Chapter 1 - London to Norway

The Dark Continent; home of the black man, steeped in superstition, ignorance and savagery! Persistent drums, witch doctors, disease; lions and leopards stalking their prey, snakes writhing and darting in the undergrowth and above all the heavy African moon or the blazing sun! A hundred years ago that was the picture, but now we were on our way to Africa, our future home, the Rhodesias, and we wondered how much of the old Africa remained.

We left Bovingdon Airport in May 1948. It was a beautiful spring day. London was at it's best with the soft yellow sunshine and a gentle breeze, with the shimmering promise that such a day brings, and as we left our hotel in the airport coach, we loved it so much it was as if we took farewell of a mother, and only the excitement of our adventure made it possible to part. The airport was small, new and modern looking in design and the plane in which we were to make the first hop of our flight, shone in the sunshine and seemed to tremble like a dragon fly so that I, who had never been airborne before, wondered how it could be safe for some twenty passengers to soar on it across the North Sea to Norway.

We had to wait about the airport for some time, so our good-byes to those few friends who had managed to come thus far with us, was similar to all good-byes from boat, train and probably stage-coach in the 'good old days'...all that could be said, was said again and again. A telegram was handed to me as we embarked. 'Happy landings, love and best wishes for your future happiness and success. Goodbye.' The last word made me realise what we were leaving and for all we knew, it was goodbye for ever.

It was hot inside the plane, like an oven. It was a Dakota, I believe, and seemed very small, but we soon forgot that when we took off and saw the coast of England falling behind us at Cromer, and the great grey swell of the North Sea beneath. It became very cold during the four hour's flight, but we were supplied with warm blankets and pillows and were very comfortable. A box lunch was served, and after the dull, rationed food we lived on for so many years it was celestial fare indeed, supremely suited to our progress through the clouds. There were sandwiches of pink ham, delicate fish and golden eggs on rye bread, buttered thickly, and tea. We recognised tea but the rest of it was angel fare.!

We soared over the coast of Norway in the pearly dusk, down into Sola Airport near Stavanger, where a coach was waiting to take us the ten miles to the Viste Hotel. This part of Norway was very like the west of Scotland, complete with the chill of evening but the houses we passed were not the grim stone as most are in Scotland, but of wood, sturdy and neat with many of the windows cut into the angle of the walls and each window crammed with flowers in pots, Norwegian youths in knee breeches and woollen caps sauntered home for their evening meal or gossiped by the 'Spiss iss' shop, which we were told, was a restaurant. The Viste Hotel is a beautiful modern hotel in the bay of a North Sea fjord.

We were delighted with the simple lines of the modern furniture, the beautiful wood, and above all the wonderful Norwegian beds. We sank into a snowy covered down bed, and pulled over us another snowy covered down bed, and I made up my mind that if ever I lived in Britain again, these were the beds I would have! There are no blankets to buy or wash, just two bed slips on two down beds, and a pillow if preferred. The food here was beyond criticism and so plentiful, it was with difficulty we refrained from behaving like rescued castaways. Now of course, since we have had several years of varied foods our eyes would probably not light up with joy at the thought of halibut with lashings of buttered sauce, but to war weary digestions it was a different matter. I wondered why Norway was able to serve such food, but they told us the average Norwegian was also rationed and the food we received was specially for tourists. I hope we are able to impress foreigners to Britain in the same way.

Hilda Williams was 42 when she went to Africa in 1948 with her husband Alex and their four children Eleanore, 19, Stanley, 17 (three days after leaving), Roy, 16 (one month before leaving), and Hilda, 14.

The 'plane was a Dakota twin engined one we were told had been used during the war carrying paratroops during the invasion - and it had been little modified since. The seats were canvas and there was no heating or pressurising which is why 'popping' of ears was a problem.