Epping Forest

Our family moved to Waltham Abbey, a historic town on the edge of Epping Forest. Even during the war, the forest seemed a world apart, alive with deer, foxes, and birds. It offered a strange sense of peace, although the constant presence of army camps, military convoys, and Land Girls working the surrounding fields was a reminder that Britain was still at war.

I was only an infant at the time, so most of my memories of Waltham Abbey are vague. One incident, however, has remained with me throughout my life.

By all accounts, it happened very quickly.

A couple of Land Girls, amused by this small boy, lifted me onto the back of a bicycle as they wandered along one of the forest tracks. It must have been an idyllic scene—carefree, innocent, and entirely unaware of what was about to happen.

The peaceful afternoon was suddenly shattered by the rumble of an army convoy passing nearby.

As the girls smiled and waved at the soldiers, they failed to notice that one of the trucks was carrying an iron girder projecting beyond its load.

In an instant, it struck me on the head.

What followed was confusion, panic, and a desperate rush for help.

Remarkably, I survived, although a faint scar on my scalp remains to this day—a quiet reminder of how fragile life can be.

My father later pursued legal action on my behalf, and compensation was awarded and placed in trust until my twenty-first birthday. That money would eventually play a part in another chapter of my life.

Looking back, it is extraordinary to think that one split second could have changed everything.

Fortunately, it did not.

In 1947, our family moved once again, this time to Dover.

Without knowing it, I was about to begin the childhood that would shape the rest of my life.