I was born in Knowle West, Bristol in September 1956; my Dad was in Egypt thanks to the Suez Crisis; Mum was staying with her parents.
My earliest memories were of the flat in Bellamy Avenue that I lived in for nearly ten years from the age of eighteen months; the gardens were full of cabbages, potatoes and onions; my Dad’s parents lived in the second block down. My love of gardening started there, growing crocuses in the wooden boxes beer bottles came in; my love of shooting as well; lining up green caterpillars on the post and rail fence for my Dad to shoot off with the air rifle. It was an incredibly effective way of getting kids to keep pests down.
An incredibly old man in the middle flats kept flowers. The first time a bee stung me was when I caught it on one of his sedum; should have stuck to butterflies. Most others grew veg.
My Grandad’s garden was split between veg and a row of wire crosses where the unlucky tortoises my uncles Jack and Albert stole for me from Pet’s Paradise were eventually buried. A third uncle Colin kept pigeons in one of the sheds. He would have me clean the pigeons out in return for ownership of one of the pigeons. Then he would add conditions; ‘clean my feet’ being the worst. The bugger is coming to visit this June.
I remember seeing two men walk openly along the street with an uncovered shotgun and two rabbits. My first hunting experiences were in the flats at Bellamy Avenue. The bins were stood in the porch, and if the lids were left off sparrows and starlings would sooner or later fly in. Then we could stalk along the front of the flat, jump in front of the porch and they would fly into the window where you had a sporting chance of catching one.
Day old baby sparrows and starlings would appear every year and be eagerly sought and kept in boxes with straw and fed bread. They were doomed when they fell from the nest, but the love of all things natural was born during this period of trying to save their lives.
Jack took me river fishing at Pensford; I think this was before the bridge was washed away in floods. The fish ended up in the bath at home.
Dad used to shoot the air rifle along the corridor of the house. The gun was top of the range at the time; a .22 BSA Airsporter. The quality of the workmanship was phenomenal, and it was the rifle I learned to shoot with, but not until we moved to Bourchier Gardens.
My Mum’s Mum died before I was old enough to remember her. Her Dad I do remember; he kept chickens in the back yard with rabbits in hutches; he had an aviary that he populated with finches; he had traps that caught birds; and he kept pigeons that he caught during his job as a pigeon catcher for Bristol City Council. The rest of the garden was like a scrap yard. I would cycle over on a weekend and he would kill a couple of pigeons for me; I would take them home, cut out the breasts and fry them. Never really gave a thought to what I was eating.
He had two dogs that I remember; Prince and another one that ran across the road and got safely to the other side; there was a lot of shouting at him because he’d nearly got run over; he did when he ran back to see what the fuss was about.
