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Cape Town Harbor

However, the port to which we were to return for painting and maintenance
was North Shields, a grimy and depressed city close to Newcastle that clung to its
significance as a shipbuilding centre, but which patently could not long hold on to its
old purposes. Not that that much concerned me, for I was to be home for Christmas!

The Christmas of 1962 was a very unusual one in that it snowed. Snow is not, of
course, unknown in UK, but this particular year it was unusually intense. Getting to
Sussex by train was bad enough, but the snow didn’t stop coming down, and country
villages were without snow-removal equipment. I was due back on Mantua on
December 27th, but as even the trains, particularly the local ones, could not handle
more than a mere dusting, I had trouble even getting to the station, where I had to
leave my luggage until the weather improved. A few days later it warmed a bit and I
was able to get on the train and travel north. But this was not a happy time; upon the
sale of the business in Woolwich, Father had invested in a small building company
located in Sussex. The weather meant that all of the incoming work was stalled, but,
of course, employees still had to be paid. Needless to say, the business failed, the only
saving grace being that Father was soon able to secure employment in a retail wine
merchant, a job that he could do easily enough, discipline and techniques in the
confectionary and liquor trades not being much different. We sailed for the Gulf on
January 1st, but this year there was an air of despondency on board; last year whisky
for the first time … this year no celebration as we ploughed through the angry Bay of
Biscay in ballast, cold and with a destination disliked by all on board.
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