THE HOME GUARD
OF GREAT BRITAIN WEBSITE - MISCELLANEOUS INFORMATION PAGES
DEVON MEMORIES
KEYNEDON MILL
and THE EVACUEES
AUGUST 1941
by Chris Myers
April 2025
|
This and
associated pages are hosted by the staffshomeguard
website (whose subject is the Home Guard of Great
Britain, 1940-44). They bring together various
memories, all recalled by the author in old age, of a childhood in
Streetly, Staffordshire (as it was then
called) and life in it during the period 1936-1961;
and of holidays in
Devon
during the same period.
This page contains:
BACKGROUND NOTE (1939-1941)
KEYNEDON MILL AND THE
EVACUEES (1941)
|
BACKGROUND
NOTE (1939-1941)
Birmingham, or at least its
inner-city areas, suffered
grievously under the
Luftwaffe bomber attacks of
the Birmingham Blitz which
lasted mainly from the
autumn of 1940, through the
winter and into the spring
of 1941.
 Many
children from that city -
and of course from other
industrialised areas across
the country - were evacuated
at the outbreak of war in
September 1939 to places
where the risk of future
attack was much reduced.
This image, which appeared
in a Birmingham newspaper on
2nd September 1939, shows a
few of them, boarding a
train at Snow Hill Station
in the city. When the
predicted aerial onslaught
did not happen, many drifted
back home until, almost
exactly a year after the
first, by which time the
dangers of life in those
areas had become all too
clear,
a second evacuation took
place in September 1940.
As for me personally, we lived on the
north-eastern fringe of the
city, away from the more
industrialised and densely
populated areas which were
most at risk, and so I was
not part of the 1939 or 1940
evacuations of children from
Birmingham. (In fact I had
never even heard of the term
"evacuees" until the summer
of 1941 when I was
five-and-a-bit and in South
Devon where I learnt exactly
what it meant). There was
some consideration given to
an offer from an American
friend of my father of a
U.S. home "for the duration"
for my sister and me, in
order to escape not only the
bombing but a possible
invasion and occupation; but
my parents eventually
declined it - perhaps the
risks of a Transatlantic
crossing or the pain of
separation loomed too large
for them - and the decision
was that we should stick it
out together, for better or
for worse. I as a
four-year-old of course knew
nothing of these
deliberations.
KEYNEDON MILL AND THE
EVACUEES (1941)
By the summer of 1941 Hitler’s attentions were
focused firmly to the East
and we were no longer alone,
and intensive aerial bombardment
of the country and the risk
of invasion had both
reduced, at least
temporarily. So my father
decided that it was time
that we should all try
to get a holiday. (Leisure
motoring was still permitted
even though petrol was
severely rationed: within a
short time all non-essential
car use would be banned
totally). The choice of venue
was obvious: since the
mid-1930s, and before I was
born, the family had stayed
every summer at a farm in
the South Hams of
Devonshire, an area at that
time
sleepy and little changed in
the previous hundred years.
For obvious reasons we had
not been there in the
previous summer of 1940:
then, everyone was in daily
fear of invasion and the
German Dorniers and Heinkels
and Junkers were overhead
somewhere every day and,
later, every night. Most young men were awaiting
call-up or had already
disappeared and everyone was
expected,
one way or the other, to be contributing to
the war effort. In our house
my father, supported by my
seventeen-year-old elder
brother, was spending all
his non-working hours on
local Home Guard duties -
nightly patrols and
observation, exercises, guarding
vulnerable points, and, in his case, constant
training to make his platoon
an effective infantry unit.
My mother volunteered for
the W.V.S. and continued to
care for the family. It was not a time
for holidays.
But now, a year later and
shortly after German troops
poured into Russia, Dad
counted his petrol coupons
and made the decision.
The house was
Keneydon Mill, located
between the villages of
Frogmore and Sherford. Here
it is with my mother
greeting us from an upper
window while my elder
brother stands at the gate;
it's probably summer 1936 or
1937.
So off there the
four of us went in our black
Ford Prefect, my parents, my
elder sister and I for the
nine or ten hour journey.
My brother Graham stayed at
home because of work and
Home Guard duties.
 (This
was only the second major
journey the car had made
since its purchase in early
1940, and it would be the
last for four years. The
first had been a week-end in
Blackpool in May 1940 - not
the best timing for the
family as that moment marked
the end of the "Phoney War"
and the beginning of the
real one. Hitler was
attacking Holland, Belgium and
France and we cut short
our little holiday, loaded
up and drove off out of
Blackpool towards the safety
of home).
After delivering us
at Keynedon,
Dad did not linger long with
us there and I
remember sadly waving him off from
the bridge at Frogmore as he
set off on his day-long,
lonely journey back to a
battered city, work and
worry in an industry working
flat-out to supply the war
effort, tight food rationing
and all his Home Guard
duties. We then trudged back
down the lane to the
farmhouse, the three of us, and continued our
holiday.
Some time later, a week or
ten days perhaps, Dad
rejoined us having travelled
by rail, now with Graham, as
they abandoned their work
and Home Guard
responsibilities for a short
while in favour of the
attractions of a few days of
badly needed rest, fresh air
and largely unrationed food.
As a five-year-old I recall
their exhausted arrival late
at night in the farm's
hallway as they stood
blinking in the lamplight
after their walk with
luggage in the dark from
Kingsbridge Station all the
way to Keynedon Mill, near
Sherford.
How lucky we all were to
have a holiday at that time!
We were not the only guests
at Keynedon Mill on this
visit. There were three boys
there too, unexpectedly. But
they were not exactly on
holiday like us. They were
something called evacuees.
And they were brothers. Bob
was probably a year or so
older than I; he had an
elder brother of 10 or 11
whose name I can’t remember
and so I shall call him
Billy; and the head of this
family was the eldest, named
I think Frank, a remote,
grown-up fellow of 15 or 16
whom one saw only rarely. I
was told that they came from
a part of Birmingham called
Ladywood and had been sent
there to avoid the bombing. I
hadn’t heard of that place
before but I was struck by
what a nice name it was and
had visions of dense foliage
and grassy, sunlit clearings
occupied by ladies in pretty
dresses having a picnic.
(Anyone who knew that part
of inner-city Birmingham
then would have realised
that this vision of the area was
somewhat less than
accurate).
The boys lived in a large,
white-washed single room at
Keynedon, the loft either of
the main house or of one of
the outbuildings. They ate
with the farmer’s family, at
a large table in a room to
the right of the entrance
hall of the farmhouse. I
still have a vision of them
sitting there as we passed
through to our own room. The
meal was presided over by
the commanding presence of
Mrs. Cumming, a lady of
great antiquity - possibly
in her early fifties - and
with a frightening cane
lying ready to hand; this
was of sufficient length to
reach the younger boys
seated further down the
table in case they required
any guidance.
I imagine that Bob and Billy
attended the local school in
the nearby tiny village of
Sherford but it was August
and so they were on holiday.
Frank on the other hand
seemed to be engaged the
whole time on farm duties
and I know that he got up at
some ungodly hour every
morning to fetch the cattle
for milking. I didn’t see
much of Billy and can’t say
whether he had his own list
of duties but I played a lot
with Bob who seemed to have
plenty of freedom.
In later years I have often
pondered on the mystery of
how those three lads ended
up in such a remote spot, so
far from home. I don’t know
whether they were part of
the September 1939
evacuation although they
probably were, since at that
stage the risk of invasion
was something quite inconceivable
to everyone - including those
organising this huge
movement of children and
others - and so the south
coast must have been
regarded as an acceptable
destination. It seems
strange, nevertheless, that they were sent
such a long way from home
from where their parents,
assuming they had any,
would have found it almost
impossible to visit them.
And when the threat of
invasion loomed out of
nowhere from the
middle of 1940, lodgings
only a mile or two from the
South Coast, even so far
west, would not have
appeared to be
to be the safest of
locations. Perhaps other
factors affected the
decision.
I can imagine them being
shepherded on to a train at
Snow Hill Station in
Birmingham, labeled and
carrying a small package of
their possessions and of
course their gas mask, as
they embarked on the
day-long journey into the
complete unknown with the
help of the Great Western
Railway. Memoirs of children
in this situation, some of
whom had never been out of
their cities or on a train
before, speak of the wonders
of the journey. And so I
imagine our trio, gazing out
of the window at an
ever-changing tableau of
meadow and woodland,
cornfields and unfamiliar
farm animals as they
trundled south. In their
compartment excitement and
wonder at the unfamiliar
sights must have been
intense but later, as the
day progressed and tiredness
started to overcome them,
that would have been
replaced by apprehension and
even fear about what faced
them. They would have passed
through Bristol and Exeter,
perhaps changing trains,
perhaps seeing, every now
and again, many of their
companions leaving the train
at intermediate stops.
Finally they would have
alighted at Brent Station,
just like these evacuees
from Bristol, on their way
to Kingsbridge and new homes
in the surrounding area.
(This image, and others
associated with it, are held
in the Imperial War Museum
Archive and depict the
journey of a group of
Bristol children being
evacuated in February 1941
to new homes in the
Kingsbridge area).
At Brent our
trio would have
clambered aboard a little
two-coach train for the last
leg of their long journey. A
diminutive GWR tank engine
would have hauled them down
the branch-line through the
rolling countryside of
pasture and cornfield and red Devonshire
earth, where the hedgerows
and line-side trees would
have seemed close enough to
lean out and touch. They
would have stopped at
Avonwick, Gara Bridge and
Loddiswell - did any of
their companions get off
there? - and after about
thirty minutes they would have reached
their destination, and the
very last station,
Kingsbridge. (I have
memories of that branch-line
journey myself, from other
times). What an
alien world it must have
seemed as they got down off
the train and looked around
them in the quiet of
evening, at milk churns and
empty cattle pens and an
almost deserted station, the
end of a line which
stretched all the way back
to the bustle and soot of
Snow Hill and the middle of
Birmingham. And yet
.jpg) they
still had another five or
six miles to go in the
gathering dusk - now perhaps
by bus and on foot, or
possibly by horse and cart -
on through small villages
and past scattered houses, finally turning off the
road at Frogmore down a lane
just wide enough to allow
their passing.
And
as they approached the farm, perhaps
they even saw Mrs.
Cumming standing at the
gate to greet
their arrival.
Nor do I know how long they
stopped at Keynedon. Early
in 1944 the farm and the
surrounding area was itself
evacuated at short notice
when the US Army took over
the nearby stretch of coast
and adjacent countryside as
a training ground for the
D-Day landings which were to
come six months later. The
Cumming family moved with
all their livestock into
tiny premises in Frogmore.
They were still there in
August 1945 when we visited
them. But the boys weren’t
and of course I wasn’t
interested enough to ask
after them. I have often
wondered - and still do as I
write this - what happened to
them and how much their time
in Devon, with all its fresh
air and healthy food but
remoteness from loved ones
and familiar city
surroundings, influenced their
later life. And just how
that clash of totally
different cultures, inner
city industrial Birmingham
and remote, agricultural
Devon, worked, day in, day
out.
My friendship with Bob came
to an abrupt and unhappy
end. The facilities in the
farmhouse were basic in the
extreme: candles and oil
lamps; an outside pump for
water and, inside, ewers,
jugs and
china gesunders in place of
any plumbing; and the main -
or so it seemed - lavatory a
fruity, fly-blown, wooden
structure containing an
earth closet and sheets of
newspaper. The latter
"convenience" was, hardly
conveniently, located out of
the front door, along the
lane a few yards, up some
steps cut into the earth
bank and across a short
stretch of grass to near the
waterwheel - itself a dark
and forbidding structure,
now unused and resting
stationary in a large,
threatening strip of dark
water, far below. I was
strictly prohibited from
going anywhere near the
latter because of the
obvious dangers of falling
over the edge; and, equally,
from approaching, let alone
entering, the wooden closet.
There the threat was more
mysterious, more veiled,
"Diphtheria” being muttered
as it always was when
anything vaguely unhealthy
was being discussed. Bob and
I were playing near the
waterwheel one day, feeding
ducks with white berries
plucked from a nearby bush.
Getting bored with this,
although the ducks weren’t,
we decided to investigate
the little house. And not
only that, but to leave our
visiting card there too. All
of this was of course great
fun. But somehow or other
the incident came to the
notice of my parents and,
probably with a bit of
assistance from me in the
uproar which followed, Bob got
the blame for initiating
this dreadful crime. It must have
been decided that he was not
a suitable companion for me
and I never played with him
again. Nor after our
departure only a few days later
ever heard anything further
about him.
I never even knew Bob's
family name. I hope that he
had a good life and that he
always remembered, as I
still do, a sunny day in the
South Hams of Devon some 84
years ago, a flock of greedy
white ducks and a smelly old
hut on the edge of a meadow
by a waterwheel. And a
friendly playmate to enjoy
it all with.
**********
|
FOOTNOTE
- April 2025
How good it would be to
identify this young group,
so far from their home and
family and friends!
What were their
circumstances in that
inner area of a vast,
industrialised city? And how
did their lives work out
there, after their return
home? Modern methods of
research would probably tell
us - but not without
knowledge of their surname
and perhaps exact
home location.......and could any
local Devon history records,
such as Sherford School
pupil lists
- or any personal local knowledge - ever
provide us with that?
**********
Further information about
that 1941 holiday at
Keynedon Mill, and about
previous holidays there, can be seen in
an associated article:
KEYNEDON MILL and THE
CUMMING FAMILY - 1935-39,
1941
And of the way to
Keynedon:
FROM FROGMORE TO KEYNEDON -
1937 |
**********
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Please see INDEX page for
general acknowledgements.
Additionally, grateful
acknowledgement is made to
the unknown online source of
the Birmingham newspaper
cutting, and to IWM for the
Brent image. |
This
family and local history page is
hosted by
www.staffshomeguard.co.uk
(The Home Guard of Great Britain,
1940-1944)
All
text and images are, unless
otherwise stated, © The Myers Family
2024 &
INDEX
Home Guard of
Great Britain
website
1940-44 |
 |
INDEX
Streetly and Family
Memories
1936-61
|
INDEX
Devon Memories
1936-61
|
L9E (previously L8A16, September
2024, updated April 2025)
© The
Myers Family 2024
| |