A very early morning start for the four of us with suitcases and other luggage. We must have taken a taxi from Rudston Road to Edge Lane Bus station, from where long distance coaches ran, because there was no direct bus from our nearest bus stop in Childwall Valley Road.

The coach we boarded picked up in places I’d heard of (Prescot) and places I hadn’t. Altrincham, Cheshire was the first one I remember, and from there to Tarporley and due south down the A49 to Whitchurch, Shropshire. The next place I can remember is Bridgnorth on the Severn, so we probably went through Wellington (now the heart of Telford, though that hadn’t even been thought of in the 1950s.

At some point on this leg of the journey the coach stopped for a “comfort break” (were there loos on board? Don’t think so) in the countryside, a few hundred yards from a river at the bottom of a field. “How old are you?” Dad asked asked one of the children also on the coach. “Seven” replied the girl, and I remember thinking: she’s older than me. “Well that’s the River Severn” answered Dad. I can’t locate this spot on a map; the road only seemed to approach the Severn closely near big towns and this was distinctly rural. It’s always possible of course that dad was wrong, and it was actually a tributary called the Tern, but in those days of course he was always right so we never questioned it. Though having driven that road recently, I believe it could have been what is now the Severn Valley Country Park a few miles south of Bridgnorth.

Kidderminster was the next big town where we changed coaches, and the final journey of the day took us to Cheltenham. It must have still been daylight when we found our way to a “guest house” where we I’ve always presumed we were booked to stay the night. How did we book rooms in a guest house in 1952? We didn’t even have a phone at home, let alone an Internet connection (that was half a century into the future). Maybe it was all done through the coach company.

The lady at the desk informed Mum and Dad that our rooms were in somewhere called “the annexe”, so bags were picked up once more – that must have been frustrating for my parents after such a long day – and taken outside and along more pavement to a separate building. Memories are hazy here but I think we returned to the main site for meals in a fairly large dining room. We can only have spent a matter of hours in Cheltenham, most of them asleep, but we certainly had an evening meal and breakfast. Soup was served, and to the great surprise of two small boys it was followed by the main course. Ian was always less inhibited than me, and having just learned the power of speech enquired of the entire roomful of guests in his loudest 3 year old voice “What, soup AND dinner?” Not for the last time (though this might have been the first) poor Mum just wanted the floor to swallow her.

Two of the diners at a nearby table were a couple of let’s say “circumferentially challenged” ladies who we must have noticed. A fit of giggles must have ensued leading to a whispered talk from Mum about how we shouldn’t point and giggle at people, and next time we met those ladies we must politely say “Hello”.

The opportunity arose next morning as we went in for breakfast. We were at the foot of the big staircase just as the two matrons stepped onto it from their first floor bedroom. “HELLO FAT LADIES!” called out Ian, in his politest (but loudest) voice.