I was born and grew up in Derbyshire, England in the 1940’s and '50’s in Bakewell, a market town right in the centre of the Peak District. It was a town very different from the town you find today. Bakewell in the 1950’s apart from the cars was still a Victorian place to live. I always feel I grew up at the fag end of the Victorian age. Let me give a few examples. On May 24th we celebrated Empire Day when we were in the infant school; and said a prayer by the Union Jack and had a holiday. Steam trains chugged up and down the valley loaded with coal and steam driven expresses flashed by between Manchester and London. When my mother took me to church we could not sit where we liked because the word RESERVED was painted on the best pews near the front. I was caned for laughing at the wrong time in the Infant School and at the Grammar School many teachers wore a black gown to teach in. My only contact with the head teacher of the grammar school was when he stopped me and said "Ah… you are the boy who does not touch his cap to me when I pass on my car." On market days the farmers brought their animals in by driving them on the road and down the road from the station. I used to press myself against the walls on Bakewell Bridge as herds of terrified cows and sheep galloped by.

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