MY BROTHER HUGH Born 5th October 1920 died 9th May 2006
Back on the estate, and hunting I would use a motor bike which was more flexible for tracks etc. and enabled one to go down to places and spots impossible by any other mechanical means.
One evening in December 1945 during the North East monsoon, Herbert Whittall and Freddie Keun stopped to spend a night at the very small isolated Koslanda Resthouse perched on the steep southern flank of the Haputale Range. They had spent a day snipe-shooting over the paddy fields at Wellawaya and arrived exhausted at the little resthouse in the evening, had a basic meal, a beer and crashed out. Next morning Herbert awoke to have an early breakfast to find the dining table covered with a body completely enclosed under a sheet. Freddie came curious to see what was going on, and gingerly looked under the sheet to see Hugh, still fast asleep with no pillow. About an hour later he awoke to say he was coming back from Hambantota on his motor bike and as it was late near midnight, and he had got delayed by heavy rain and everyone was asleep he had made his nest on the table! Once off the table we all sat down to a good Sinhalese breakfast of fried eggs and string-hoppers, with a hot curry sauce!
I came down just before Christmas to Colombo in the Singer Sports to bring Mike back from the Sinhalese family, the Fonsekas where he had been staying and going on to study prior to going to Bradfield. Mother had asked me also to collect 200 mince pies that the chef of the Galle Face Hotel had made for her first Christmas Party after the War and the first in Freedom from the camp. The car was playing up and the crown wheel had teeth missing , but hopefully there should be enough to get home the 150 miles or 5 hour drive climbing nearly 7,000 ft. I went to the dealers and obtained a spare crown wheel to fit when I got home to Hugoland. I picked up Mike and we set off early at about 7 am in the cool of the day. The first 50 miles or so were uneventful except for the occasional screech as the gear teeth jumped over one another, but as we started the strain of the first foothills it got progressively worse until finally as we rounded the bridge at Mawanella overhung by a huge wild fig tree, its branches wreathed in flying foxes hanging upside down and screeching as well. We just managed to pull into a tiny Sinhalese mechanic’s cadjan roofed garage to telll him of our difficulties. I showed him the new crown wheel and he said he could easily do the job. The Sinhalese are quite the worlds most adaptable and ingenious mechanics so I helped him as we got the differential apart only to discover to my horror that the one supplied was the wrong part and was too big. The Singalese though said that he could still make it work, by cleaning all the old scuff and by fitting the crown wheel and pinion much tighter. He was as good as his word and did a marvellous running repair job and it worked although the whole episode had taken over five hours. So the two of us journeyed on to Kandy to the club to have a refreshment for the next three hours of our journey. In the bar however there was a loud mouthed American running the British down. I told him to shut up or I would hit him. But looking at small me he just went on so true to my word I hit him hard and laid him cold on the floor, but decided immediately that it was better to clear out before his chums arrived on the scene so off we went with nothing to eat. We drove fast, as the Singer I had fitted with a super charger, to counter the effects of elevation and the loss of power in the thin hill air. All the time we drove with the windshield flat, as you could do in the cars of those days, and it was nice and refreshing in the tropics. At the boundary between the Western and Central Province just out of Kandy there was a pole barrier down for road check