When Gerry had been out of the army long enough to find a girl mad enough to marry him in the early days after WW2, they took off to start a new life and bought a small, run down farm in west Wales.
It was a good time to start; after six years of war, Britain needed all the food it could grow so there were marketing boards that took everything produced and paid at the going price. It was a time of change; west Wales was receiving an influx of people like them and displaced people from Europe. It was a great mix – on market days their pub was blue with Gauloises, Gitanes and many accents, a heady mix which became part of the local scene with its own long established language and customs, and yet was still able to adapt to changing times.
That was playtime. Real time was spent out on thistly acres ploughing, hedging and wondering what to do about a million rabbits. Farmers know their business or very soon learn. They just about qualified even though they were both on a steep learning curve. When neighbours realised they were both in it for real and prepared to put the work in, they became friends - Gerry and his wife found themselves honorary members of the community. Both Gerry and his wife lost weight, gained muscle and much else – most of all that special feeling that comes when you are walking your own land. Memorable times… especially for them.