Travel Biography - Week 2.

The Early Years at Bracknell.

We moved into a semi-detached, two-bedroom house in a Bracknell district of Easthampstead, once a village in its own right with its own parish church - St Michaels C. of E. - before the village was assimilated into Bracknell town by its Development Corporation (now replaced by Bracknell Forest Borough Council.) Our new home was a vastly different environment from the city life I grew up in. A modern dwelling without a basement, without cellars, a front lawn without any fencing or hedges, and a private back garden was a delight to Dad, as the plot was a source of developing new skills, including transforming a bank of dirt into a delightful rockery. Beyond the garden, our bedroom window looked across a field on which a lone horse happily grazed.

A. Stevenson at St Georges Square - my childhood home. 

Then, in December 1966, we moved again to another of Bracknell's districts, Bullbrook, a residential estate named after the brook that flowed underground, to emerge as a stream at nearby Binfield, to wind its way eventually to join the River Thames. This house has three bedrooms, which means that for the first time in my life (then aged 14) I had my own bedroom.

Having Italian parents, Dad always dreamed of driving a car all the way to Italy, using the cross-Channel ferry from Dover to Calais. And so, in 1966, he began to fulfil his dream.

A Family Trip to Italy.

In August of 1966, whilst still living in Easthampstead, all the luggage was piled on the roof of our silver Riley. We waved goodbye to a couple of neighbours and we set off. Our destination? Turin, in the Piedmont province of Northern Italy. But, as I will eventually realise, it was nothing like a beach or an adventure holiday. Instead, we would be staying at la casa di Nonni or the home of my maternal grandparents who cannot speak or understand a word of English.

The highlight of the holiday, at least for me, anyway, was the Channel crossing. Unfortunately, it was done late at night, but I still remember the street lights of Dover receding into the distance as the ship rocked gently as it traversed over the waves. Around ninety minutes later, we docked at Calais. 

We drove out from the ferry's parking deck, onto dry French ground. As we eventually left the French port, we saw a large sign which read: Facon, in large red letters over an illuminated white background. We all gasped, and then laughed. We then realised afterwards that Facon is a brand name for a beer, just like in the day, Watneys dominated our English brands of ale. But the way the sign was placed at that location, beside the road out of Calais, gave the impression of an incorrectly-spelt message ordering us to move on with the rudest of vulgarism. Some years later, I actually ordered a glass of Facon beer at a bar during a solo trip to France in the 1980s. The beer tasted really good!

We stopped a little further on to sleep in the car for the remainder of the night. From outside a house, a dog began to bark. Annoyed, Dad drove further until we reached a quiet spot on the road. Then we parked the car at a layby and settled for some sleep. Hence, a foreign holiday on the tightest of budgets. No hotels, no amusements, no beach, mountain or beauty spot. Just a long drive across France to reach Italy to spend with Mum's parents.

The next day, we managed to reach Paris. At the French capital, a pre-arranged agreement was made to meet Mum's parents, probably at the Gare du Nord railway terminus, as Nonno was intrigued with the nearby Basilique du Sacre Coeur. So, after plenty of hugs and kisses, Nonni climbed into their car and we into ours, and both cars made their way to the Church of the Sacred Heart.

The church is built on a hill known as the Butte Montmartre, the highest point in Paris. Thus, I recall the splendid view right across the city, not much different from the view of London seen from the summit of Parliament Hill in Hampstead Heath. We spent a considerable time looking over the view before setting off for a quick visit to the other city attractions until it was time for us to proceed with the journey to Turin.

It was on a fast freeway, so straight, that we were moving faster than what our car was designed for. So, in the middle of nowhere, a sudden noise from the engine and the vehicle ground to a halt indicating a major breakdown. With our grandparents forced to stop behind us, it was agreed for our car to be towed to the next town, which was Chalone-sur-Saone, not too far from Dijon. There, the family split at the town's station. Mum, along with my brother, joined her parents and drove all the way to Turin. Meanwhile, due to the lack of space in my grandparent's car, Dad and I had to take the train for the rest of the journey, much to his disappointment with an unfulfilled dream.

As Nonni set off, Dad and I had a six-hour wait for our train for Turin to arrive. After a walk around town, we spent the rest of that evening in the waiting room. Throughout that time, several trains stopped at the station whiles others thundered through. It was well past midnight when our train finally arrived.

The 1960s Riley. Ours broke down in France.

The train was chock-a-block packed, mainly with college-student-type passengers, most of them just a few years older than me. Although Dad went from compartment to compartment via the side corridor, not a single seat was unoccupied and we were left standing in the corridor as the train thundered noisily along. That night, neither my father nor I had a wink of sleep. When the train pulled into Modane Station, it was still dark outside. When we emerged out of the 8.5-mile, 13.7 km Mont Cenis Tunnel, it was beginning to get light when the train stopped at the first Italian station - Bardonecchia. Eventually, the train journey ended at Torino Porta Nuova (Turin Newgate.)

The rest of the holiday, to be honest, was crushingly boring! Stuck in a top-floor apartment overlooking a square lining Via Giacomo Dina, the constant flurry of Italian words flying through the air from mouth to ears made me (and my brother) feel excluded from the family. With boredom came frustration, and more than once my grandfather shouted at me with a torrent of words I couldn't understand. Fortunately, as if a gift from heaven, a swing playground was nearby, and each day I went down the series of steps to escape the commotion of Italian domestic life. The return journey homeward was entirely by train, from Torino Porta Nuova to Bracknell. Later, Dad had to return to France on his own to collect his repaired car.

College Days.

Eventually, I left school without any qualifications at Easter 1968, then aged 15, and began work as an apprentice wood finisher. And "wood finisher" is the appropriate title, as French polish wasn't used at this family-owned business. Instead, synthetics were used, and much quicker, using a spray gun rather than the prolonged application of shellac by hand. My first task? To sweep the floor, a duty I had to engage in every weekday morning for the next three of the five years I worked there. Also, by working in an all-male environment, I had to endure teasing for being Italian, and also I had to absorb a lot of smut.

It was during this time, under Government law, the boss had to grant me a day's release to attend college, the London College of Furniture, located in Pitfield Street, in the London borough of Shoreditch. Before me, and leading up to my day, every apprentice attending college took the early morning train from Bracknell to Waterloo, then took the #11 bus to Old Street. I had to be different. I was the first-ever apprentice in the history of the business to take the Tube from Waterloo to Old Street, changing trains just once at the Elephant & Castle interchange station.

My method of travel caused pandemonium in the factory! Being the first-ever employee to use the Tube instead of the bus to get across London, other students began to follow my example, until the bus route was forgotten and the Tube journey to Old Street was standardised.

How did this come about? Due to becoming very familiar with the London Underground when I was still at school. Back then, my parents allowed me to travel to London for the day, mainly to walk the Chelsea Embankment and visit Battersea Park. But at the same time, I became familiar with areas around the West End and as far as the City, and thus, by choice, I familiarised myself with the London Underground. Having grown up in Pimlico, I might have left London at eleven years of age, but London had never left me.

And so, at age 16 and in my second year at college, I met a classmate named Andrew Duncan Stevenson. We became fast friends, and 52 years later, we still keep in touch, even to the extent of spending a day together in London like any two boys. 

Yet it was unfortunate for Andrew to have seen the weaker side of me. It was the end of college exams and the end of term, that we celebrated in a pub, despite still being underage. I got drunk on several glasses of whisky, and eventually lost all common sense and the self-preservation instinct needed to stay alive. We entered the Underground station at Old Street and acting as a drunk would, I swaggered as we made our way to the platform. I then stepped off the platform, onto a ledge along the tracks, a little way under the edge and inches from the rail. One slip and I would have burned literally to cinder from electrocution, had I touched the live rail. Instead, I climbed back onto the platform and staggered up the elevators.

Why did I behave like that? Really, because deep inside I was miserable. I was locked in a job I grew to hate and endured filthy smut, and relentless teasing from fellow employees. Furthermore, my apprenticeship was far from fulfilled, as the older employees who were meant to train us were reluctant to pass their knowledge on. Little wonder the firm eventually went out of business a decade or so later. All I was good at was pushing a broom - as well as the feeling of worthlessness within my own family.

By the time I was 18, I was taking a girl out, a ginger hair female with the name of Sandra. She had a younger sister, Alison, and one Sunday, Andrew coupled with Alison and I with Sandra, and we as a foursome took a train out from London Victoria to the coast, where we spent the day. It was to Sandra that I first asked how would she feel about spending a week at Butlins Holiday camp and sharing a chalet there as an unmarried couple. She was keen but Butlins wasn't. So, in 1972, our booking application for Butlins was rejected.

Feeling at a loss, I began to look through foreign holiday brochures. One holiday was within our budget, a hotel room at a Spanish holiday resort, a small town bearing the name Tossa de Mar on the Costa Brava. I then attempted a booking with the holiday firm Cosmos for the both of us. To my amazement, the booking was accepted. Apparently, Cosmos didn't hold on to the puritan morality of Butlins!

As the Spanish holiday began to draw near, our relationship began to deteriorate. The reason for this was that she wanted to tie the knot and feel the security of a married wife. I was too immature to take such a responsibility, but I agreed to marry her anyway. Then, in April or May of 1972, she eventually ditched me. I pleaded with her father at her Wimbledon home, but all he did was tell me to beat it, you're finished, and closed the door. As I sat alone on the train heading back to Bracknell from London, I was weeping.

Tossa de Mar, Spain.

I then visited Andrew at his home in Southall, Middlesex, and I wept in his presence. I then asked him how he would feel if he came with me to Spain in place of Sandra. He was willing. Furthermore, Cosmos was willing to make the booking amendment on condition that Andrew paid his full fare. August 1972, saw Andrew and me flying out with Dan-Air from London Gatwick to Gerona Airport, a two-hour flight that will be the start of a massive turning point in my life.  

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NEXT WEEK: Two Contrasting Holidays - A Bathtub and a Volcano lets off steam.

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Note: Permission was sought and granted for Andrew Stevenson's name and picture to be published here.

Achieving Better Self-Esteem.

What on Earth is going on? Day after day the Media, through the Press, via television and radio, stories of knife crime seems to be exploding across England, with the majority taking place in and around the London area. Quite a phenomenon really, when considering those monthly train trips to London from my home town of Bracknell around fifty years ago, in the 1960s while I was in my mid-teens, and barely out of school. Mum had never worried too much about her elder son travelling thirty miles on his own during the weekend, for with knife crime being totally non-existent, she had little to be concerned about. The point of this is whether Mums at present are far more concerned about letting their teenage offspring out alone in cities such as London - the present culture of helicopter parenting.

Those monthly leisure trips into London became weekly trips to college, located in Shoreditch in the area of east London, then known for its furniture trade. It was where I could have bought a bottle of shellac, wood stain or even lacquer for French polishing or other forms of wood finishing, items which would have been extremely difficult to get elsewhere in the UK. And it was also the location for the London College of Furniture, where I had to attend during those day-releases which every firm employing school-leavers were obliged under law to give.

London College of Furniture - attended 1968-1970.

If I might add here, throughout the life of the family-owned business manufacturing furniture for the connoisseur's choice, just as every apprentice was given a day release to travel to London to attend college, a set mode of transportation was followed. The student boarded a train from Bracknell to London Waterloo, then from there took an LT bus to Shoreditch. Every apprentice up to my time did the same. But when my turn came, I had to be different! A quick check on the London Underground map showed a quicker and more efficient way to get to the college - Waterloo Station to Old Street underground station on the Northern Line, changing at Kennington. A little later, that was modified to changing at Elephant & Castle, on the Bakerloo Line, thus making the journey a little shorter.

This new mode of transportation caused quite a stir throughout the company I worked for. My foreman's tongue couldn't stop wagging, astonished on how someone like little me, a teenager with no school qualifications, actually launched what could be called a mini-revolution, just because I took a look at a map of the London Underground. As a result, thereafter, every apprentice student working at that firm took the same Underground route which I had first "discovered" - in the years that followed.

But whatever I did in London, I never felt threatened or in any form of danger. After college, I met my first girlfriend, who lived at Wimbledon. Therefore, trips to London became a twice-a-week schedule into the seventies - Wednesdays and Saturdays - and had never encountered any form of threat during those days, and that despite the rise of the National Front causing racially-motivated street scuffles against immigrants of ethnic diversity.

The National Front, formed in 1967 with the amalgamation of the League of Empire Loyalists, the Racial Preservation Society and the Greater Britain Movement, such attitudes going back to the 1950s, when immigration from faraway lands such as Jamaica was at its peak, followed by those from Pakistan. Whether you may agree with me here or not, it does seem that such right-wing extremists have always suffered a problem of self-identification or self-worth. And I could be wrong here, but I have gotten the impression that many of those members are from working-class families. I once had a good friend working on the shop floor of a precision engineering factory throughout the mid-seventies who was a member of the National Front. 

I was impressed with his commitment to his cause, and he asked me whether I was interested in joining his movement. I said that I would consider after I have read their manifesto. This positive attitude towards his ideas was not because I was patriotic, but because of my naivety in being a young, newly-converted Christian believer. Back then, to believe in Christ was synonymous with capitalism, while socialism was, so I thought, arose from the pits of darkness. And I mistakenly believed that supporting the National Front was honouring to God! However, I insisted on reading their credo before making any move.

It was after reading their leaflet when I realised that the whole movement was militaristic, racist and anti-immigrant from which I had a change of mind, and declined his offer to join. Unfortunately, from that moment his friendship towards me cooled, and he left the firm a short time after.

I suppose my former friend needed something of a cause to be committed to, a group of people with whom he has a sense of identity, the feeling of belonging with a bedrock of imperialism and of a sense of racial and national superiority. And to this day, I wonder whether this nationwide feeling of tribalism is the real motive for Brexit, as the Queen suggested on Christmas Day, the feeling of anti-immigrant xenophobia, the underlying threat that these "foreigners" could offer something superior to what many of our indigenous Brits could offer.

At the same time, the quest for status has been suggested by the media for many youths of all races to carry knives. And although the recent killing of Manchester student Yousef Makki was done by two middle-class boys who attend prestigious schools, this was a rare exception rather than the rule. As I see it, those who carry a knife are from those who failed at school or were expelled at an early age, and rather than engage in useful employment, often group themselves in gang rivalry engaged in the illegal drug trade.

What a shame it is that in our culture, an individual's self-worth is determined by others on his level of education. The brighter he is, the greater the respect he gets. And I have seen this both inside as well as outside the church. And that was so vividly demonstrated in the nineties on at least two occasions.

I was exhorted to deliver a preach on one evening service during the mid-nineties. I had never done this before, so I felt nervous, draining one glass of water after another throughout the talk. On the front row, right in front of me sat a patriotic Englishman who was either reading something or doodling. After the service, I actually heard him boasting to others around that he didn't listen to a single word I had said! Driven by a strong sense of inferior complex, this one-time kitchen porter always acted as if he was nationally and culturally superior to me, because of my "backwards" Italian origins and heritage. A strong advocate of the British stiff upper lip, he never fulfilled his dream of marrying and raising a family. Just three years my junior, he remains single to this day.

On another occasion, which occurred in 1997, after arriving home after a Round-the-World backpacking trip, I stood at the front to give my testimony of the ten-week journey. Within the talk, I mention a possible link between what was displayed and sold in American shops, especially in Santa Barbara, to the future "strong delusion" of 2 Thessalonians 2:11. Looking back at it now, I realise that I might have been way off track, but that didn't stop someone in the audience to say:

What is that fool talking about? What does he know? He's just a window cleaner!

What a contrast all that is compared with the universal respect shown to any graduate who stands at the front. Regardless whether he takes the Bible as literal history or not, within the very same church, he receives reverential respect, simply because of his high level of education.

Putting it all together, it comes as no surprise that many who failed at school carry a knife as a status symbol. Gripped and driven by a deep sense of inferiority, such a person who instantly retribute anyone who dares pose a threat to his ego. Therefore lives are eternally lost by means of a stabbing, which is now growing at a frightening rate in this country.

And I, myself was from time to time felt a sense of inferiority complex throughout the seventies and eighties. That is until the nineties when it was dominated by world travel, which was a psychological therapy and an emotional panacea which contributed well to my sense of self-worth. 

But it is the Bible itself which offers a more permanent therapy for feelings of lacking self-worth. It is found in Psalm 139, which contains these verses:

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb.

I praise you because I'm fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful,

I know that full well.

My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place.

When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body.

All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

Psalm 139:13-16.

We are created and each one of us is unique to God! That is a far cry from believing in Theistic or Darwinian Evolution, which in themselves promote a sense of lacking self-worth.

Everyone born is unique and was knit together in the womb by God himself. As such, God loves each one of us so dearly and has a yearning heart for all to come to him through faith in Christ. As the Scripture says, God commands all men everywhere to repent (Acts 17:30) and that he is patient, not willing that any should perish, but all should come to repentance (2 Peter 3:9). Maybe that's why, in verse 19, he writes, 

If only you would slay the wicked, O God!

If only...But God doesn't. He is not willing that any should perish but to come to repentance instead, and to receive life. This could be the reason why many Old Testament saints were puzzled over the longevity of the unbeliever persisting in his sin. God is patient, waiting for such to change their minds about him, and to trust him for his promise of a future Messiah.

But equally important, God has formed each and every one of us secretly in the mother's womb. Every one of us is unique to him, and therefore objects of his love. So sad it is that the awareness of sin, combined with guilt, the feelings of rejection and of condemnation, making the soul crying out for love and acceptance, to be respected as one of the in-group, along with the lie that he is nothing more than an animal, along with another lie that he's nothing more than a random collection of atoms in a lucky chance of evolution by natural selection.

I know - the omniscience of God. How could God pay so much attention to the unborn if he also knows that this person will never repent throughout life? This is a mystery of God, him being infinite and ourselves finite. It can be heartbreaking to watch a newborn of unbelieving parents, lying asleep in his cot and wondering whether he will ever be drawn close to God's heart. I'll be honest here, but this is one of God's infinite questions to which I cannot provide an adequate answer.

Perhaps the closest I could come was once suggested by one of our church leaders during his sermon. He visualised an open door, over which was read, WHOEVER WILL, LET HIM COME THROUGH. But when the believer walks through the door, he turns to look back, to read another sign which says, CHOSEN BY GOD IN HIS SOVEREIGNTY.

I know, it might look rather naff, but it could be the closest suggestion made by a finite mind to the infinite mind of God.

However, the real cure for a lack of self-worth is to meditate on Scripture such as Psalm 139 with a believing heart. Reading the Bible and mixing it with faith produces a recipe which is so nourishing to the soul and spirit.