The first time I became aware of the person responsible for my presence in Devon and, more bizarrely, why I am called Dick by most people when my given name is Derek, was at a funfair in Shropshire.

I was four years-old, World War 2 had recently ended and we were at one of the many events held to celebrate this. I have a vague memory of standing with my mother and other members of her family watching soldiers, led by a band, march into the square at Oakengates.

I remember everyone clapping and singing the National Anthem after which one of the soldiers came and joined us as we walked to the nearby Funfair. He took me on the bumper cars, won a fluffy toy on the rifle range and a coconut on the coconut shy.

I think I must have been very impressed although something even more evocative lives in my memory. A woman's voice echoing around the fairground singing "Little man you've had a busy day." I can still hear it even today.

That soldier was John "Jack" Francis Givenchy Spiller and he married my mother in 1947 (she had divorced my father in1944) and though he was my stepfather, to me he was always Dad.

He was born on February 12 1913 in Axminster, His father, also John, was a regular soldier, a Private in the Devonshire Regiment, and had fought in the Boer War in South Africa. He went to France with the Expeditionary Force at the outbreak of World War 1 and was killed on the October 23 1914 at Givenchy in the retreat from Mons.

His wife was left a widow with three very young children, Fred, Mary and my dad, a baby. She eventually re-married and they moved to a tied cottage at Westhay Farm, Stonebarrow, near Charmouth where her new husband, called Hoare, was employed as a farm labourer. She had two more children, both girls, Kit and Dorothy. A few years later the family returned to Axminster and lived in Market Square.

Collecting bread from the home of Dorset Knobs

My father often related to us how, when their school day finished at Charmouth, he and his brother Fred were expected to walk to Morecombelake three times a week and collect bread from the bakery. (The same one that now bakes the famous Moore's Dorset Knobs).

They then had to walk back to Westhay Farm, a round journey of some four miles. He recalled during the summer months it was no problem but in winter by the time they reached the bakery it would be dark and to find their way back along the mile and a half of rough track to the farm became very difficult. At times the only way to find their way back was to get down on hands and knees to identify landmarks against the skyline which would direct them to the isolated cottage at Stonebarrow.

His mother was a small, wiry, wizened lady. She had a strong Devon accent delivered in a gravelly voice, no doubt assisted by the Woodbine cigarette she was rarely without. Two abiding memories of Granny Hoare remain with me. The first, when I was at Axminster Primary School and would sometimes go to her house for lunch.

One meal she frequently cooked for me was faggots in gravy, however she would normally have a cigarette between her lips while preparing it. As the cigarette burnt away the ash suspended on its tip eventually dropped off. This together with the drip she always seemed to have on the end of her nose finished up in the basin and mixed with the other ingredients. The resulting faggots were delicious.

The other memory was her overwhelming desire to appear on television. She was absolutely convinced this had come true and excitedly informed everyone she had been on the 'tele' at Graham Newbery`s shop. (They were radio and television engineers situated on the corner of Lyme Street and George Street.)

When Granny was on the tele

This occurred during Axminster Carnival week when Newbury`s would set up a camera attached to a television set so that when anybody looked into their shop window they would appear on the television screen. She passed away shortly afterwards still convinced she had 'been on tele.' As no one had the heart to tell her anything different I`m sure she must have died happy.

When Dad left school he worked for Mayo's in South Street delivering bread and groceries around Axminster, initially on a bike with a large pannier to carry the orders then latterly driving their delivery van.

He was then employed by Dorset Farmers as a storeman/farm delivery driver at their depot in Axminster Station Yard. He married Mary (nee Larcombe) but tragically she died in December 1944 and he was left with their daughter Molly who became my step-sister.

Dad had joined the Territorial Army in November 1931 in the Devonshire Regiment and was called up for full-time military service in August 1939. During the war he remained in England, stationed on the south coast in the first line of defence against invasion by the German Army who were just a few miles away across the Channel in France.

He was later transferred to the Central Ordnance Depot of the R.A.O.C at Donnington, Shropshire, in August 1944 and was de-mobbed on October 31 1945. In his demob papers he was recorded as being 5ft. 4ins. (1.63m) in height; 133lbs (60kgs) in weight and 32in. (81cm) chest. His military conduct was described by his superior officer as "exemplary" and the testimonial read:

"An excellent type. Thoroughly reliable and hard working. Has been in charge of the enlisted boys and has proved a strong disciplinarian but is also a possessor of great tact and leadership. He has been a most enthusiastic and valuable N.C.O."

Personally I think this summed Jack Spiller, my dad, down to a T - except for his ability to translate the Shropshire vernacular which shortened Derek to Dek. Dad thought this must be the way they pronounced Dick so in Devon that's who I became and my new life began.