As I finished saying in my last chapter, life on 'The Camp' was very different to anything I had known previously, but one thing I was never short of was friends.

Many of my lifelong friends originated from friendships forged there. We were surrounded by neighbours, all in a similar situation to ourselves.

A grassy area of some 30 or 40 yards separated our single line of Nissen huts from a group of ten below us that ran in pairs parallel to Chard Road and abutted Weycroft Manor Farm buldings.

One of the huts was occupied by the Turner family and Tony and his brother Graham, two of the sons, still live at Millwey Rise.

These huts shared the same communal toilet block as we did which entailed an even longer walk for their occupants than ourselves. Quite an adventure at night as there was no street lighting of any kind on The Camp. Torches or lanterns were an absolute necessity for navigating the narrow, inter-connecting paths between the buildings in the dark.

Above us, again seperated by an area of grass, ran a parallel line of five black bitumen felted huts. They were accessed by a path that ran between, what is now Millwey Rise Workshops, and a hedge that ran behind them. They had their own communal toilet block which was again fine for the families living adjacent to it, but rather unfortunate for those (like ourselves) living at the furthest end.

I can remember several of the families that lived here, especially the Trenchards, Vicarys, Rendells and Perrys, as it was with some of the younger family members with whom I became great friends in the ensuing years.

In that first summer of 1947 our relatives from Wellington visited us. For them, as it did for me initially, The Camp' must have seemed a million miles from their homes in Shropshire.

As none of them had a car, they travelled down by train to Taunton and then a Southern National bus to Axminster. How everyone fitted into our Nissen hut I have no idea. In total we would have been at least eight or nine and e we only had a living room and two bedrooms.

Obviously we managed somehow as in all the photographs they look very happy. No one had a lot of money but they always managed at least three or four days at the seaside during their stay travelling by bus to Seaton or train to Lyme Regis.

My my sister and I always looked forward to their visits because if they went to the beach we always went with them. Even if we stayed at home we always found so much to do, so many games to play and so much freedom. Our cousins were so envious.

Although my early recollections have faded a little a few do come to mind about those times in the Nissen hut. It was not unusual then for children as young as myself, or even younger, to be allowed to roam wherever they chose and once out of their parents sight, do whatever they wanted.

One such occasion found me with a box of matches that I had somehow purloined, playing with friends in a field of hay behind the 'black huts'. The field belonged to Mr.Cox, who then farmed Weycroft Manor Farm.

The dry hay had been raked into rows ready to be loaded onto a wagon These rows, or colloquially `rews`, became magnets for us kids. Hurdling over them, hiding under them or building dens.

Unfortunately I thought my den should have a fire place so built one and put a match to it. Needless to say the flames rapidly spread through the tinder dry hay as fearfully we ran away.

The Fire Brigade were called and managed to contain the fire but a large amount of hay had been destroyed. To make matters worse Mr Cox somehow knew who was responsible and threatened to call the police.

When my father learnt about my involvement he was very angry and went to see Mr. Cox with me in tow. He came to an arrangement whereby he would provide free labour with the haymaking in return for no police involvement. He carried out his promise and to ensure I wouldn't forget my misdemeanour took me with him every time.

In our early days on the The Camp I well remember taking a jug to collect our milk from a room at the rear of a building (situated just below Huntley Close) that became the Social Hall.

A churn of fresh milk was brought down every morning from Mr. Dimond`s Farm at the top of Beavor Lane. It was ladled out in a pint measure to fill the variety of containers used by those purchasing it.

I was always instructed to return quickly but to be very careful not to disturb the cream on top. Memory still tells me how good Cornflakes tasted covered in that thick, fresh, creamy milk with a spoonful of sugar.

In latter years my employment took me into many farm dairies and their cool surroundings with the cloying smell of fresh milk always took me back to Dimond`s makeshift dairy shop.

Another memory that left me heart broken at the time was the death of Nippy our Jack Russell terrier who would follow me everywhere. On this particular day I was playing in the council's sand bunker (It may still be there) beside Chard Road on the hill going down to what was then Morrish`s Mill at Weycroft.

We often played in the sand usually building "helter skelter" roads for our Dinky toy racing cars. On this particular day I was with my friend Rodney Rendell and Nippy, who was running round sniffing out all the interesting smells as usual. Suddenly I heard a squeal of brakes, a bump and a loud yelp.and looked up to see Nippy laying in the road. As I ran over to pick him up I didn't realise he was dead. I cuddled him in my arms. The man got out of his car, came over to me, said he was sorry but I should have kept him under control, He then drove off, leaving me in floods of tears.

I ran home with Nippy wrapped in my shirt. Mum took Nippy and layed him in his basket. When Dad came home after work we buried him, still wrapped in my shirt. My very first encounter with death which has remained with me ever since.

In my next recollections I will explain why a near neighbour became the bane of, not only my young life, but many other youngsters as well.