Ron Shillabeer, good Samaritan.

It was over 55 years ago, and I suppose Ron may well be dead. I had briefly drifted unknowingly into the protection of kind-hearted strangers, and, at that time, had no concept of what was occurring.

I was about eighteen years old, a stupid, unwise child, pottering carelessly about my home town, New Brighton, in the wilderness of Merseyside. I had started at the local Art School, which took the place of my parents, who had moved to the south for work and residence. They kindly supplied me with a small income for rent of one room, food, and art materials: I soon altered the items to beer and art materials, but that’s another story.

It was an exceptionally cold winter, the school (college, posh-speak) was closed for the break, and I decided to hitch-hike to the childhood paradise of Cornwall, for no sensible reason, and with no sensible cash.

I packed my ruck-sack with guessed necessities, including a supply of Savory Ducks from a strange shop, the only place on the planet that sold them. A savory duck was, I suppose, a large, mysterious spiced dumpling, wrapped and cooked in a caul of some entrails, eaten cold or hot. It was very, very cheap, impervious to destruction, long-lasting pemmican.

I hitched from early morning, through the night, in a southerly direction, veering west as lifts dictated. I trusted every driver implicitly, and slept in the cab of a big truck on the way: no entertainment for the driver. When I woke it was black-dark and snowing heavily. The truck stopped. The kindly trucky said this is as far as I go.

He told me the name of the village, but I had no idea where it was. The snow was falling softly, there was no light except the occasional glimpse of a far-off winter moon. There was no alternative but to put on all my clothes and waterproof, and walk, hoping for a lift. There was no traffic. I remember thinking how pleasant life was, and walked for an hour, looking for a sign, a light, a shelter. The snow thickened, a haystack in a field loomed, and I remembered stories of the comfort therein. It was an old-fashioned stack of sheaves, before the days of bales, and I kicked my way in a foot or two off the snowy ground. Kicked and kicked until I was completely cocooned, and not just cosy, but hot. The stack itself was warm, and I slept unseen until well-past the late winter dawn.

Wriggling out of my nest I found myself exposed in a vacant field, with traffic staring at me as it passed, which bothered me not. More lifts, more Ducks eaten, beers and sandwiches in a thatched pub: big fat sandwiches, cheese and onion, and so cheap. I was in Devon, it seemed, there was real cider on the pump too; murky, dry, flat. No more alcoholic than beer, but strangely toxic due to the malic acid, hence the hangover…….

It took all day to get to Cornwall; no sensible folk were on the road as the snow fell steadily. Drifts were building up against the hedges as my last lift dropped me off in a random village as early darkness fell. I had no Idea where I was, but it was at least Cornwall, if not Polperro, and I spent most of my remaining cash on a room for the night, in a tiny cottage, and, feeling weird and with the urge to hibernate, went to my nest and snuggled in.

Morning, late, and ready to set off (such an unsociable boy), was surprised to be offered breakfast: ha, it was bed AND breakfast I’d paid for, lovely, while the snow fell, and fell. Now I wasn’t entirely aimless and stupid, though penniless. It was my intention, at my Polperro destination, to look for work and pay my way, preferably in a pub, where I had experience. In the summers, in New Brighton, I worked on the hot dog vans on the beach for rent and beer money. But this was winter in Cornwall.

I enquired of my nice landlady of the possibility of a temporary job in the village, mentioning the pub as a shining hope, but, she said, we’re all closed-up here m’dear, no-one can get in nor out, there’s no work for anyone til summer, and you won’t get through to Polperro, nor find work there if you do. So, being easily disabused, and callow, I instantly gave up. Now I know better; then I needed cheek, cheerful boldness, and sparkling wit, none of which I possessed.

You won’t be going anywhere in this, m’dear, she said, but I didn’t like to admit I had no cash, so warm and full of food I tramped through the now-deep snow to the busier of the few roads, where amazingly a vehicle with chains picked me up and on to Torquay, and dropped me at a certain cafe. Though I didn’t know it, my life was being planned by total strangers.

At the cafe I admitted to owning a few shillings; what could I get? Now this is weird again. I was brought heaps of food, and milkshake, and pudding, thinking this is marvellous for the price, and stuffed myself. The cafe would accept no money. Where was I going? They said it’s late, and knew of a cheap bed for the night, set off in the morning. A mystery diner in the cafe offered me a lift, well thanks so much, and I was dropped of at a pretty cottage and introduced to Ron Shillabeer. That’s four consecutive Samaritans.

It was as if I had a sign on my head saying, look after this waif, he knows not the world and its ways. Ron Shillabeer welcomed me to his home, and showed me to a perfect little bedroom full of windows and warmth, but, I said, I’m sorry, I can’t pay for this, I must keep going to Merseyside (I still had a few indestructible ducks left).

But he insisted, and said not to worry about payment, and that he would be out early in the morning, and to make myself at home. He invites a total stranger and leaves him in alone with the run of his house.

I slept a dead sleep, and woke early to an empty house. I felt mysteriously honoured, and trusted, and full of wonder. What kind of society had I stumbled upon in Torquay? Where everyone’s aim was to look after me? In fear of breaking the spell, I arranged my room exactly as I found it, erasing all evidence of my existence. I think, I hope, I left a note of thanks, but can’t be sure.

Somehow the blizzard abated as I left the west country, and somehow I got back to New Brighton with my few shillings intact and no ducks.

That was one of the most savage winters in Cornwall and Devon; good choice of season and destination for hitching! I think now how delightful it would have been to have had sufficient funds to stay in that lost Cornish village for the duration of the blizzard, to settle in and be like Ratty and Moley in Moley’s little snow-bound cottage.

It’s a lifetime ago, but I’ll never forget the unsolicited kindness of those saints in Torquay, and of that dear stranger Ron Shillabeer, and all the drivers that picked up a young scruffy boy of little conversation, with no thought of reward, and only one hesitant fondle of my knee……..