Tower and Town, August 2022

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My Time As A Refugee

Recent headlines have talked of the tide of refugees coming ashore on the beaches of Kent. Let us not forget that back in the 1970s many of us became refugees ourselves in our desperate bid to find a better life beyond the ruins of strike-bound Britain.

In 1972 I became a refugee. In September the previous year I had married an American. During that first year of marriage, my new wife from the sunny state of Georgia had to endure a freezing English winter scarred by evenings without electricity because the unions were on strike.

By February she had had enough: "Hugh, I cannot live in this country", she said. So we made plans to go elsewhere. Over the following months we bought an ancient camper van. Our local vicar was persuaded to write us a letter of introduction to his contact in the French town with which our hometown was twinned. And we left the country.

We had originally met when both of us had travelled abroad, she with the Peace Corps, I with an equivalent UK organisation. Stepping into the unknown was already a bond.

Fortunately, Montargis has an all-year-round campsite in the forest on the edge of town; a bit like Marlborough in fact. We set up there, presented our letter of introduction and were warmly welcomed as refugees from our benighted island.

However, finding work was another matter. We needed permits, and there was little chance of getting them. The man at the job centre tried his absolute best for us over many days, but to no avail. Finally, he asked if I would be prepared to be a butler if he were to start ringing round the local aristocracy. Yes of course, I said.

The first call was to a local Count. He didn't need a butler but he was tickled by the request: "Ça m'amuse", he said. So we drove nervously onto the beautifully raked gravel before his moated chateau and waited until he emerged to calm down the enormous Alsatian that had us cowering in the camper-van. "I will hire you for three months to live in and do up my gatehouse. How much do you need per month to survive?" We thought fast and in francs.

A figure was agreed, the bargain struck. We were still refugees but with luck we might find a way to become legal residents. "By the way", he said, "the electricity in the gatehouse is still 110 volts and there's no toilet; you'll have to go down to the end of the garden". Temperatures that winter were well below freezing.

Hugh de Saram

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