As we left the river and reached the open sea the paravanes were slung out, for in the shallows there is always the risk of mines. The sea freshened, the sky was dull and grey, and a clammy drizzle hung in the air.

I took stock of the other passengers. A young married couple and their two-year old child were going to England after their evacuation from Java; a mechanical engineer from Sumatra was going home to start again; a Press correspondent from the Sydney Morning Herald was taking his first trip to England; a Birmingham man and his wife and son were returning after two years in Sydney; a young and very talkative Australian girl who had been married eight days was going to New Zealand to join her sailor husband; an old Australian, retired, was taking a trip for his health; and a young New Zealand girl was going home to her parents.

The ship was commanded by a Devon man, one of four brothers who had served during the Great War and who were still upholding the family record by taking their ships along the sea lanes to Britain. The atmosphere of quiet efficiency amongst the officers and men inspired a feeling of confidence, and as the days went by I developed a profound respect for the Merchant Navy, the only Service that wears no uniform, that travels in ships with little defence and no armour.

Gunners from the Royal Artillery and Navy manned the anti-aircraft and eight naval guns which comprised the total armarment of the vessel.

The sea was choppy for the first few days, and the air turned colder as we headed slightly south of east. By day we played deck golf when the decks were dry, and when darkness fell our usual practice was to play a few rubbers of bridge, going on deck before turning into our bunks to see the green foam of the phosphorescence tumbling by the bows and streaming down the side of the ship, occasional patches of strong light glowing from the spangle so that we seemed to be floating through a constellation.

One Friday in June the distant snowy mountains of New Zealand rose above the sea mists, and I was struck by the beauty of the white peaks standing clear and clean on the horizon. The snow line was clearly marked, the white breaking off suddenly to show the dark greens and browns of the lower lands.

We entered Caroline Bay in the South Island and anchored outside Timaru in the late afternoon to await the tide.

The Australian bride was overcome at the sight of her new home. In a voice vibrant with excitement she said, "It's a big island, isn't it?”

The pilot manoeuvred the big ship into the small dock with difficulty, and we tied up at 8 o'clock.

Timaru reminded me of a small English country town. From the neat centre of shops and offices we could walk in one direction to the sea, in another towards the mountains with their majestic peaks standing coldly inland, giving way as the eye fell on the slopes and valleys to the greens and yellows and browns of the grazing lands. On Sunday a small party walked to the outskirts of the town, striking westward, and came upon a natural park planted with pines and ferns, palms and evergreens. A serpentine lake ran through the middle of a turfy hollow, spanned by rustic bridges and edged with rushes and moss. Wild ducks and black swans floated on the quiet water, snapping at morsels thrown by the delighted children who stood on the bank. Two deer roamed in a compound nibbling at the bread and grass in the visitors' hands. It was like a little bit of England.

Our arrival at Timaru was known to everyone in the small town, and we were greeted in a friendly way by shopkeepers and strangers. One man, who was anxious to help us in every way he could, arranged for some of the passengers to spend the evening with his family and friends, and did us a great service by obtaining permission for us to buy warm clothing without coupons.

We sailed on Tuesday morning and reached Port Chalmers on the following day. The wharf is upstream, and the scenery as we steamed slowly towards the port was soft and quiet, the rolling hills tinted with shades of green and cream standing in pale sunlight against a background of water blue. As we neared the town, small red and green and brown cottages lined the terraced hillside, a grey spired church stood halfway up the steep slope, and the boat-sheds occupied the small strip of flat land at the water's edge.

A train chuffed along a hidden track halfway up the hill, threading its way between the dark pines, wound round the headland and disappeared again amongst the lofty trees, only the white steam from its engine showing its progress.

The ship tied up at ten o'clock and we went ashore.

Port Chalmers is a tiny place, with few shops and one small cinema, and a near copy of the Whitehall Cenotaph standing proudly in the middle of its one street. Within a few minutes the rambler can reach the slopes for the beautiful views of hills and sea and river.

We walked one morning over the hill which rises sheer from the dock. The roads and paths were still covered with hoar frost, and the wind had an edge to it which made our faces glow and the blood run quicker in our veins. We plodded up the steep hillside and stopped to examine the stone edifice at the brow. It is a squat round pillar of local stone, with an anchor worked in sandstone on the top. The tablet explains that Captain Scott and his colleagues sailed from Port Chalmers in the Terra Nova, never to return from their expedition to the South Pole.

On three occasions we caught the train to Dunedin, arriving there after a run of twenty-five minutes along the winding river banks. Our expeditions were for shopping only, and in this respect the city supplied all our needs.

The ship sailed from Port Chalmers on Monday, having completely filled her holds for England's larder and tuned up her engines for the long trip home. We ran into a mist, and the sea freshened, throwing spray against the bulkheads and funnel, whilst there was a distinct drop in temperature.

We crossed the International Date Line after thirty-six hours' steaming, and so that week contained two Tuesdays. In the meantime the clock was going on approximately half an hour each night, as the route was only slightly south of east.

The weather turned colder, the sea developed a heavier swell each day, and the sun disappeared from view. Every movable thing was lashed down, and seamen scuttering along the decks with food led a hazardous life, two out of three trips leading to disaster. Huge lashing breakers rose above the main deck and collapsed with a deep roar on the boards, the barometer dropped to 28.5 inches, the temperature was 39° . Hail battered at our faces and icy wind nipped our ears as we tried to walk the decks for a little exercise. One day the sun struggled through, weak and wet, and the hail glistened and shone in the pale light. A rainbow started up from the churning sea, rose high in a beautiful arc to decorate the leaden sky, and fell steeply again to disappear in the grey waters. We were in the middle of the South Pacific in mid-winter.

Monday the 6th of July was the worst day of all. A fifty-foot sea was running, and the ship was rolling heavily under the gigantic swell. At lunch-time half the food was shot from the plates and deposited on the cloths, passengers were alternately pushed against the table and thrown into the back of their seats. At the close of the meal a particularly heavy roll hoisted diners out of their chairs onto the ground, a steward was picked up and thrown, complete with crockery, against the port bulkhead, and glasses and water-jugs tipped over on the bolted down tables.

The waves were lashing over the high boat deck, and a quick-release raft was torn from its sloping cradle and carried into the sea. A ladder from the main deck to the cabins was torn from its fixing. The bow dipped into the troughs and emerged again in a shower of spray, swamping the fore-deck every few seconds. One giant wave entered the bridge and drenched the officers on watch.

After that day the glass rose slightly, and the wind changed its direction daily. We were able to pace the decks in the cold clear air, and on the drier days the deck golf courses were in great demand.

There is something about a long trip at sea which taxes the nerves and shows up the character. The monotony, boredom and lack of exercise, especially in rough weather, fray the temper of the more highly-strung or those who are lacking in a sense of humour. There is no surer way of seeing the weaknesses of a person than by living with him, day after day, in a small orbit of activity with little scope for self expression. After a time the women began to criticise the other passengers; one man took the line of least resistance and entered on a gloriously oblivious adventure of intoxication, only to finish up in the slough of alcoholic remorse, and two R.A.F. officers who had joined the ship at Port Chalmers opened a campaign of criticism and complaint about their cabins, the food, the service, and everything concerned with the ship.

Victor and I were fortunate, for six months together in danger and financial straits and worry had drawn us together in a bond of understanding which no weather or minor inconveniences could break. We had made friends with the Press correspondent early in the trip, and spent most evenings playing bridge or poker dice, with one of the ship's officers to make the fourth. After the games we talked about ships and cargoes, hazards of the sea in war time, and other topics of mutual interest. The incidents caused by the lapses of the other passengers were of little import to us.

The surest antidote for the mental strains of sea travel is a sense of humour. If you can take a joke and play another, ignore the machinations of the malicious-minded, and remember that every trait of your character is undergoing a severe test, you will be fit to travel.

I often wondered what the officers and men thought of us; if they were amused to see the same old signs appearing as they always appeared on every trip, to hear the same old complaints, the same spiteful chatter going on amongst us as it always did.

I am inclined to suspect that even their temperaments undergo the same trial each trip.

On Sunday the 12th of July we saw the snow-clad mountains of South America rising bleakly blue to the north. We were rounding the Horn.

Boat drills and action stations were more frequent and very thorough, and the Mate worked for two hard days on the lifeboats, testing the engine of No.1 and seeing that it was fuelled and all boats were freshly supplied with provisions, all davits in good order, all pulleys cleaned and oiled, and their ropes renewed. We were in dangerous waters again.

The weather improved as we turned course towards the northeast and entered the tropics. The temperature rose steadily, and with it the spirit of the passengers. Soon we were able to walk about and play games in shorts, bare-backed, giving our bodies the benefit of the sunshine before it became too hot to bear.

An Admiralty message was received warning us of an enemy raider in our area, and of a submarine which had sunk a ship five hundred miles from Freetown. We were advised to sleep in our clothes and to carry lifejackets with us. The ship changed course to make a detour. They were anxious days.

On Saturday we crossed the Equator, and on the same day sighted two ships, the first to be seen since leaving New Zealand. On the following day two aircraft came out from land, giving us a feeling of confidence in the knowledge that we were near land and safety. The coast of West Africa could be seen dimly in the distance on our starboard bow on Monday morning, and Freetown's wide harbour hove into sight in the afternoon.

We passed through the net and entered the harbour at five o'clock.

The port seemed different from the first time I had seen it, in 1940. No canoes came to greet us, and we learned that fruit was scarce at this time.

Dozens of ships of all kinds filled the spacious harbour. There were cargo and passenger vessels, now used as troopers, and warships of various sizes and colouring, their grotesque camouflage making them appear misshapen and difficult to distinguish.

A convoy had preceded us into harbour, and many more ships followed when we had anchored. We had hoped to obtain oil within a few hours, but the prospects were against us with the weight of shipping requiring fuel.

The following morning was hot and sticky, the overcast sky threatening rain. All through the day vessels were coming and going, a strange assortment of flags and shapes and sizes. An aircraft dew over the harbour. Still we had no oil, and we went to bed wondering when we should be moving again.

Wednesday morning saw the ship a scene of activity. At six o'clock a strange vessel hove to on our starboard beam. She looked as if she had been a tramp steamer at one time, converted several times into different types of ship. I was surprised to see the White Ensign flying aft, and was told that the ship was specially fitted for demagnetising other vessels. When a ship is being built in the yards the continual hammering of tools and rivet drills induces permanent magnetism into the hull over the period of construction. This magnetism is not counteracted by the solenoids which are fitted round vessels to neutralise magnetic mines, as the lines of force are in a different plane.

A strange crowd of West Africans came aboard, one wearing a red, white and blue shirt and carrying an umbrella of similar colours, others wearing shorts and once-white shirts, some wearing large flat caps and others soft felts. Only a few wore the Naval rating's round sailor cap. These boys set to work with a will to haul aboard the huge coils of cable, the batteries and instruments, the round booms and other tackle in preparation for the work.

In the meantime a lighter had tied up on our port side, and the hoses had been fixed to the inlets of our bunkers. Shortly afterwards a dilapidated-looking ship tied up on the far side of the lighter, and the oil-carrier connected up her hoses and started to feed both vessels at the rate of some hundred tons an hour.

Two native Customs Offices were in difficulties about boarding our ship. They had been obliged to board the lighter and were, with some misgiving, examining the smooth bulkheads and the gap that separated the two vessels. The senior official, dressed in a smart blue serge suit and peaked cap, with two broad bands round his arms, paraded the lighter's fore-deck in growing excitement, trying to attract the attention of the preoccupied officers. At last his excitement got the better of him, and he stamped up and down, waving his arms eloquently but wildly in the air. The performance came to an end when two bands slipped off one sleeve of his uniform, and he retired in confusion as he tried to replace them.

The Naval vessel left us at ten-thirty, leaving the negroes on our ship. Two were sitting on the de-gaussing cable by the scuppers, heads on knees, dozing in the warm, humid sunshine. One scholar was counting the copper and silver from his pocket, stacking the English coins in neat order on the hatch cover. Another had procured a piece of chalk and was writing very slowly and with great deliberation on the canvas, stopping at every few letters to cock his head on one side and repeat the syllables carefully, at the same time shooting sly glances sideways to see if anyone was appreciating his talent. Some were chanting songs, some whistling, others laughing and joking at the rail.

The West Africans knew that if they stood round the doors of the galley they would receive scraps of food, not so much to satisfy their hunger, for they are well paid and fed, but their mischievous love of a scramble.

A huge piece of meat was handed out, and was torn apart by a dozen hands, other natives running up to see the prize. If a man had been unable to get a piece of the meat, he followed his comrade round pleading with him and holding out his hand until the scrap had been divided, when he would run off chuckling, only to be chased by another man and finally obliged to pass on part of his morsel. A tray containing scraps of cold meat was pounced on by so many hands that it disappeared in a mound of black bodies, the ring of closely-packed posteriors swaying like a Rugby scrum. At the break-away a solitary figure stood with an empty dish in his hand, and had to satisfy himself by running his finger round the bottom to collect the fat and cold gravy.

The captain of the Naval vessel, when he first came on board, had eyes for no one but the two-year old child with whom I was playing. The little girl, with a child's mistrust of strangers, was not very pleased at being lifted into his arms, but was soon smiling into his wrinkled face and answering him in shy monosyllables.

The officer told us that he had not seen a white baby for eighteen months.

Saturday was hot and dry and still. The decks threw heat at your shoes and through your eyes into the head. One passenger was sick with heat-stroke; others lay in the shade wearing sun-glasses, trying to keep the hot sun from their skins and the piercing light from their eyes.

An aircraft-carrier and escort vessels left the harbour, followed by a number of troop carriers. The thousands of khaki figures lining the decks made no sign; there was no waving, no sound. For now the ships that went to the East carried troops straight into the battle zones, there was no period of waiting when the new sights could interest the soldier on his first visit to strange lands; there was no thrill, for the war was old and grim.

I wondered if any of my friends were on those ships.

We weighed anchor at half-past ten and caught up with the convoy after a few minutes' sailing. We sailed through their formation and kept with them until they changed direction and struck southwards. The paravanes were out again, as they always were on entering and leaving ports. We resumed our zigzag pattern, and I thought idly of the previous two years. From Liverpool I had zigzagged north-west, swerved to the south, cut in to the east, careered southwards to Capetown, bounced to Bombay, deflected to Colombo, crossed to Penang. I had moved southwards to Singapore, sailed to Australia, left for New Zealand, dashed across the Pacific, turned north to Freetown, and now was sailing back to the point where I had started. Four times I had crossed the Equator, and had zigzagged from 56° North to 56° South. Had I not sailed in war time I needed not have crossed the Equator once, nor should I have seen half the places I had visited; certainly I should not have sailed round the World.

Sunday and Monday were uncomfortable days. There was not a breath of air, the sky was heavy, the air thickly humid. These were the Doldrums.

When at last the ship turned slightly north, and we left the Tropics and the stuffy air behind us, the sky cleared to a soft blue, cooling breezes tempered the warm sunshine, and the days lengthened. The week passed quickly in the fine weather and calm seas, and on Saturday it seemed that even the ship was hurrying, hurrying, the rumba beat of its twin oil-engines adding zest to our high spirits and anticipation.

On Sunday we entered on the most dangerous stage of the voyage. Guns were manned, watches were doubled, there was an air of tension when dawn broke and at the end of the day when the sun was going down, for the half-light is the worst time of the day. We were advised to sleep in our clothes, to keep our life-jackets near by, and to have small bags packed with the most essential things. I was struck again by the absolute efficiency, order and calm of the crew and the gunners.

We ran into colder weather and rougher seas on Monday, losing speed in riding the deep troughs and the tall crests of a leaden swell. The sky was overcast and patches of sea mist rolled over the ship, reducing visibility to a few feet.

The weather improved slightly as the week drew on, and on Friday the sky was clear as we steamed into harbour at dawn. The green rolling hills and the small cottages dotted round the coast, the old grey buildings and the isolated patches of trees lay so quiet and still, so very peaceful and homely, that the first pangs of homecoming caught in my throat, and I stood on the fore-deck looking over the still, clear water, my mind far away. Yet not so far away now.

In the afternoon the passengers were taken off by a tender. We stepped ashore, our feet on firm land for the first time since Port Chalmers.

I caught an early train and travelled through the beautiful green Yorkshire fields. It was haymaking time.

In my trip round the World I never saw fields as green as England's.

The tram was in haste to get me there, my heart was bumping madly, with a loud and erratic beat, my mind was a turmoil, thoughts rushed in on me, I heard Lancashire men - my own folk - talking of their recent holidays, or their work, or their families, or the war. Their voices were warm and friendly, blunt and yet musical, and in my excited state it seemed that the sound rose to a crescendo from all directions, telling me that I was getting nearer, getting nearer, nearer....

I lit a cigarette and rested my head against the seat with eyes closed.

At 9.30 the tram pulled into the small station, and a familiar porter came up to take my luggage from the van. I wondered which man it would be at the barrier collecting tickets. The ground felt strange to my sea-legs, but the sweet cool air of the morning was the same as ever.

I was home.