Spent the weekend away from the farm at Lulworth Cove to attend a reunion that I had helped organise of some of my old army buddies.

I joined the army in September 1978 as a ‘boy’ soldier in the Junior Leaders Regiment at Bovington camp in Dorset. I didn’t have a clue what I was going to do after scraping through my ‘O’ levels (beyond a determination to leave school), and so when one of my best friends, Simon, suggested we join the army as bandsman as his older brother had done I said ‘sure, why not’ (much to the relief of my father – who was beginning to despair at that point).

So, along with twenty-odd other 16 year olds, we reported on that fateful day to Stanley barracks and began what was to be two years of training to become musicians in the army. Why Her Majesty required us to be harassed, bullied and brainwashed for quite so long and quite so hard, still remains a mystery to me. The job of bandsman (and I think even my comrades would agree) was not that hard – the ability to play simple tunes while marching in a straight line with shiny boots was about as difficult as it got. Yet we were subjected to all manner of tortures including log-runs and rope-courses and endless, endless moping and polishing and ironing all whilst being shouted at by a group of grown men who (now looking back) I can only believe must have derived some sort of sadistic pleasure from it.

However, this was our rite of passage and over those two years, in the face of adversity (especially the Physical Training Instructors) we bonded and grew together. Then - as abruptly as it began - it was all over and we were split up and posted to our regiments in different corners of the empire, and while most had kept in touch with one or two of the others, many of us never saw each other again until this weekend.

As it happens, another ex-bandsman now works there so we had full access to our old barracks (thanks again Olo), and as our collective memories began to piece together our shared experiences I was amazed at how well we all got on – almost immediately picking up where we had left off some thirty years ago. I was surprised at how fond I was of friends I hadn’t seen for decades. I had forgotten so much, and in an age of anxiety where many struggle with who they are and where are they going, it is a wonderful thing to rediscover where you came from.

A fantastic weekend, and the hours flew by in a haze of memories. It was an event that will stay with me for a very long time and I know that I wasn’t the only one to experience a surprising depth of nerves, then elation, then emotion, before the bar finally rang time on our humble gathering. Over the course of the evening many of the lads came up and told me how grateful they were that I had perused my initial idea and brought us altogether - but it wasn’t that difficult in these post-google times, and I in turn was just as grateful that they all travelled so far and taken time out of their busy lives to make it all happen.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.

Not long back from a great ten days spent touring Brittany & Normandy in the camper. Our normal destination for a few days summer camping is Polzeath Beach (about 20 minutes away on the North coast) so this was quite a departure for us. Back in the winter when our good friends Bev & Jane (wonderful but foolhardy souls) offered to house/campsite/farm sit for the August bank holiday, we leapt onto the web a booked some ferry tickets before they had a chance to think it over. The kids were absolutely amazed when we announced that we were going to go “abroad” and the excitement was building all summer.

Now some of you might think that seven of us in a VW camper for ten days might not sound like much of a holiday and as the date approached I began to wonder if indeed it would be less a relaxing vacation and more a severe test of family unity. The kids said that was fine as long as it was hot and there was good surf. This I evaded with “Well it will certainly be hotter that here” - (not hard after possibly the worst summer on record).

And so we trundled off to Poole with every inch of the van crammed full of stuff and carrying a large tent and four surfboards on the roof. It was raining as we left and the crossing to Cherbourg (4 hours) was rough enough to give everyone a real sense of adventure (especially Cathy whose pallor by the time we landed matched the olive green paintwork of our van). But as we landed the sun came out and with minimal screaming as Cathy negotiated the first series of French roundabouts we were on the road and soon at the first campsite.

Having done all of the booking and planning I was going to be in for a hard time if the holiday didn’t live up the kids wild expectations and so I was a bit nervous as we approached. However, I needn’t have worried as it was a lovely clean campsite, with its own outdoor pool and footpath down to a secluded sandy beach where a handful of surfers were enjoying an evening in the waves.

I could go on and on about how wonderful the next ten days were but those of you who have already been to northern France already know it and for the rest of you I simply say – visit, it is a wonderful country. There seems to be so much space compared with our crowded Isle, you get a real sense of peacefulness. The roads are empty, the locals are friendly, the bread is always freshly baked and the butter is too die for…what more could you want.

By the time we had reached Carnac, my stock in the family had already risen appreciably. Here we had the inspired idea to hire some bikes to visit the various Neolithic megaliths in the area (always a high point in any Fairman Family holiday – just ask the kids!) and we finished the day on the largest sandy beach I have ever seen. It went on for miles and was only spoiled by the fact that we annoyingly had to share it with at least 5 other people, a dog and a horse.

How Newquay ever earned the reputation of the surfing capital of Europe I shall never know – if you like surfing then head for the west coast of France. Before we left I was worried that our latest eBay purchase (a nine foot longboard) would never get to see the water. As it was we had some of the longest cleanest surf we have ever experienced.

Back home and after two weeks of rain and wind and the holiday feel good factor is just beginning to wane a little. We have just reached the end of the stack of butter we brought back and I am suffering ‘moules’ withdrawal. Lets hope that Bev & Janes memories of the trials and tribulations of running South Penquite over a wet bank holiday begin to fade before next summer!