Darsham, Suffolk

My British Friends

My name is Alan Trageser and I was an American Airman living in Westleton from 1981 to 1985. My son was born at Ipswich hospital.

My greatest memories are of the wonderful people I met there like the older couple that befriended me, I called him Gramps and his wife Jess, and my friends like Adam (Gramps's grandson) and the wonderful family down the street from me and their son Vince, who would show me the best pubs in England. I was a wild 18-year-old boy living away from home for the first time with a wife and daughter named Brittaney. Many of the people not only put up with this wild American but learned to even love me! The street parties in front of the White Horse Pub were the best.
Thank you and may GOD bless England and the good people of Westleton!  

When I was 5

I grew up on Church Lane. I had an auntie and uncle living on each side. We had a well for about 10 cottages. I know that the Lane has a different name now. My sisters and I used to play at the big white house at the top of the hill and in the churchyard. We went to the school in the Guild Hall until my sisters had to take a bus to Framlingham. I have some lovely memories of my childhood there. I remember when Queen Elixabeth II was crowned, we all stood on the road to Saxmundham and cheered as the cars went b. My dad took me to the school to get my mug with an orange inside it to commemorate the crowning of the new queen.

Swinging 60s

Memories of dances at Leiston/Aldeburgh to the music of local band, The Rebels, with mates Steve Mew and Keith Tomblin. I worked at G.A. Hubbards as an aerial erector before moving to London, where I still live with my wife and 3 children. I remember the 8 Bells pub whose landlords were Jack & Sylvia Ford. My aunt & uncle Dot & George Scopes still live at Beaumont Cottages, my dad's name is Matt (Paddy) Mckenna.

Dunwich Monastery Gateway

My earliest memory of Greyfriars in Dunwich was probably driving down the hill in my grandfather's old car in 1960 as he brought me to my new home at The Barne Arms Hotel. I had been at boarding school at Dollar in Scotland, and my grandfather had met me off the train in London and driven me along the tortuous roads (including the old A12) to Dunwich. Descending the hill, just before St James' Street opened out, the ruins on the right hand side seemed portentious, as I loved anything old and historic, and this was certainly both. Glimpses of the ruined buildings could be seen through the gate, and later I was to frequently circumnavigate the whole monastery, it's seaward wall being the final outer wall of the ancient city, and the gap between wall and clifftop getting shorter every year.
The first year I lived in Dunwich, there was I think, the last of the pilgrimages to the Monastery, with a religious procession led up the street, past the pub to the Monastery, led by churchmen, banners and numerous pilgrims. I don't know what happened after that, but it was the last one I saw, although I know that in the Church of England, there is still a Bishop of Dunwich. Dunwich was reputedly where St Felix landed to christianise the heathen Angles, who at that time populated Anglia. The other particular memories I have are of flashing past it at near ground level, and at breakneck speed on a 6-wheeled cart built from a salvaged pram and some pieces of wood, with our 'revolutionary' (we thought) new steering system. Justin North, my best friend from Marshside across the road from the pub and I, had built it outside his garage just off the Beach Lane, and would trundle it up to the top of the hill and take turns to career down. Nowadays it would be exceptionally foolish (it was too in those days) due to the amount of traffic, but we were young and foolhardy. At one time we converted it into an armoured car with large carboard box complete with turret on the back, to help us in our 'gang war' with other local boys. On one occasion, I was steering, Justin was in the back with his head emerging from the 'turret' when we had a mishap at the bottom. The steering came away in my hands and we careered into the garden wall outside The Ferns, the next house to Marshside. (The Ferns had once accommodated H Rider-Haggard, when he came to visit Suffolk, and more latterly it had been the summer holiday residence of Dr Roger Bannister of 1 Minute Mile fame). The result was a fair bit of damage to the cart and a number of minor cuts and bruises to our persons, Justin's head having ripped through the top and front of the (fairly substantial) cardboard box at the back.