benefit of hindsight and maturity, I can see that the Court's attitude was one of Care and Protection rather than one of retribution. At the time, and strictly from the point of view of an eleven-year old, the niceties of the motives of the Court were quite irrelevant. The end result would be the same

I was put in a car with two men and we drove off. One of the men said, 'We're taking you to Blackburn Gordon. You will be staying with a Mr. and Mrs.Bebbington at number 10 Cherry Street. They are nice people, and as long as you behave yourself, you will be treated well there.' This announcement generated a mild relief within me that now at least, I knew where I was going.

Mr.Bebbington was a big man, and my first impression of him was that he would be quite a fearsome person. The opposite turned out to be the case. Both he and Mrs.Bebbington were extremely nice, and very kindly.

Mr.Bebbington explained the 'ground rules' to me - basically, do as you are told, and everything would be fine. He also told me I would be there for about two weeks, whilst the authorities found a suitable school for me. He then led me to the back yard, where the other two boys were playing, and introduced me to them.

I don't really remember much about Cherry Street. It was not unpleasant there. The food was good, all cooked and served up by Mrs.Bebbington. There was a room where we could play, or read. We went out on walks on one or two occasions. This was my first experience of 'organised' life.

When I had been at Cherry Street for a few days, a man came to see me. I think he was from the Probation Service. I had to go into the front room with him and Mr.Bebbington. He asked me a lot of questions about how I was managing at Cherry Street, and whether I was behaving or not. Quite unexpectedly, he asked me if I liked the sea. I remember thinking to myself. Of course I like the sea. I have lived by the sea all my life, and spend hours - even days - on the beach at St.Annes. Why wouldn't I like the sea? At least, this was my understanding of the question he had asked. I just said 'Yes.' It was much later that I realised that what he had really been asking me was 'Do you like the sea enough to make a career out of it?'

I spent just over two weeks at Cherry Street. At about 7 AM on Friday September 16 1938, a man whose name I either never knew, or have since forgotten, came to pick me up. For convenience, I shall refer to him as Mr.Smith. I suppose there were papers to be signed, then it was time for Mr.Smith and I to leave. We boarded a tram, and within a few minutes we arrived at the Blackburn Railway Station.

We entered the Booking Hall. The booking office itself was a small arched window set back into the wall from about waist high. My head hardly reached the level of the counter. With his head and shoulders leaning well into the booking office window, I heard Mr.Smith ask for our tickets. the position of his body in relation to myself muffled what I could hear of his voice, and yet I heard quite clearly what I thought were the words '...to Port Said please..' I knew that Port Said was in Egypt, and that Egypt was at least, a boat ride away! My adrenaline and my thoughts started working overtime. I was both excited and frightened at the same time.

I had never travelled any further than the seven miles between Blackpool and St.Annes before. As things turned out, the day was to be full of first time experiences for me. Fortunately, these first time experiences proved to be a useful distraction for me by taking my mind off the ultimate purpose of our journey.

We boarded the train as soon as it pulled into the station, and were the first to enter our compartment. I sat down in the window seat facing the engine. We were soon under way.

At Preston, as we alighted from the train and walked up the platform, I was half convinced that Preston was our destination. The idea that we would go to a place merely to change trains had not occurred to me at all. In my limited experience, one boarded the train at the point of departure, and alighted at one's destination. I had not yet rationalised that a single set of tracks could not possibly service every destination in the country, and that consequently, people had to change trains at specified places. It was not the only thing I was to learn that day.
Mr.Smith spoke to a porter. I heard him ask for the train to Crewe. I had a vague idea that Crewe was in the middle of England, somewhere near Birmingham, and that it was where they made Rolls Royce motor cars.

Our train for Crewe arrived, doors opened, people stepped out, others moved in. We were in luck, an empty compartment. An accommodating nod from Mr.Smith, and we entered, yet again to have the window seats.

We were soon under way, with the train quickly gathering speed. One minute we were travelling through green countryside, the next we were flashing through industrial towns with their huge foundries and cotton mills, and the myriad of rails, ever crossing and re-crossing under the wheels of our carriage. The experience of thundering through stations without stopping was quite exhilarating, and made me feel as if our train was important and had some sort of special urgency to its purpose. Every now and then, I would try to read my comic, but it came a poor second to events outside the window until eventually, I just gave up and concentrated on the world outside.

Crewe was much bigger than Preston. The platforms were wide, and seemed even longer than had those at Preston. We made our way across one of the footbridges which spanned the many platforms. At our new platform, we waited for the train that would take us to Bristol. It was not long before it arrived

As we faced the train, looking for an open door, I immediately became aware of a colour scheme, which I had never seen before. The carriages were brown on the lower half, and cream on the upper half. It was, of course, the livery of the Great Western Railway. Living as I did on the North West Coast, I had only ever seen the London Midland and Scottish Railway livery, which was a sort of dull, reddy brown all over. I was aware that there were other companies with different colour schemes, but this was the first time I had ever actually seen one, and I found the discovery quite exciting. It was another of many new experiences that would be added to my list for that day.

Our new, Bristol bound train departed Crewe. After a short time, the door compartment door slid open, and a white-coated steward informed us that 'Lunch is now being served in the dining car.' When he had departed, Mr.Smith leaned forward and asked me whether I was hungry. With all that was happening, I had not even thought of food. Even so, I said 'Yes.' I had hardly dared to think that we might be going to the dining car. Mr.Smith stood up and carefully placed his coat, hat, and newspaper on his seat, and with a quick 'Come on then Gordon', we left the carriage

After the rather small confines of our compartment, the Dining Car seemed quite large. With large windows on both sides, and the crisp, white tablecloths, it had a completely different atmosphere to the carriage. The tables were elegantly laid out. There were several knives, forks, and spoons for each setting. The table was laid for four people, but as yet, we were its only occupants.

Almost as if he had been reading my thoughts, Mr. Smith leaned over to me and told me to use the same knives, forks and spoons as he did. This took some of the mystique out of the formality of the situation, and put me more at ease.

Presently our waiter came by and handed Mr.Smith a menu. Mr.Smith more or less decided what he was going to have, then asked me if I would like soup? Would I like the turkey? Turkey in September? One of the things that really stays in my mind from that particular day, is that it was the first time I had ever heard of, or tasted, cranberry sauce.

The meal came and went. I remember very little of it, apart from the cranberry sauce, which I liked very much indeed. During the meal, we arrived at Shrewsbury. The train stood in the station for some time, and I remember feeling very posh, even superior, sat in the dining car, eating my food, as the lesser mortals hurried about their business on the platform. The journey to Newport was quite a long one, again we changed trains.

From Newport, we travelled in an easterly direction, and parallel to the Bristol Channel for a few miles. Had I known it then, I could have seen our destination by looking directly across the channel at certain points. During the next three years or so, I was to look many times from the school across the channel. The trains - such as the one I was presently on - could easily be seen, speeding across the Monmouthshire countryside between Newport and the Severn tunnel entrance, their presence denoted even at that distance by the almost horizontal plume of white steam which stood out quite clearly against the green of the Welsh countryside. Not only was I unaware of the nearness of our destination, I still had not entirely resolved the 'Port Said' mystery.

Almost without warning, the train entered a tunnel. We had already passed through many tunnels on our journey that day. This one however, was different. For a start, the lights in the carriage went on. Someone must have switched them in another part of the train, because no one in the carriage appeared to have done anything that could have caused it. Some one stood up and closed the little vent window. Which was just as well, because the smoke from the engine, limited by the confines of the tunnel, was beginning to enter the compartment.

I heard someone say the words '...Severn Tunnel...' which at that time, meant nothing to me other than that we were going through a tunnel. With the change in lighting, the different ambience brought about by the train being in the tunnel, the train seemed noticeably to gather speed. I found it quite exhilarating to be travelling at such speed under what I later knew to be such a wide expanse of water. It was several minutes before we finally emerged from the tunnel to the bright sunlight and only a few minutes from our destination, Bristol.
The train pulled into Temple Meads station at Bristol. If Preston and Crewe had appeared large to me, then Bristol was immense. We had not far to go. Mr.Smith made a brief inquiry of a nearby porter, and almost immediately I saw the sign which ended all my speculation about our final destination. Attached to one of the large cream and brown roof support pillars, standing out at right angles, and pointing in the general direction of yet another train, was a board that read 'Portishead'. We boarded the train and waited.

After about half an hour or so, with a final flurry of slamming doors, the train took off with a bit if a jolt, and steamed out of Temple Meads station. After almost a whole day on the mainline trains, the pace of this train seemed almost leisurely. We travelled close to the docks, which I found quite exciting. I had never before seen ships from such a close vantage point. Soon, we crossed over the river Avon. Our glimpses of the docks, warehouses, and other buildings became fewer and fewer. Eventually, we found ourselves travelling along the riverbank, and through what I now know is the spectacular Avon Gorge.

The cliffs rose sheer above the train. I could see the occasional lorry or car traversing an unseen road on the other bank.. The tide was out. The river was reduced to a trickle of water at the bottom of a large, flattened out 'V' carved out of the mud. It looked anything but attractive.

With the less spectacular scenery to occupy my attention, my mind turned inexorably to thoughts of my ultimate destination, and what it might be like. Of course, I had no way of knowing, so I suppose it was inevitable that I should think the worst. I had seen pictures of prisons at the cinema, huge buildings of grey stone, with walls rising to great heights, and warders patrolling the top of the walls armed with rifles. In retrospect, such thoughts seem almost laughable, but to me, at that moment, they were the only images I had. With nothing else to occupy my mind, I became quite dejected.

After several stops we finally arrived at Portishead. Although Portishead itself is a port, I saw nothing of the docks. However, on alighting from the train, I could see a huge power generating station. It was now well into the afternoon, and the sun was quite warm. We started walking.

We walked, at first along a quiet road and away from the station. Presently, up a fairly steep hill which seemed to go on and on. Eventually, the ground levelled off, and we found ourselves quite high above the brown, swirling waters of the Bristol Channel on our right, with spectacular views of Monmouthshire across the water. Between the water and us, there were fields and eventually a golf course. To our left, were some rather large grey stone houses. Once we had passed the golf course, the footpath ended, and the houses were reduced to one every now and then.

At a slight curve in the road, we passed a letter box set in a stone wall to our right. The bright red front of the letterbox stood out in stark contrast against the rather dull brown of the uneven stone wall. I didn't know it then, but the letterbox was to become a marker for me as being so far from the school when I would be out on recreational walks, and other outings from the school.

We passed a small shop to our right called Glenwood Cafe. Another gentle hill, large black railings to our right, and a footpath. At the top of the hill, and after about thirty minutes walk from the station, a large grey stone church could be seen, and to our right the railings gave way to a large double entrance, with a driveway which seemed to lead straight down to the sea. About half way down, part of the road levelled out, and turned to the right, disappearing from sight in front of a large brick building.

We turned sharply to our right, and started our descent of the driveway. My feelings welled up inside me as I followed Mr.Smith from the outside world, and into what was to become my new way of life.