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Arriving at Port Stephens, slightly green about the gills from our first flight in something as small as a beaver floatplane, the children and I met up with Clive, who had flown out two days earlier to prepare the house for us. He had borrowed various sticks of furniture so we could cope until our crates arrived - which finally happened many weeks later, much of our stuff ruined by seawater and rain. Someone kindly gave us a clucky hen (ie broody) and a setting of eggs for her, plus a couple of laying hens. She also provided a large tin of 'grease' - rendered muttonfat for cooking, and some baked goods. Another lady presented us with a handful of goose wings... The wings of Upland geese make excellent brushes to reach into corners and chase out the ever-present dust which goes with peat stoves. Since they were considered a pest and (and still are, but no longer have a bounty on their beaks as they did then), it made sense to utilise them to the full. Tape was bound round the 'handle' end.

Someone else gave us several lumps of pumice, locally known as 'pummy' - these wash up on local beaches here, from South America, and are wonderful for cleaning stove hotplates. Bread was another gift - and the loan of tins to bake my own until our belongings arrived.

Our house was a typical Camp house, tin sheeting over a wood frame and un-insulated. It had five bedrooms and was basic but adequate. We had a garden or 'yard', several shanties (outbuildings), a hen run, vegetable garden and potato patch. We all settled in fairly quickly, and I started my new job as schoolteacher right away, in the tiny schoolroom attached to the social club.

We soon found out the truth of the old song about 'owing one's soul to the company store'. We had to buy flour, sugar and henfood by the sack, this being the unit of sale, and stock up on all the other basics. There were special bins in the houses for sugar and flour - since everyone had to do all their own baking, of course, these basics were used in quantity. These bins were reasonably mouse proof but I got used to finding weevil-like creatures in the flour. Extra protein I guess, but I sieved them out... Margarine for cooking was available in large tins - we soon christened this 'axle grease' - the empties were later used to store our own rendered mutton fat. All the store's supplies arrived by sea, on board the MV Forrest or MV Monsunen.

All these basic requirements were obtained from the settlement store and entered in a book, to be deducted from our wages. Very little cash changed hands in those days, even the Poppy Day Appeal could be charged to account, and if a minister visited to hold a service in the social club no offering in filthy lucre need be made - the storekeeper cum bookkeeper just wrote down your name and the amount to be given...

It seemed at one stage that we would never be clear of debt, with the low wages, despite various entitlements such as free meat (what an experience that was, too, to stagger up the green with a huge lump of beef or mutton, being buzzed by enthusiastic Johnny Rooks), milk (not too generous) and peat. We paid no rent for the house, but electricity was metered and strictly limited, being from a generator. No washing machine heater was permitted. With three small children I had plenty of washing to do, and teaching meant I missed out on the generator hours rather too often.

Now and then the beaver plane would do a mail drop, which caused great excitement - the pilot would circle the settlement first, then the mailbag would be launched as he tilted the plane to avoid it landing on a float. I've heard tales of mailbags ending up in the sea or the middle of gorse bushes. If there was a passenger to arrive or depart, a rowing boat would be sent to wait at the buoy, the transferral process from rocking boat to rocking plane making life interesting.

The children enjoyed life in Camp, finding their amusement in simple play. Clive was away a lot during the week on shepherding, so it was pretty quiet once our three youngsters were in bed. I was glad to find there was a basic Ranfurly lending library in the settlement. I could also borrow books from the Stanley library, and got used to entering my initials inside the back cover so the librarian would know not to send that title to me again. But I am also an outdoor person, and hankered for my own horse, having been promised when we agreed to emigrate that it would be easy to buy one - and finding this not to be the case.

Later I did buy an 11 year old horse out of my earnings, for the grand sum of �45 (the going rate then for a horse colt - untamed male of any age - while a mare went for �50.) Minstrel was wonderful. Suspicious of people in general and with a deep-rooted hatred of men, he had never had a halter on him, just a lasso. I broke him English style, with Clive's help, getting mocked for what was then seen to be a namby-pamby style of taming, and later got placed in races with him. Nowadays most people are much gentler with their horse taming methods, but in those days it was gaucho style that prevailed. He was said to be part Orlov trotter, and he could certainly eat up the ground with a wonderfully easy pace.

I taught for three years at Port Stephens in the tiny schoolroom with its temperamental peat stove - unqualified but loving the job - for the grand sum of �1,600 p.a. Much use was made of topic i.e. themed work, as this could involve all the ages (4 to 14) at different levels and in different subjects. Supplies then were limited and the range of reading books etc was small. Nowadays Camp Education is rich in facilities and supplies, and even provides computers...

In a former life I (a one-time convent girl) did secretarial work as a temp during winter months, and was employed as Head Girl of a Dartmoor pony trekking centre during the summer). Clive (actually a well qualified farm manager, who had run various farms including three organic places and a Highland estate) worked first as handyman which mostly seemed to involve killing dogmeat (cull sheep) for the myriad sheepdogs on the farm - then shepherd, using horses and dogs to help gather the vast 'camps' or grazing areas. He was allocated his own troop of farm horses, which were basically those which no-one else wanted, for one reason or another...

Horses aren't shod in the Islands, or fed unless racing etc. Each shepherd would select two or three horses from his troop, to be kept in the huge Horse Paddock, work them hard for a few weeks and then swap them for others. The main herd grazed good keep miles from the settlement - an exciting business driving them all in to the big corral and parting off the new batch! - this system allowing them to regain weight and their feet to grow back. Breeding mares were kept in a separate area with the 'studs' or stallions.

The children adapted slowly to settlement life, having been more used to isolated homes and their own company. Life was reasonably good. Over twenty people were employed full-time and five part-time on the farm, which was the size of Dartmoor - some quarter of a million acres.

This three year period was rudely interrupted by the 'conflict' - ie the Argentine invasion in 1982, when we had the choice of staying put and seeing things through or being evacuated to England. Since the Islands were very much home by this time, we opted to stay put. And are now glad we did. (See the relevant Links under the Falkland Islands section for details of the conflict, as it's known here.)

In September of that year we had all but finished our contract and had no money to go elsewhere, when we were offered employment on Pebble Island (north of West Falkland), again as settlement teacher and shepherd respectively. We moved house by Chinook helicopter, door to door, since the local coastal vessel of the time (the MV Monsunen) wasn't available, courtesy of the British Forces.

Pebble still carried the scars of war. The airstrip was littered with Argentine aircraft, destroyed by the British special forces during their raid, and the children soon found new playthings. The ejector seats in the Pucara aircraft were deliberately triggered to make them safe - the mind boggles as to what could have happened otherwise. Following this raid, the settlement people had been held captive, as the Argentine troops thought (wrongly) that they had somehow helped the raiding party.

At Port Stephens our milk had been provided, albeit in a limited quantity as we were way down the social strata of the settlement. Not only did I have the usual peat buckets to fill, ashes to empty etc etc on Pebble, but I found I had an even fuller life. I started my days early, milking some of my 'troop' of house cows in a daze of early-morning semi-unconsciousness, afterwards letting their calves out with them to suckle for the day. Carting the milk buckets home, I then spent a while on the hand turned milk separator, producing cream to make butter. Next I turfed the children out of bed, washing and helping them to dress - then feeding them and Clive (who had 'turned to' for his own work at 6 am). Next came my own shepherding work - getting the kids all off down the green to school. (At one stage we fostered two other children, which made life interesting.)

Once at school I became Miss rather than Mum... and answered to either out of school hours. Rollcall began the day, to enable the farm to claim subsidy from Government for my small 'salary', teaching a full syllabus to assorted ages (up to ten children in one small room). This age range was a challenge in itself and one I accepted with gusto having had three years' experience under my belt. My methods might have been unorthodox but they worked.

Back home for Smoko (mid-morning break), back to school, home for a hastily prepared lunch, school again, home, collapse briefly in armchair with cup of tea...

Nanoseconds later - a knock at the door - "Please Miss, will you hear me read?" (ie homework) - the small voices of those whose parents were unwilling or unable to take on any of what were seen to be my responsibilities. Deep sigh.

"Yes dear, come on in..."

Try hard not to switch to autopilot as they proudly read those words that I knew all too well. Janet and John have a lot to answer for...

Praise and encouragement, through gritted teeth. Persuade visitors to go and play outside or at least Go Home...

Part calves from cows if young, this being done at lunchtime for older calves, so their mothers would have milk for me in the morning. Maybe visit the little store for supplies, prepare supper, feed hens and collect eggs if the kids had forgotten, do some gardening perhaps. No television, so early nights, much needed. Up in night by torchlight to attend to anyone needing a loo visit. Saturdays were washing days as the power was only on for a few hours each day and we had an old twin-tub machine so I couldn't leave it unattended. Bedwetting a dreaded but inevitable complication with some small visitors.

Clive would help with a baking session on Saturdays too, when he could, as all bread etc had to be homebaked. Then everyone would have a wash and spruce up, dress in their best clothes and attend the Saturday night film show in the social club, for the whole settlement. If the boat hadn't called lately with new films (the big old reels), we happily watched the same films over and over again. Considerable amounts of beer were consumed by many, indeed I remember the then manager (now sadly deceased) missing a corner on his way back up the green in his Landrover. He was somewhat confused to find himself in our vegetable garden.

It was a full life, to put it mildly.

And then in September 1983, we got our own farm.

Which, as the saying goes, is a whole 'nother story...

�@

Checked on 1st August 2006 with some nostalgia...