In more recent years my wife and I have evaded the temptations of holidays in the sun in favour of exploring areas of the United Kingdom as diverse as the furthest westerly point of the Isles of Scilly to the north-west archipelago of the Orkney Islands.

This suits our purposes. Neither of us have ever yearned to spend a week laying on a beach or battling for a lounger beside a pool. Our honeymoon was spent in Cyprus, where we did a little laying about and a lot of exploring – the white-knuckle ride of the Jeep Safari (they were actually Land Rovers) into the Troodos mountains being an unforgettable experience – and one we feel fortunate to have survived! When our girls were young their grandparents lived in a house perched on the side of a steep hill at the edge of the village of Claviers, Provence, France. Thanks to their hospitality and generosity we spent three holidays there – enjoying the sheer beauty of rural southern France uninfected by the trappings of tourism where the population of approximately 350 made us as welcome as family.

Wherever we travel we make sure we take, or hire, our own transport. This enables us to seek adventure, thrills and at times the bizarre by driving off the main routes, following the lanes and tracks to who knows where until we get there. Our girls, today all grown up with families of their own, fondly recall my response whenever one of them asked ‘Dad are we lost?’ to which I’d reply – ‘no we’re discovering somewhere new’.

We have discovered many things that were new to us, and among these we can never pass a memorial without stopping to read it, and later research more about it, largely thanks to Google but sometimes from persons local to the monument itself. This continues as a feature of our life and holidays, so this page shall remain live as we shall undoubtedly discover more.

We shall start this journey in Claviers where in August 2004 we happened to be holidaying in the village at the very moment it was celebrating the 60^th anniversary of its liberation.

Claviers and the Resistance

My wife and I had previously strolled about the village and noticed an elderly gentleman, heavily wrinkled and as brown as a current, sitting outside the Circulaire (similar to a working men’s club). Every so often boys (children, not waiters) would go to him, take his empty glass from the table where he sat in the shade of a wizened tree, and return with it refilled. When inquiring, we were advised that he was the last surviving member of the local resistance, and for that he was treated like royalty. Given the modest size of the village the reverence in which he and his deceased compatriots were held was marked by one of the most incredible memorials placed amid the tree-shaded beauty of the Promenade du Montjolet.

When Richard suggested that he and I attend the parade and ceremony I was champing at the bit. Richard’s status as a vet, albeit a retired one, and his flawless spoken French, had earned him great respect in the village, including that of the Mayor. Unlike at home, I was to learn that in France the Mayor bears a near God-like power over his district.

With the formalities over, the pétanque court, which was filled with tables and chairs, was opened for business where copious volumes of wine and nibbles of every possible variety were laid out for the enjoyment of all. For my benefit Richard explained some of the words I had been unable to decipher before announcing that he would introduce me to the Mayor. The Mayor was a charming gentleman, impeccably turned out with a bearing that fitted a man of his standing. When Richard advised him that I had been especially keen to attend and pay my respects and had served with the Princess of Wales’s Royal Regiment, the Mayor jested in perfect English ‘you should have come in your uniform’.

The Mayor asked me what I thought of the ceremony. I remarked upon the stunning memorial and its placement overlooking the valley, and that I was touched by what I had seen. As we were getting on well over plentiful wines, when he asked me if there was anything we do differently at British commemorations I couldn’t help but reply that at home we’d have displayed the Union Flag the correct way up. In an instant his eyebrows narrowed. He questioned me, to which I explained that the thicker white stripe, formed of the saltire of St Andrew and St Patrick, should be uppermost at the staff. He appeared severely miffed, turned aside, and called out to someone. A gentleman came scuttling across from the tables, as I looked rather awkwardly at Richard, the Mayor grasped the chap literally by the earlobe and with an unnecessary volume blurted out words that Richard later advised me were an admonishment followed by instructions to correct the error. He then turned to me and with a genuine look of gravity and sincerity said ‘Monsieur, please accept my apologies as Mayor’. It’s rare that I am stuck for words, but it took me a moment to consider before replying that I was appreciative of his concern and thank you.

It's a small but significant memory of a memorial where I always stopped to pay my respects in subsequent visits to the village. The memorial itself was sculpted and inaugurated in September 1991. Featuring a young girl as a symbol of the resistance she beholds the patriotic flame of France in memory of the brave volunteers of the local resistance, and in particular of three who lost their lives continuing the fight alongside Allied troops, ironically on the day following the village’s liberation.

As Chris and Richard have returned to the Isle of Wight in their approaching dotage, it may be that we shall never again visit Claviers. But its people, and their proud maintenance of unblemished tradition and village life, shall forever remain in my heart as a place where we and our children were safe, happy, and content for many weeks of our lives as a young family. And, as in many parts of Europe and at home, for that we remain thankful to those who bravely resisted the Nazis.

Google Maps extract of Claviers with the location of the monument to the resistance.

Draguinan and Operation Dragoon

Following on from the above, when we revisited in 2006, my wife and I had an opportunity to go exploring without the girls who were being entertained by their grandparents for the day.

We headed off to Draguinan, a much larger commune with a population around 40,000 some 30-minutes’ drive south from Claviers. Whereas Claviers sits in the Var highlands, heading south is to rapidly descend into a flat expanse on the route to and through Le Muy, past wide-open fields of the River Argens valley which, in the summer of 1944, were liberally planted with Rommel’s asparagus – hundreds of wooden stakes placed to hinder glider landings (if you’re ever in the area the small but packed Musee de la Liberation in Le Muy features fascinating exhibits, run by two enthusiastic and helpful local chaps).

Over the course of the following three days their action threw the Germans into chaos, convoys were attacked and prevented from reaching the beachheads, lines of communication were cut, and strategic towns and villages captured, including Le Muy, Les Arcs, La Motte and Draguinan. At an unknown point in the middle those furious actions Pte Clark lost his life. Rest in peace.

Google maps extract of Draguinan, with both the Rhone American Cemetery and the Musee de l'Artillerie.

Tommy of Seaham

Whilst supportive of Sharon’s interests, it’s not a passion I share, so armed with my backpack off I went with a drink, snack, and map to explore the local area. I’m not usually inclined to head into built-up areas but having never been there before I decided to wander into Seaham town, following the beach southwards until ascending the steep path up to the B1287 North Road and continuing under a greying sky with a calm North Sea to my left. The sea view was briefly broken by a row of transverse cottages at Bath Terrace, but as I passed them, I gazed upon Terrace Green, a beautifully manicured area of lawns and garden, a little larger than a rugby field, and in the middle was a war memorial accompanied by an enormous metal soldier in greatcoat and helmet.

Tommy and the Cenotaph, photographed in 2018, as seen when passing the corner of Bath Terrace looking south. Five years later, in August 2023, we stayed in a cottage built into the rear of the old police station on the far right, and opened the curtains each morning to the sight of Tommy caught in the rising sun of a new day. 

Google maps extract of Seaham, with the location of Terrace Green.

Above, Beyond and Below – the Seaham miners’ mural

Since discovering Seaham and Tommy when we first visited in 2018, it has become an annual event (lockdown excepted) to stop-off in the area on our way to Scotland.

In 2023 we left the Isle of Wight in the last week of August, a little later than usual and one that ensured our arrival in Scotland on the 30^th afforded our first experience of the notorious midges which we had so far avoided with trips scheduled for mid-September into October. On this occasion we spent just two days at Seaham before heading across the border, and again Sharon was avidly searching the beach for sea-glass.

My eyes were instantly drawn to a mural on the side of an isolated structure across a lush green communal lawn. I was compelled to cross the grass and take a closer look.

As important as coal was to the development of our nation, the method of its extraction was inhumane, and despite substantial safety improvements remained a gruelling and arduous task for those that accepted it as a means of raising their families. I have nothing but respect for the men of the coal industry celebrated in the mural.

Collie and Mackenzie

The Isle of Skye has been our destination for more than one protracted period, and I daresay we shall return again. It is a magical and in places daunting example of Scotland at its greatest – I could write for hours of its appeal. But for now, reflecting on an example of daunting, I shall turn attention to the Black Cuillin mountain range, and a memorial erected in 2020 celebrating two special gentlemen.

With a ridge of just 11km the Black Cuillin is best described as a compact mountain range, but a range it certainly is full of thrills and surprises – offering 36 peaks across its length, topped off at 992 metres of the Sgurr Alasdair. Mainly comprised of the basalt and gabbro that affords the range its foreboding darkness, the range is a challenging terrain for even the most experienced scrambler and climber.

We first experienced it in 2022 where an easy wander along the water course (Allt Coir a’Mhadaidh) that forms the living element of the Fairy Pools can be followed by a sympathetically laid footpath. Be warned, even outside of the summer season this destination is so popular that it can be cluttered with like-minded visitors, such that a car park with a capacity for 120 vehicles has been provided on the other side of the narrow road.

On a comical note, we encountered a couple on our way back – the lady’s attire would have been more appropriate for an Essex shopping mall than a trek across the glen. As they neared us, she asked ‘how much further?’, which was difficult to answer without knowing her intended destination. She clearly wasn’t enjoying herself very much, being a pink and fluffy fish out of water, she capped it off with ‘it’s all a bit samey’. After waiting a respectful distance before erupting into giggles, Sharon and I have since adopted this phrase for sarcastic use in any number of situations.

I digress. Our own experience was wholesome and fun, and our decision to continue beyond the prepared footpath wasn’t so much made as just happened without question. From here we picked our way through increasingly squelchy ground conditions, hopping from rock to tufts of heather and so forth, with every awkward step blessed by increasing amazement at the raw, very raw, beauty of the place to a soundtrack of crashing water on our right. As we advanced westward with the soggy ground rising and bare rock increasing and deer moving gracefully with ease across the landscape, we felt a sense of entombment between the tightening space formed of dark peaks on three sides that shut out the sun and discharged a dark and spooky dimness into the decreasing light. It was our first experience of a truly remarkable range.

Collie’s passion took him to many parts of the world, whereas it appears that Mackenzie preferred to remain at home and was described by a contemporary - He had the characteristics of the Highlander; the courtesy joined to self-respect that are the heritage of the clans. His accent to the end smacked of the Gaelic speaker. His features were strong and embrowned by weather. He wore the old style of short beard, whiskers, and moustache. Always alert, always cheerful, he was the perfect companion, but it was when the mist came swirling down on the wet rocks that his true worth was known.

Despite widespread climbing achievements, including the first ascent and winter ascent on Ben Nevis’ notorious Tower Ridge, Collie regularly returned to Skye and his companion to continue their impressive and when necessary, highly technical climbs of the Cuillin range. It was noted that during the era it was uncommon for two men from either side of the chasm of class divide to form such a bond - that they did is attributed to their shared humanity in addition to their joint experiences on the range. Their pioneering climbs have led the way for the many hundreds who have followed.

Shortly after the turn of the millennium the Collie and Mackenzie Heritage Group raised the possibility of installing a memorial to celebrate the men’s achievements on the Black Cuillin. It took them 17 determined years to raise in excess of £100,000 and make arrangements for the creation and installation of an outstanding sculpture at Sligachan, close to the hotel where the men stayed when planning their adventures.

Flora MacDonald

Our 2022 visit to Scotland extended well into October, a little later than usual, for which appropriate clothing was required albeit that the weather was no worse than I’d expect at home on the Isle of Wight, only a noticeable drop in temperature marking the difference.

On 10 October we were cruising the A855 Isle of Skye coast road with no particular plan other than to see what we could find. It’s great to have days when we know exactly where we’re going, but equally we enjoy these days of freedom and meandering which often turn up little gems usually when probing off the main road down single width lanes and barely frequented tracks. These trips involved lots of stops, handbrake applied, coat on, get out and explore.

With the spine of the Trotternish Ridge splitting the archipelago to our right, we headed north past Kilmuir and Hunglader when Sharon spotted a sign for the Skye Museum of Island Life. Immediately my mind jumped back to the previous November. Former Ryde Fire Station Sub Officer Mick Penny, retired 1999, organises a veterans Christmas dinner every year and includes several of us young ones who were the nippers on the station during his final years of service. Every November I knock on his door and are invited in, subject to his inimitable bench-vice handshake, to submit menu choices for Sharon and I and hand over the requisite cash. This is no rapid transaction as a good session of yarning proceeds, reminiscing times gone by and discussing the present and future. In November 2021 I told Mick that Sharon and I were intending to go to the Isle of Skye in the following year, immediately animating his response – he too had visited and loved it. He mentioned the Museum of Island Life, describing it as one of his favourite activities.

At Sharon’s request and Mick’s recommendation I had no misgivings about swinging the car into the drive and parking. The museum was reasonably priced and rather than wandering through ornate halls filled with glass cabinets is pleasantly comprised of squat thatched cottages in the format of a Highland village of the bygone era of crofters. I agree with Mick that it’s a worthy visit to be able to wander about and absorb the authenticity of the hard but simple lives the crofters lived.

As we left the village museum and prepared to return to the car Sharon spotted a cemetery further up the lane - we mooched up the hill to take a look. Here, by complete chance, we located the grave and memorial to Flora MacDonald. Those who know the story of Bonnie Prince Charlie, or have watched Outlander, will have grasped Flora’s historical significance, for those who haven’t, read on.

Although Skye was under a military lockdown and unsafe for the Prince to remain, the story of his voyage from the Outer Hebrides to Skye is the stuff of legend, marked in the lyrics of the Skye Boat Song written over a century later.

Sing me a song of a lass that is gone

Say, could that lass be I?

Merry of soul, she sailed on a day

Over the sea to Skye

The voyage led to further passage to the island of Raasay and then to the mainland from where, on 19 September Charles left the country aboard the French frigate L’Heureux at a point on the shore of Loch nan Uamh, marked today by a cairn. The Prince was safe on mainland Europe where he remained until dying a broken man, deserted by his wife and his followers, in Rome on 31 January 1788.

Flora’s part in the Prince’s evasion from Government forces had been discovered. She was taken to the Tower of London and was permitted to live in incarceration outside the Tower, under the supervision of the Kings Messenger by the sympathetic intervention of Lady Margaret until her release under the 1747 Act of Indemnity. Among those who raised funds to enable her fresh start was Frederick, Prince of Wales to whom she expressed that her act of humanity for Charles would have been equalled by that for him had he required it. Flora was contemporaneously described as - a woman of soft features, gentle manners, kind soul and elegant presence.

With her husband, Flora emigrated to North Carolina where he commanded the Anson Battalion of the loyalist North Carolina Militia during the American Revolutionary War. British defeat cost them dear as all loyalist property was confiscated and he imprisoned. Flora departed Nova Scotia in 1780 and returned to Scotland, living with various family members including Major General Alexander MacLeod at his Dunvegan Castle home. She was rejoined by her husband, released from captivity, four years later. Compensation for what they had lost in North Carolina was poor, and the former captain turned to tenant farming at Peinduin on Skye. Flora died at Kingsburgh, Skye, on 5 March 1790.

Scholars of Gaelic literature argue that the English-language version of events overstate and romanticise Flora’s role in the Prince’s escape and claim she was trying to win favour with both the Stuarts and Hanoverians. Regardless of the truth, and who today can really be sure, as a visitor to Scotland there is an undoubted reverence applied to the memory of Flora MacDonald, and her grave and memorial, over 230 years later, is cared for and often bedecked of fresh flowers.

Culloden

At home on the Isle of Wight the word Culloden means little but mention it in Scotland and it’s likely to evoke a passionate response. The battle that was staged on peat sodden moorland a few miles from Inverness as the final act of the 1745 Jacobite Rising in which the army of Charles Edward Stuart (Bonnie Prince Charlie) was defeated by the forces of the British Government.

I had heard it said that the battlefield possesses a mystical quality and following our visit on 21 October 2022 I can attest to an indefinable but undeniable atmosphere. That day it had been raining hard but eased off as we prepared to venture from the visitor centre to the moor. As a little of the sun’s warmth broke through thin cloud the drenched earth surrendered water in the form of a dense mist that rose from the peat and rolled on the breeze as ethereal cannon smoke of days long gone. I snapped a photograph that captured the moment (above).

At 500 metres distance from the Jacobites the Government forces halted and artillery was threaded through the ranks to the front. But it was the Bonnie Prince’s guns that opened fire first early in the afternoon. The reply from the north-east was light, two to three minutes duration, or thirty minutes dependent on which account is read. As it ceased, Charles ordered his advance to begin, it was then that the Government batteries changed to canister shot augmented by stumpy coehom mortars from the rear. With little need to take aim with such rounds, the rate of fire increased dramatically from the initial bombardment. The Jacobite advance was further hindered by an attempt to anchor the left flank to an estate boundary, with the right advancing too far, causing fractures and gaps in the line and the loss of several commanding officers. Many fell but others continued until they were near enough to make a Highland charge at the Government left, but the boggy uneven ground leant itself to anything but a speedy assault. When Charles’ left attempted an advance, they too became bogged down. In the words of the Duke of Cumberland – They came running on in their wild manner… but the Royal Scots and the Pulteneys hardly took their firelocks from their shoulders. As the Jacobite attack floundered, those alive amid the dead and dying made off and Cumberland sent his men in pursuit, shooting hot on their heels.

In 1881 a number of grave markers were placed strategically around the moor, easily accessible today via a network of unobtrusive paths. They remain there today. In addition, lines of flags indicating the positions of the opposing armies at the beginning of the battle allow you to ponder the ebb and flow of the moving troops while moving across the very earth they trod and wonder at how any man could have charged across such inhospitable ground in the face of unrelenting shot and shell.

A worthy visit that I recommend is preceded by a read of the battle to gain understanding of the land and who was positioned where to make your walk across the moor relatable. As described above, the 1881 stones stand as memorials, in addition to the battle monument, but the moor as a whole is an honour to the men who fought and died there and an education for all.

James Braidwood - Father of the modern fire brigades

Braidwood divided the city into four companies, one in each of the firefighting districts, Red, Blue, Yellow, and Grey, with their engines both named and painted accordingly, e.g., Yellow Engine. Each district was accommodated in an engine house under the supervision of a Captain and Sergeant with appropriate helmet markings and badges to denote their rank and company. At that stage the firemen were not full-time professionals and were drilled once a week from 04:00 on Wednesday mornings so as not to conflict with their primary employment. Braidwood also saw the advantage of this providing for more training being done in darkness – as firemen would rarely be working in conditions of clear visibility.

This enabled his men to follow Braidwood’s overarching doctrine that to extinguish a fire a fireman had to locate its seat and hit it hard with a sustained flow of water, rather than the time-honoured insurance brigade tactic of optimistically directing water into windows from the outside, most of which never reached the seat of the fire.

His impact was immense, unsurprisingly his sudden and tragic death was the same.

On 22 June 1861 a fire started at Cotton’s Wharf on Tooley Street that was to last two weeks and cause over £2 million worth of damage to stock and structure and was rated as the worst blaze in the capital since 1666.

London Fire Engine Establishment were alerted at 17:00. James Braidwood arrived soon after and was inspecting the building of origin and issuing the men their brandy ration when at 19:30 a section of the warehouse fell outwards, crushing him beneath the debris alongside one of his firemen. It took his men two days to recover his body.