It was a bright Sunday morning in early June, 1934. I was 19 years old, the right time to be leaving home. I carried a small rolled-up tent, a violin in a blanket, a change of clothes, a tin of treacle biscuits, and some cheese. My 3 sisters and one brother had already gone before me and two brothers had yet to make up their minds.
The last I saw of my country home as a I left it to discover the world, was the stooping figure of my mother. She stood bent at the top of the bank, silently watching me go, not questioning why I went, juts one gnarled red hand raised in farewell and blessing. Then I turned the corner, and closed that part of my life forever.
I was persuaded to leave by the traditional forces that had sent many generations. The thought never came into my mind that others had done this before me. And now I was on my journey.
Naturally, I was going to London, a hundred miles to east. But, as I had never yet seen the sea, I thought to walk by the coast and find it. This would add another 100 miles, but I had all the time to spend.
My excitement was steadily declined as I felt really alone at last. A growing reluctance weighed me down. I found my self longing for something that could stop me> But, none came. I was free. The day's silence said it all, "Go, where you want. You asked for it. It's all yours. You are on your own now, and no one is going to stop you." I was hurt by echoes of home.
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