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Patricia Bridgen Farley was a Wren (Womens Royal Naval Service) stationed at Portkil, Near Kilcreggan, Scotland during World War II, living in a house affectionately known to the group of Wrens that were based there as 'The Barn'. The Wrens came to be known as the 'Barnites'.
I was excited to be on my way to my first posting and didn't feel scared or nervous. It had been hard saying good-bye to my family, but it wasn't the first time I had been on my own.
I had been extremely shy and self-conscious growing up as a teenager. When I finished school at 16, my parents decided to send me abroad for a year to let me develop and 'grow up' and to, perhaps, decide what I wanted to do in the future. In those pre-war days, 'young ladies' were often sent to expensive finishing schools in Switzerland where they didn't learn much French or German, but had a great social life.
Thank goodness, my parents wisely chose to place me with an older Swiss-French, who came highly recommended by one of my father's business acquaintances.
The year was 1938. We set out by car, in my mother's little green Morris Minor, in September, crossed the Channel but, unfortunately, only reached Lille in northern France when a crisis occurred.
It was the time of the Munich crisis when Hitler started down his path of European domination. The British consul in Lille recommended that we turn around and go home immediately, which we did. They were already digging trenches in Hyde Park when we reached London.
But the war didn't break out then. Britain had one more year to survive and re-arm. Neville Chamberlain, Britain's prime minister at that time, yielded to pressure and went to see Adolf Hitler. They signed the ignominious Munich Treaty, granting Germany more land, and Chamberlain returned home, swearing 'Peace in our Time'.
The Bridgen family gave a sigh of relief at the news, and attempted to travel once more to the Continent. This time a greater crisis occurred. My father had his first heart attack at age 43. (He subsequently died from a second one in 1946 at 51).
My courageous mother left an ailing husband at home and took me by train, train ferry, and train again to Switzerland. She had lived in France for two years as a young girl and was fluent in the language. I thoroughly enjoyed my year there and liked being away from family, and fending for myself.
So, a few years later, I found myself on a train bound for Scotland and new adventures. I arrived in Glasgow, the largest city in Scotland, and a great shipbuilding and manufacturing centre in those days. It is still a busy port but no one builds those wonderful majestic ocean-going liners anymore.
I quickly changed to a local train, heading for Helensburgh. It was fun sitting in a carriage, looking out of the window, and watching the scenery change from industrial buildings and busy shipping docks to quiet suburban communities along the Firth of Clyde.
Helensburgh was, and still is, a pleasant middle-class town on the Clyde with a wonderful view onto the water. Marinas and yacht clubs now abound, but in wartime Scotland the pleasure craft had gone or were being used by personnel at HMS Orlando, my new naval base, later called HMS Spartiate.
The pier at Craigendoran harboured ferries which would take you to Gourock or Greenock across the Clyde, and paddle steamers still called in at the dock and carried passengers 'doon the watter', as the Scots say, to Kilcreggan, Dunoon and Rothesay, to name a few ports of call.
It was almost dusk that March day in 1942 when I arrived in Helensburgh. A young eager Wren petty officer greeted me warmly. I must have looked somewhat bedraggled and tired, for she said quickly 'Look here, Bridgen. Give me one of those suitcases, and just follow me. It's quite a walk and it's all uphill.' And she was right.
Our destination was Clarendon House, a large, Victorian style mansion requisitioned by the Navy for Wren personnel. It had been a dormitory for a boys' public school. I spent my first night in Scotland wondering what the next day would bring.
I soon found out. As Ma'am explained when we were introduced before dinner that evening, (all Wren naval officers were addressed as 'Ma'am) - 'You're not staying here with us, Bridgen. You've been posted to Portil to the degaussing station. You'll be going over in the naval launch tomorrow'.. I was bewildered to say the least. It seemed my adventures hadn't really begun, yet.
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