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This is an extract from the memoirs of Ivor Bail added to the site with his permission by Byron Whitehead of the Folkestone Heritage team.The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

Evacuation
South East England to South Wales 1939-1942

On the morning of Sunday 3rd of September 1939, I was on the beach at Folkestone in Kent with our evacuee, Gordon Cottle. He and his school friends had been evacuated from London a few weeks earlier to what was considered the safety of the south coast of England, when the threat of war was fast becoming reality. It was a fine sunny day and we were enjoying our morning out. Suddenly the air raid sirens began to sound, unbeknown to us 鈥� war had been declared! An unidentified aircraft in the channel had been picked up on the 鈥楻adar Defence System鈥�. Although we didn鈥檛 understand the seriousness of the situation, our instinct told us to make for home.
Throughout the year, there had been many preparations made and instructions issued, on procedures in the event of air raids, by enemy bombers. Most people expected to see the sky full of big black aircraft, heading for London. Nothing happened, and it turned out to be a false alarm.
Things did begin to happen in the early summer of 1940, when on May 28th, Belgium capitulated, and the French army began to lose ground. The south cost of England was beginning to look unsafe, and the government decided to send the London evacuees, to safer places, also to evacuate all other children from the south of England. That decision was soon justified, as the French surrendered, and our army was pushed back to the French coast, and trapped on the beaches in the area of Dunkirk. The evacuation of our troops coincided with the evacuation of the school children to other parts of the country. Here the railways played a vital role, conveying the exhausted troops to regimental bases for Re-organisation, and children to South Wales. All at the same time, and within a few days at the beginning of June 1940.
The evacuation of my school 鈥楥hrist Church鈥� took place on Sunday 2nd of June 1940. Along with other schools from the town. The evacuation was not compulsory but only a few children remained behind. We were asked to assemble in Radnor Park, a recreational area adjacent to the main railway station.
So it was in company with fellow pupils, I turned up complete, with gas mask, small bundle of clothes, and ration card, with a brown label attached to my jacket, bearing my name and address, school, and identity number. Nobody knew were our final destination was to be. To me it was somewhat of an adventure. To my mother, I have since realised, it must have been like a dreadful nightmare. She did not accompany me onto the station platform where there was so much congestion but arranged to wave goodbye below a nearby archway, over which the train would travel. As it did so, I waved farewell to her-a lone figure and anxious 鈥楳um鈥�, it must have been very emotional for her, she had no idea where I was going, or even if we would ever meet again. My father was unable to accompany her as he was required under emergency regulation to register for defence work, and had left home early that morning for Romney Marsh, where gangs of men were employed erecting wooden poles intended to destroy enemy planes carrying troops, should they attempt to land.
So began a long train journey on a hot summer day, all the way to South Wales. On the journey we saw notices in the gardens of houses that backed onto thee railway track, messages to the defeated troops, saying, 鈥� Good luck Boys鈥�,
鈥淲elcome Home鈥�, 鈥淲e鈥檙e not beat yet鈥�, and even 鈥淭hrow out you foreign coins here鈥�.
On many station platforms, W.V.S and Salvation Army ladies waited with trestle tables laden with, sandwiches cakes, drinks, and cigarettes, all provided for the refreshment of the bedraggled and blood stained soldiers.
Late that afternoon our train arrived at Chepstow in Monmouthshire and we were conducted from the station, through the town, to a drill hall in the main street. It was very hot and sunny and once inside the grounds of the drill hall, we were really glad to receive some rolls and soft drinks while arrangements continued for our transfer, by bus, to our final and still unknown destination.
Eventually coaches from the 鈥淩ed and White鈥� bus company arrived to take us on the last leg of our journey.
Turning out of the main street we were soon on our way passing through St Arvans and driving alongside Chepstow racecourse. There were nolonger any horses to be seen here, as the racecourse had been requisitioned for use as an airfield, later, at the end of the war it was a prisoner of war camp. The journey continued passing, 鈥楳oss Cottage鈥� at the foot of the 鈥榃ynd-cliff鈥� and heading towards Tintern. None of us knew more than that we were now in South Wales. Sign posts and place names throughout the country, had been removed in case of invasion, the first thing we saw on entering Tintern, was of course, the abbey, appearing to our right, nestling close to the river Wye, and bathed in sunshine. A few minutes later, our bus drew up outside the village hall, and we found ourselves being shepherded inside.
I suppose there was about twenty of us from class 7 of 鈥楥hrist Church School鈥�, the children of other classes went elsewhere to nearby villages. I remember standing in a line next to Kenneth, my friend, feeling hot, tired and somewhat unsettled. The long journey, just undertaken, left me slightly bewildered. Was it all a Dream?
Standing opposite us in the hall was quite a large group of villagers, these people, had agreed to take us into their homes, and become our foster parents. They had, previously, signed the necessary forms and stated their preference for boys or girls. Soon a rather awkward process of selection began, and after, watching, waiting and wondering. My friend Kenneth and I, found ourselves being paired up, and being led along by a tall kindly looking gentleman, Mr Ware, the village postman who at the moment, to use the 鈥榦fficial term鈥� had become our 鈥榝oster father鈥�. Waiting outside, no doubt very interested to see what we looked like, were two of Mr Ware鈥檚 daughters, Maureen and Barbara.
We all set off through the village, Kenneth and myself clutching our gas masks, Mr Ware with his post office bike, and our few belongings strapped on it. Maureen riding her cycle slowly, while Barbara walked alongside. Along the way, one or two villagers at their front doors, watched with good natured curiosity, as they noted the war time addition to their postman鈥檚 family.
Arriving at 鈥楶rospect Cottage鈥� our new home, Kenneth and I were greeted by our 鈥榝oster mum鈥� Mrs Ware who soon made us welcome. Little did I know I was to spend some of the happiest days of my life in my short stay in her home. The cottage (house really) certainly turned out to be a 鈥榞ood prospect鈥�.

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