These memories are based on me growing up in Fernhurst, its things and people I can remember. I am not going to say it's fact, on the other hand I am not going to say its fiction. It is solely my memories, and although my memory is quite good, as is my imagination, it was nearly 70 years ago so you must excuse me if you have different thoughts on some of the same subjects as me.

What I am sure about is my name is Ernest George Larbey. I was and still am always known as George, except when very small and then it was Georgie. Why my parents christened me Ernest and then went on to call me George, your guess is as good as mine.

Apparently the Ernest came from my maternal grandfather, and the George was a name which has been in the Larbey family for many generations, that is not surprising as in the 6 generations leading up to my paternal grandfather's family there were no less than 60 children. He finishing it off with 13, one of which was my father. So as you can see they would have quickly run out of names had they not used them over and over again.

I was born on the 15th day of August 1932 and I first saw the light of day in the cottage on the green, the one nearest the church.

My parents were Victor Edwin and Harriet, always known as Vic and Little Hart, that is to all the family. They always called themselves mum and dad. I suppose that went back to the birth of their children, and it was only on very rare occasions mum would refer to dad as Vic, more often than not when he did something she disapproved of, and then it might be something like: 'Really Vic.'

When we were being reprimanded it would always be, 'Wait till dad hears about this,' or,'Mum won't be too happy.' It was never your mum, or your dad.

I had one half sister, Patricia May, and a sister, Vera Nora Joan. Yes, you guessed it, she was always known as Joan, but who can blame them with those other two names. Joan has never forgiven them.

Living next door to us were Dodger Seward and his wife. I think his parents at one time owned the Spread Eagle. I don't remember Mrs Seward as she died in 1933 and I would have only been one year old, but I do remember Dodger.

Way before I started school at four years old, Mr Seward and I would walk over the green to the Red Lion most days for a dinnertime drink. Mrs Woodhams had it then. I would sit in the bar on those old hard seats with a wineglass of beer. Undoubtedly telling Mrs Woodhams her beer was not as good as his dads when he had the Spread.

The other end of the block was Mrs Selbey, a widow woman who made her own bread. What a smell, whenever I smell bread even now I think of Mrs Selbey.

Dad worked for, I have to say it, because every one knew him as this, Old Westy. Although a farmer, I think now-a-days one would have called him an entrepreneur. In other words he had many irons in the fire, most of them making him money.

Dad was a cowman come milkman; he milked the cows in the morning and took it around the village in a pony and trap in the afternoon selling it. I suspect we had free milk. He got £1-10s wages, which despite what anyone says now-a-days was not very well paid.

Mum would have to go along to Denyer's butchers shop after 5 o'clock on Saturday and for a shilling she'd buy the scraps of meat that were left over, some of which would have been in the sawdust on the floor most of the day.

Mum would do house work around the village to help out with the money. She worked for Sir John Danuals, who lived in the big house next to us. She would also clean the church, every Tuesday I think it was. I would help by beating the hassocks. That was a good job because no matter how much you beat them one would still get clouds of dust. Being the church I don't expect they paid too well.

We had aunts and uncles living all around the village, also dad's mum and dad lived on the cross, and mum's parents lived at Dial Green, so we were not short of relations to visit.

Then why the hell did we always seem to walk down Chapel Street every day to see two aunts down there? They lived at Lower Lodge, and from what I can remember we made our way down there every day. As a child it seemed miles, I was always pushed down there in the roughest old pram you ever saw. 'Blooming old Chapel Street,' I would say.

Of course at that time there was a shop on the Green. Chase's shop I think it was called. The only thing I remember them selling were sweets, I'm sure they must have sold other things but to me it was sweets. I think the thing that sticks in my mind the most was the fact if one bought sweets there they were put in a cone-shaped bag that they made out of news paper.

Granddad Larbey worked for Westy too. He was the village blacksmith, and his shop was up next to the Spread Eagle. Granddad was not an over tall man; in fact I think he was well under 5ft. Apparently he had hands like shovels. Every one says it was because he was a blacksmith. I never ever thought that was the case, surely his hands must have been big for his size way before he was a blacksmith.

Granny was a big woman compared with him, and like her father before her she liked a drink. Whisky was her tipple I think. She would kill for a Scotch. She would work as a post-woman to pay for her addiction, take the money up to the Spread and put it on the counter so they would ply her with the stuff until the money was gone.

I remember my dad telling me, she would then come home and cause a row and granddad would have to jump up on to the sofa to hit her, he couldn't reach her any other way.

At four years of age I had a rude awakening. I had to start school. This was seriously going to cramp my style. No more Red Lion at dinnertime. One point in its favour, no more blooming old Chapel Street, although at four years of age one didn't add up life that way.

No, I don't think I'll go to school, no matter which way I looked at it I couldn't really see much fun in it. My two sisters seemed to miss so much having to go all that way across that green to school every day.

That September of '36 was a black month for Georgie, and I've learned since it was equally as black for Mr Dumbrell the headmaster. It was his first day too. Not as a student but as head. Those railings around the playground took a bit of a pacing, with me hanging on for grim death and old Dump trying to pull me inside.

I can't remember whether Miss Godfrey was the teacher of the infants then or not, but what I do remember is all us little ones had to have a sleep in the afternoon, on canvas beds a bit like deck chairs that laid flat about four inches from the floor. There we lay, can't remember whether we slept or not.

The infants' at Fernhurst was short lived, for dad left West's and we moved to Hurtmore. I was only four years old at the time, and I can remember having to start school again as Shackleford School didn't take children until they were five.

We then moved to a place called Binscombe, for just 6 weeks and then to West Clandon, before moving back to Fernhurst.

In 1939 Granny Larbey died, they earlier that year celebrated their golden wedding anniversary, the trouble was they had only been married 49 years. I have a theory about that, I think she knew she was going to die and they got their anniversary in early. Early in the next year saw us back home, we had 3 moves in 4 years and by 1940 we were at Tanyard.

I was eight when we came back to Fernhurst, the war had started, and in fact it had been going for about a year although nothing much had happened, everyone thought. Well if this is war it's not going to be too bad. Tanyard was not a good place to live. To see it now everyone say's 'What an idyllic place.'

When you have lived there at the time I lived there it is a different place all together; at least it is in one's mind. I have spoken before about it in my other book. But it is worth mentioning again because it is still so vivid in my mind still. To a youngster it was just about at the edge of the earth. So many other people lived in descent houses with running water, some even hot water. Bathrooms. Toilets. Even electricity.

We had none of these. A bucket in a shed down the garden was our toilet. Another bucket under a stone sink to catch the waste water. Yet another bucket to fetch the so-called clean water from the ditch out in Millhanger. I don't ever remember bathing. Water was too precious to waste on baths; it was either boiled in a saucepan, or in the copper, and it would not only take a long time to fill the copper, it would take a awful lot of wood to boil it, so that was used solely on washing day.

No it was out of a kettle and into a bowl and a good wash down, that was our bath. And as far as light was concerned a paraffin lamp was the order of the day. When I see what light a paraffin lamp gives out now I wonder how we managed. I remember dad shaving; a mirror propped up against the lamp on the table. This was an operation that was only undertaken a couple of times a week. What with the water shortage and the price of razor blades, made shaving a luxury rather than a necessity.

Dad would have to lather his face 3 or 4 times and scrape away half the evening to get rid of his stubble where the blade was so blunt, and I seem to remember him sliding it around the inside of a tumbler to get a little more life out of it. Friday night was always. 'Must shave night' He had to look smart for Saturday evening when he and mum would go to the village dance.

Well we would all go, and he wouldn't be home from work in time to shave before the dance so that would have to be done on Friday. They would whirl round and round the village hall doing. The Old Fashion Waltz. The Saint Bernard's Waltz. The Military Two Step. And all the more modern dances Waltz's. Quickstep's. And Tango's. They knew them all.

Then there would be great sadness when it got round to The Last Waltz. 'Another Saturday evening over' and at least another whole week before they could do it all over again. When the troops moved into the village it must have spoiled their Saturday's to a certain extent, they went to the dances to dance, not to watch fights, and drunken brawls. Where-as us kids were just the opposite, to us it all added to the excitement of life. In the early days I would sleep though all the dancing, and dad would carry me home.

I think those first few weeks at Tanyard were when we were issued with Gas Masks. I well remember the rubbery smell of them, at the time I think it would have been less smelly if we had been gassed. Still at least I didn't have the humiliation of those Red Mickey Mouse things, they were awful, and from what I can now remember they even had a tongue hanging out all the time.

What awful things they were. Anyway we soon got used to the smell of rubber and wouldn't venture out without it, in its little cube shaped box with a string on it to slip on our shoulder. We would have Gas Practice and they would see how long it took you to get it out of it's box and get it on, and the teacher would walk round and put her fingers in the side of the rubber face piece to make sure it fitted nicely and adjust the straps on the head piece until it did.

I'm sure not many of us realised how important it all was. Thank God gas was not used in that war. I think it must have been about this time that the. Air raid shelters were built at school, although they were thick brick built places with concrete lids on them I'm sure they wouldn't have done much good if a bomb had fallen quite near, I could have visions of that concrete slab falling on us kids sitting there in the dark.

I don't ever remember doing any schoolwork when we were in the shelters; it was too dark to do much, perhaps that's one of the reasons I turned out being thick. No to be quite truthful I can't remember being in them for very long at one time. There were several mornings we had to go strait into them on arriving at school during. The Battle of Briton. But I think that was more to shelter from the anti-aircraft fire than the bombs. I remember spending time in them at break with members of the opposite sex. Can't remember what for though!

Also those first few weeks at Tanyard mother became ill. Heart trouble I think she ended up with Angina. Of course at eight I didn't take it too seriously. Mothers were indestructible at that age. I do remember her sister Dolly was sent over from Lurgashall to look after us, and to look after mum I suppose. Aunt Dole as we called her was much stricter than mum.

She had spent a lot of her life working in the woods with granddad Etherington and bringing up her own son. Jim Boxall. Jim at that time was my hero, I suppose you could say. He was tall, dark, and handsome. Although Sister Pat was also his cousin, I think she fancied Jim, and he seemed to spend an awful lot of time in our house. I say that but I think anywhere would have been better than where he lived with granddad Etherington.

God rest his sole, but he was a very unhappy man, and he showed it by making everyone else's life a misery. I think most of his children fell out with him at one time or another, so much so that none of them except for Aunt Dole would work with him. She did solely because he made her feel she should be grateful to him for letting them live with him after she lost her husband. Granddad ruled everyone with a rod of iron including his own poor wife, she would have to walk 2 paces behind him all the time, and at least that's how it seemed. Jim was a nice chap; he seemed to be able to do things other lads of his age couldn't.

As I remember he could play every musical instrument he picked up. I'm sure he couldn't but he could too me. He would sometimes bring a piano accordion with him and would play and sing most beautifully, and we would all sit around in awe. Listening to him all the evening. As you may have gathered I have very happy memories of my childhood.

Anyway we will get back to Tanyard and Aunt Dole. Mum would always walk Joan and me to school though Millhanger every morning. Aunt Dole would only take us half way. I don't think mum knew this, or else she would have got up from her bed and took us, I'm sure she would have. Of course it was right in the middle of The Battle of Briton, and the skies were full of planes. Germans and British battling it out. We were convinced the enemy were after us. 'Get those two kids running through Millhanger at all cost's'. Were the orders of the day as the Luftwaffe left home base.

And aunt Dole was in with them, I swear. As soon as she left us they opened fire, so much so, that on our way home on at least one occasion we picked up a Tracer Bullet with our name on it in the middle of the path. If that was not proof I don't know what was. Our stay at Tankard was short lived, and mother recovered. I suppose. And we were soon moving down the lane to Baldwins. Don't remember how we moved, some sort of truck or something.

The cottages at Tanyard were sold and we had to move out. Mr Humphrey's of Upperfold Farm had bought Baldwins from Blackdown and that was going to be our home. We were living next door to the boss's son Mr and Mrs Ira Humphrey, and their son Michael. Michael was my age. Well 9 months older than me. That seemed a lot at 9 years old, when I was nine he was ten a lot of the time, so I had to respect him. I don't think it was anything to do with the fact that he was twice my size. He was a big boy. He still is. We have rekindled a sort of long distant friendship again after. 'What.' 55 to 60 years of not meeting and it feels good. He is still twice my size. (Not in weight I might add) We have a lot to talk about when we meet.

At Baldwins we strait away became friends, I remember us as Best friends. He on the other hand tells me now that Nigel Coombes was his best friend. 'However' We spent a lot of our time together doing all the things that boys shouldn't be doing, but not doing too much harm I hope. Most of the time we spent. Mucking About. As we called it. From stuffing the stem of dried Hogweed with newspaper and smoking it, too bagging the first egg from the birds' nest to add to our collection.

Neither Michael's parents or mine had much in common, except perhaps the lack of money, although Michael's father was the bosses son, I suspect they were no better paid than dad was. They lived in the same sort of environment as we did. One cold tap over the sink, an oil lamp to see by, and a bucket lavatory way down the garden behind a privet hedge which in the summer was adequate, but in the winter was a different story. My parents had their group of friends, thinking about it mainly family I suppose, and Mr and Mrs Humphrey had theirs. One didn't keep popping into one an others house for cups of sugar in those days as that sort of thing was on ration. I don't think my mother ever went into their house any more than they did ours. When Michael or I wanted to make contact we would stand out in our respective gardens and shout. 'Oi' Usually after 7 PM at the end of Dick Barton Special Agent and say 'Are you coming out to muck about' In later years Michael would have homework to do, as he was at Midhurst Grammar School. That was quite a bore.

Fernhurst always seemed an exciting place for us kids. There were woods to play in and streams and ponds to wade in, and get wet in. During those war years there seemed to be plenty going on. Troops of seemingly every nationality around the village. Many of them only too glad to find friendship among the villagers and be invited into their homes, no matter how humble those homes might be. God along knows there was not much we could offer. In fact it seemed to me it was, what the troops could offer and the ones with bulging pockets were made more welcome than the ones with nothing. Food was scarce, no doubt about it.

We had more freedom than children today; at least we seemed too. Parents didn't need to worry so much about us being safe; we would go off for hours on end playing in the woods. There seemed to be days of endless sunshine in the summer and weeks of cold snowy weather in the winter. Every winter we would go sledging down in the field where the scout hut is, not just children, some times grow UP's too. Michael had the slay of all slays his grandfather had made his for him, a real beauty which made our tin trays look pretty poor. The only snag with it was it went so well more often than not Michael would end up in the stream at the bottom of the hill, and boy was that water cold. I'm sure the seasons were different in those days.

Does anyone remember Ticky-snack pies? I do. They were meat? Pies that we used to collect once a week from the house that is behind the bus shelter up at the cross, opposite the village hall. These pies from what I remember were off the ration. It was said they were made from cats. I'm sure they were not, but what meat they were made of. Your guess is as good as mine. I seem to remember they tasted all right, it was just that they were the butt of all jokes. 'Ticky-snack pies. You don't eat those things do you?' We did. 'What don't fatten will fill' Mother would say. 'You can't be fussy these day, after all there a war on you know' One day, sister Pat was told to pick up the pies on her way home from work. Her boy friend, later to become her husband was going to pick her up from work on his brand new 500cc BSA motor bike, at that time I think she worked in the Post office, and bring her home. Mounting the pillion seat with wicker basket full of pies. They headed towards home. John was well known for his dangerous riding, as he tended to show off a fair bit, anyway when they got to Ropes Bottom he got himself on some gravel on the side of the road, off went Pat, pies going in all directions. They were soon gathered up placed back in the basket, mother was none the wiser, in any case she always said one had to eat a peck of dirt before one dies.

Of course throughout the war years we had the invasion of evacuees, mainly from London. Say what you want, and it's easy to say now they were made welcome, the truth is they weren't. The billeting officer had to plead with people to take them in, being Londoners they could have been from another planet, and if one asked the evacuees today whether they were made very welcome when they first came I think they would have to say, no. Most of them had never seen a farm animal, whether they knew where milk or eggs came from I don't know, I suspect not. A lot of them had no respect for the countryside. Thinking about it did any of us kids, so perhaps it's unfair to say that. They had a pretty hard time of it, many of them leaving their homes and their parents for the first time, not knowing whether they would ever see them again. London was taking a fair pasting by Hitler, and not only was thousands of people being bombed out every night, hundreds of people were being killed, and those poor kids didn't know what was happening. The lucky ones were the ones where the whole family came with them, they didn't know whether they would have a home to go home too, but at least the whole family were together.

The war ended, as I became 13years old. 15 of August 1945. I had 1 more year to go to school. I think that was the last year that children left at 14. Both my parents and Mr Dumbrell did their best to get me to stay on another year; I remember old Dump saying. 'You are only just starting to learn George, please stay on another year'' No way was I going to stay on, and as for only just starting to learn, I thought, what the dickens have I been doing for the last 10 years if I had not been learning. (I know now what he meant) That last year dragged a bit, from what I can remember.

I had quite a lot of time off due to mumps. Every one had all the normal children's complaints in those days; it was expected and in some cases encouraged. Girls were encouraged to have German Measles, so that they didn't get it later in life. (I don't know whether they are still encouraged now) Anyway I had mumps. We were not given home work to do when we could not attend school, so we just sloped around home, probably getting in one mother's way, but still not praying too hard about wanting to get well enough to go back.

It was soon enough the swelling went down, and mother announced I was no longer infectious and was fit for school. We would not go to the doctor for those sort of things and mother new best. Not only that, it cost to see the doctor, and although mother would pay a little each week into a doctor and hospital insurance fund, the doctor wouldn't appreciate being consulted on things such as that, they were not illnesses just ailments.

As expected I soon recovered and it was back to school, at least for a few more weeks, until July and then it was all over. Dad got me a job working in a garage at Kingsley Green, for a chap called Sid Dibben. They were not having me hanging around the house doing nothing, I had made my bed and I had too lie in it. 'If you have finished school, You'll go out to work and earn a living the same as the rest of us,' Dad would say. 'Every little bit counts' Mother said.

So she took half my wages 10s a week, 5s went in the post office, so that left me 5 bob to spend. Twenty-two and a halfpence to spend on myself. I had never been so rich. I enjoyed the high life; I had money jingling in my pocket as I rode my bike around the village in the evenings. Yes I had a bicycle it was bought for me on my 14th birthday to ride to work on.

I felt like a millionaire. People would say as I met them. 'You are quite grown up now George.' If I met Mr Dunbrell he would say. 'How are you getting on George. You know one day you will be sorry you wouldn't listen to me and stay on for another year' I used to think. What is the matter with that man, I'm as happy as a sand boy, and I have money in my pocket. What else could a lad want? Strangely I don't ever remember regretting my decision, I genuinely disliked school, and I still think I would have wasted my time staying on. I feel as far as I was concerned my education started the day I left.

OK I have never been a great scholar; I wouldn't have been if I had stayed on at school. I like to think I have a fair amount of common sense. I think I have held my own in the presents of Kings as well as paupers. I have travelled the world. I have seen the Orient when it was the true Orient. I have seen some of the oldest living things in this world, the Giant Red Woods of California, walked through China Town in San Francisco, and driven the 7 lane highways in Las Vegas. What more could a Fernhurst schoolboy want in life?

Time and life has been kind to me. I have lived nearly 70 years without hardly a day's illness. I have a wife, 4 children, 6 grand children, and 1 great grandson. I am to go into hospital next Friday for quite a major operation, if I should not survive. (But I hope I do.) I can say. 'Thank you God for my life. And thank you for letting me walk on Blackdown' the most beautiful walking place in the world.