My mother and father drove, respectively, a Wolseley "Wasp" and a Humber 16/60.  In 1939 the latter was equipped with one of the first car-radios, and it was from this ... humming importantly under the dash ... that I heard the cobwebby voice of Chamberlain say "... and so this country is at war."  (The house in the background of this photo was the home of my friend Percy, 70 years later he is a retired New York doctor with whom I swap emails and occasional MP3's of our current jazz enthusiasms.)

One of Britain's celebrities throughout the war was the man who broadcast a few physical exercises every morning.  So familiar were his stock phrases that they were regularly lampooned by comedians.  He was Captain Coleman-Smith, late of the Indian Army and, during our years at Glasgow Academy, our Gym Master.  (How sad that Coley appears nowhere in the first 50 results of a Google search.)  Much later, when he retired, he bought the lodge on Inchmurrin and passed the rest of his days peacefully there.
 

Every four years our fellow Macleans from all over the world gather at the Chief's castle, Duart, on the Hebridean isle of Mull (a few years ago they were so kind as to elect me first International President of their twelve territorial Associations).  Usually Ann and I fly to Glasgow and rent a car for the 100 mile run to the ferry at Oban, but last time we made the journey as my parents used to do it - on the overnight sleeper train to Glasgow, then to the ferry by the scenic railway line.  I had, I confess, waxed a wee thing lyrical about the views to be savoured running up the West side of Loch Lomond through Luss and Ardlui ... so it was disappointing to find that the track is now so overgrown that we had to shut the ventilator-windows because we were being showered with leaves - and the majestic vistas were rarely visible through the foliage.

In 1943 I reached 17 and enlisted.  As I recounted in an earlier blog, after initial training as an Air Force pilot, I transferred to the new technology corps REME and began a long period of training.

In 1944 my father concluded a review of the structure of his biscuit division with the recommendation that it be integrated with another division and that his role be ended.  (An earlier paragraph of that Chairman's letter praises his integrity in doing this.) 

In my brief home-leaves I remember sensing his deep unease at being, for the first time, unemployed - a sensitive and emotional man, that letter sustained him in his search for a new role.  Which turned out to be as CEO of an old-established maker of decorative tins, with plants in the English Midlands, and which had just been acquired by the mighty Metal Box Company.

And so my parents left Scotland for their new home near Nottingham.   The London house having been called 'Duart' they named this house 'Lochbuie' after another significant Maclean location on the Isle of Mull.

1945   Mansfield, Notts

My brother finished his schooling at Glasgow Academy as a boarder - under the supervision of "Coley" and his wife - before joining our parents at Mansfield.  Sister Deirdre was by now at her boarding-school, Polam Hall, near Darlington.  I spent occasional weekend-leaves at Mansfield - feeling the difference between my dull life as a military student at 'Wandsworth Tech' and the life Nigel was briefly enjoying with a copious supply of glamorous partners on the tennis courts at Lochbuie.

Dad took me to see his new factory at nearby Chesterfield - showing me the ramps where lorries offloaded tons of sheet metal and, at the other end of the plant, similar ramps where a stream of lorries collected millions of "open top" food cans.

But my main recollection of Mansfield weekends is of the droning crescendo in the evening sky as it gradually filled with clouds of RAF bombers assembling for their awesome forays over Europe.
 

Nigel joined a Scottish regiment and quickly became an officer.  To my dismay I found that not being a science graduate precluded my being commissioned in REME and so I contented myself with moving up the non-commissioned ranks (until, as the war ended, I was commissioned into Royal Signals.)

Late in the war I was assigned to a huge exhibition of captured enemy armaments.  The devices I was given to demonstrate aroused much interest - they were Geiger-Counters - detectors of radio-activity.  The explanation I was given - and which I uneasily dispensed - was that the enemy were now deploying mines made of plastic (and thus not showing-up on traditional metal-detectors).  The story was that in order for the Germans, when necessary, to know where they were each one was buried with a small bag of 'tarn-sand' - a slightly radio-active mineral mined in Czecho-Slovakia - which they could locate with these Geiger-Counters.

Subsequently, like everyone else, I was awed by the news of the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima & Nagasaki ... and - unlike everyone else - I had the "Eureka Moment" of realising the real purpose of those Geiger Counters.

In 1945 when at long last the war was over I was lucky enough to be in London, first for 'VE Day' (Victory in Europe, in May) and then 'VJ Day' (Victory over Japan, in August).    I savoured the heady celebrations - the streets were thronged - like everyone else in uniform I roamed the West End being plied with cakes from Lyons Tea Shops and beer from pubs - and hugging and being hugged by all and sundry.

1952   Linby, Sherwood Forest

When my 'demob group' ("60") came up I was told, to my chagrin, that I must stay on to complete the lengthy training of the small group of engineers whose responsibilities included secret cypher systems.  This, and the consequently greater risk of being recalled in future, persuaded me to transfer from REME to a special Squadron of Royal Signals.  Ironically this ensured that I WAS recalled ten years later for the "Suez" escapade!  Which will be the subject of a later blog.   

Sadly my father's WW1 injuries were beginning to take their toll and his health deteriorated so that, when they decided to move to rural Essex I took a week's holiday from the BBC and accompanied my mother in her house-hunt. 

We looked at some beautiful houses in lovely villages with names like "Steeple Bumpstead" but it was on the edge of the historic town of Great Dunmow that we found "Portways" - the 300-yr-old home where my parents, as always surrounded by friends, (and dogs), wrote the final chapter of their energetic life.