A40 Farina Club

As Gab and I trundled down the A34 on Sunday morning I must admit to being a tad concerned about how I'd find Terry, given his traumatic year. The community hall's car park was totally jammed with moderns, so I parked up by the hedgerow by the church. Moments later I was delighted to see Mike emerge from somewhere and we enjoyed a good natter in the sunshine.

Shortly afterwards a blue VW Polo came zooming off the main road, bearing a beaming Terry inside. We could hear him talking before he even switched off the engine, so we knew then that all must be well. As more of our number turned up, we just parked wherever there was space. A very smart Vauxhall (? 50's Cresta) rolled in, to add some interest but, for me, the arrival of the late, great JD's A40 "Clara" was the highlight - and very smart she looked, as well.

The meeting itself was a riot. That's the only word for it. Terry was firing on all cylinders (the small gods alone knew what drugs he'd been imbibing before hand!) and it was a shame that "our" Sam's health wasn't up to letting him attend; let's hope for an improvement soon, eh?

Despite the day being warm and sunny, the northbound traffic on the dreaded A34 was moderately light but it was still dark by the time Gab and I arrived home after a busy but tiring day. Next spring's meeting is the Sunday after Easter (April 16th I think).

Keith wrote
"I parked up by the hedgerow by the church. Moments later I was delighted to see Mike emerge from somewhere and we enjoyed a good natter in the sunshine."

I was in the church grounds visiting the Fowlers grave.

On what turned out to be my final visit to their home (behind the community centre), they were discussing their plans for what they'd do after John's forthcoming hip operation.

He'd been warned not to have it: at 96 his health and weak heart meant a high probability of not surviving it, but they were both determined to go ahead.

"Well, if you do die," said Tag, his wife, "what shall I do with you - burial or cremation?"

"Surprise me!," came the prompt answer. He died, Tag buried him!

I wasn't particularly surprised. When Tag reached 99 she threw a huge party for all the locals (they were childless) to celebrate her 100th birthday, "Just in case I don't make it!"

In fact she went to her rest two years later and, as Mike says, the pair of 'em are tucked up in the nearby churchyard.

What may not be widely known is that the short spur road in front of the community centre is called Fowler's Walk to commemorate his many years of public service in the area.

John always relished a good story. As an architect, his was a reserved occupation during WW2 and he spent many nights firewatching with a colleague on a high building overlooking Southampton city centre. He told me that on one swelteringly hot summer's night they were desperate for a drink and - during an air raid and strictly against orders - his mate set off down the stairs to reach a local pub.

Let John tell the story: "From my perch, I saw him run down the empty street and turn the corner to the pub. A moment later a stick of bombs fell smack across the block. I feared the worse, but he emerged from the cloud of dust and rubble, stark bollock naked apart from his collar, cuffs and trouser turn-ups.

"He arrived in a state of some shock. "I'd just got the door handle in my hand when the bloody pub was blown clean out of it. I never did get the beer," he said indignantly . . .

Sleep tight, both.