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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'.
The only means to reach the outside world from Portkil, except for the motor launch based in Helensburgh, was to take a long walk. The path started up behind the Barn where a few cottages were located, most of them unoccupied during the war, past the jetty and the Fort, and followed the banks of the Clyde for about two miles to the village of Kilcreggan.
We got to know that road so well. On one side, the rough, deep waters of the Clyde, on the other, stubby grass and little hillocks, frequented mostly by rabbits and squirrels. The wild flowers were beautiful in the spring, and heather and gorse remained for the rest of the year. Being so close to the water, we rarely saw any snow, but the winters were admittedly raw and cool.
Kilcreggan faces the port of Gourock on the Firth of Clyde. It is on the road that comes around the Gareloch and continues through Cove, scene of our village dances, up along one side of Loch Long. It's an old village, and was serene and quite unprepared for the invasion of allied personnel during World War II.
There was only one shopping area there in the 40's, the main street, and I don't think it has grown too much since. I introduced two of my children to my wartime haunts, when we visited in 1979.
Approaching from the two-mile walk, and located at the fork of the two roads, was one of those haunts, a little red tea room. Whenever the Barnites went into Kilcreggan, our ultimate destination was always the restaurant.
It exuded a decidedly feminine flavour, a little too fussy for the male sex. Run by a pair of what used to be referred to as 'genteel' ladies, the clientele seemed to be of the same vintage, except, of course, for the alien female sailors who found the tea room to be a haven and respite from a busy day.
All we asked for was a good, strong brewed pot of tea with maybe a couple of scones and some real jam. To ask for real butter was a challenge but, if the rations were newly arrived, you might strike it rich and be served some of that country spread
I know we enjoyed the change and the opportunity to sit down, out of the naval atmosphere, and chat. Restaurant food in wartime was nothing special but, to us, the humble snack was perfect especially after the long walk to get there.
The lane was a familiar sight to us in the evenings too. There was often a Saturday night dance at the village hall in Cove, the next village to Kilcreggan. Coming home late at night, it would be rather an eerie experience in the winter with no lights, only the sound of the water crashing on shore. We would cling together and watch out for natural potholes or icy, slippery patches. We never thought about being attacked by sex-starved sailors and the like, it was a different era.
I have stood many a time on a darkened, lonely railway station in the black out, with absolutely no fear at all. I remember that sometimes servicemen would saunter over and strike up a conversation. Just a pleasant chat, no other motives. When my train pulled in, the young man would say 'Thought I'd better keep an eye on you,' or words to that effect. It gave you a very comfortable feeling that someone cared.
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