The sights of Austria and Switzerland had been largely ruined by the heavy rain. In fact we'd been extremely unlucky with the weather. After I'd shed [Z] however, life became far more enjoyable. My first impulse was to get as far away from her as possible. So I motored straight down to Italy. This was on Sunday 14th August. And it was truly delightful to be on my own once more. I celebrated my liberty by sitting in a cafe after dinner, by the side of Lake Como, and taking due note of the sheer beauty of the girls in Northern Italy. I was revelling in my rediscovered independence, and I ended up by writing a long letter to [Y].

The rest of the holiday was mainly concerned with two things - painting and tourism. Altogether I painted twelve landscapes in fairly sketchy form. I shall need to do a lot of work on them before they are finished, and I have my doubts that they will match up to the quality of last year's work. But I couldn't spare the same amount of time as I did then, on completing what I had started. They are some attractive sketches in oil paint, might be the best way of describing them. And they will certainly brighten up my room at Folly Bridge.

I must confess to obtaining more excitement from panoramic scenes of natural beauty, than from the exploration of the edifices made by man. It is more from a sense of duty that I go parading round the sights of any town. But the natural scenery is truly lovely - especially around the lakes at Como and Garda, the countryside around Florence, and up by Genoa and in the Alps. I looked over a long list of cities (on foot, rather than in [Z]'s fashion) - Como, Milan, Bergamo, Brescia, Verona, Padua, Venice, Bologna, Florence, Sienna, Rome, Pisa, Genoa, Turin, Dijon and Fontainbleau. Naturally I found a lot to impress me, even if it was the countryside itself which I really preferred.

I took a liking to the Italians, largely for their friendliness and vivacity. They made it their business to come over and sit beside me whenever I stopped at a roadside cafe - like the one who came up to tell me that he had spent twenty-five years in Britain. But the only English he seemed to have acquired was to tell me (repeatedly): "We Italians are lazy buggers!" - always followed by roars of laughter.

I encountered all the usual trouble in not being allowed to enter Catholic cathedrals, on account of me being (as they regarded) indecently dressed. Usually they were prepared to waive the rule, but I did get turned out of the cathedral at Milan.

At Verona there was the preserved body of San Zeno on display under the altar of his church - which I found a bit gruesome.

When I went to have dinner with Oonagh, both of her children were there. I found Garech as obstreperous as ever. I got involved in argument with him at one stage concerning the justification for I.R.A. activities - also concerning the right for Englishmen to call Northern Ireland by that name, instead of Eire. And I finally lost patience with his rambling style of argument. But we were able to set the issues to one side eventually on an agree-to-differ basis.

Oonagh does spoil her children in a manner which is quite atrocious. In fact it's even worse in the case of Tara, who is in the process of compiling a huge collection of L.P. gramophone records by the technique of screaming his head off in the shop, until she has given him what he wants.

The following evening there was some kind of a special festival being held in Venice, and Oonagh suggested that I should come and watch it with them. And since Roderick and Jimmy were departing, I could now occupy their room....

I found the festival to be utterly boring. We were seated in a gondola amongst a whole pack of others, watching a procession of floats which were supposed to represent the industries of Venice. Something strictly designed for the tourists, as I suspect, and without much interest to the native Italians. My only consolation was that our gondola was parked next to one which contained a pretty girl. But even this piece of good fortune didn't lead to anything.

After the festival we met up with the rest of the party at a house belonging to the Gougenheims, who are some stinking-rich Americans. The house contained just about the best collection of abstract paintings that I've ever seen.

Next morning very early I left for Florence - although I only reached Bologna that evening. This was Sunday 21st August. I found this place to be a gourmet's paradise - after eating one of the best meals I've ever had - and at none to high a price.

Next day (Monday) I had stopped to paint a picture from the roadside, when a car screeched to a halt and there was a cry of "Alex!" It turned out to be Anthony Snow, Noel Fisher and Richard Straughan - all of them from Oxford. It's amazing how one encounters friends when travelling. They were going in the opposite direction, but we stopped and talked for a while. They appear to have had far more trouble with their car than has been my own experience.

Rome was an impossible city for finding one's directions. And the population delights in exploiting any tourist. There was one occasion when I asked the way to the Vatican, and the man declared that he would take me part of the way. But when I had dropped him off, I discovered that I had taken him to his place of work, which was miles in another direction from where I'd been wanting to go. He just pointed back the way I'd come, and told me now (with a cheery smile) to keep on going until I arrived at the Vatican. It wasn't worth my while to make any fuss.

I kept on discovering that I was driving round in circles - especially when I was trying to find a way of leaving the city altogether. I can now understand the meaning of the expression when they say that all roads lead to Rome!

Next day (Saturday), after visiting the Leaning Tower of Pisa, I drove to the coast to find a nice place to bathe. I picked on one called Portovente, near La Spezia - a most attractive place. Goodness the rocks look lovely (when viewed through a mask, that is to say) in the diffusion of light just beneath the surface of the sea. I ought to take this up as a sport, with all the proper equipment.

It was fairly late by the time that I got away, and I had great difficulty in finding myself a site where I could pitch my tent along this rocky coastline. Sometimes I would follow a track to what I might suppose was a deserted quarry - only to find, when I went to pitch my tent, that the place was distinctly occupied by some courting couple. Or in another spot, I espied what I took to be an empty car, and halted with my headlights on it, wondering where I should go. Then I saw that a woman had sat up from the back seat, and was making a big fuss in covering her face with her coat. And then a man began climbing out of the car, no doubt with the intention of telling me to clear off. I didn't wait to be told. The Italians are indeed an amorous race! My ultimate selection of a camping site was hardly ideal. It consisted of a mere nick in the rocks, at the side of the road.

On Sunday 28th August the weather began to break. I made an attempt to look up Guiseppi Gazzoni from Christ Church, whose family have a luxury mansion near Turin, but I discovered they were away. I crossed the border the same evening, and camped somewhere up in the Alps.

I felt peculiarly isolated on this occasion - almost as if I anticipated an attack by mountain bandits during the course of the night. But I had acquired a flick-knife before setting out on these travels, as protection if any manner of emergency should arise. So with this, and a big stone ready to hand at my bedside, I wasn't feeling too insecure.

I got quite a surprise next morning to look out from my tent and see that I had camped so high up in the Alps, that all the neighbouring peaks were still covered in snow. It had indeed struck me during the night that the Summer had suddenly turned rather cold.

Another occasion when I was feeling a trifle insecure was over the final night of 31st August 1955. I had seen in the papers how there was a murderer at large - someone who was suspected of killing an English tourist in the neighbourhood of Amiens. And it was in a field near Amiens that I had chosen to pitch my tent. It occurred to me that the fugitive might seek to steal a car, in which to make his escape during the course of the night. But no murderer appeared upon my scene!

It was in fact raining on and off during these final days in my travels, which made the task of driving a bit dangerous - especially because the tread on my tyres had worn flat, and there were several occasions when I found myself skidding.

These days were notable largely because I found that on three separate occasions, I got mistaken for a woman - once on 31st August, and twice on 1st September. But in the light of the fact that I have been attempting to grow a moustache ever since my departure from Venice, I feel quite indignant about this. Indeed I had been feeling quite proud of my little moustache. True, it was exceedingly fair, with the hair of a light texture - so that it didn't show up all that clearly. But it had grown to a length which would have been quite noticeable if the hairs had been black. So I don't really see why anyone should have taken me for a woman. It always happened when I was seated in the car, and had stopped to ask the way. My longish hair would have been blowing wild, coming out from under my army beret, and overlapping my ears right down to my neck. But still!

On two occasions the mistake was made by a woman, when they addressed me as Madame. (I would have minded more I think, if they'd called me Mademoiselle.) But on the final occasion, the mistake was made by a man, who was trying to be so polite to me when I stopped to ask him the way. In fact he opened a conversation with me, and was becoming flirtatious. So when he enquired: "Vous êtes anglaise?" I retorted somewhat abruptly: "Je suis anglais!" - and drove off a bit sharpish. I was leaving him standing there with an incredulous expression on his face - still not quite certain in his own heart whether I was truly a man, or whether it was just a case of a foreigner not getting his French grammar correct.

I took the ferry back to Dover on Thursday 1st September 1955 - driving on to Oxford. My recent experiences of mistaken sexual identity have led me to shave off my moustache. There's not much purpose in sporting one, if people are going to insult it! And I've had my hair cut too. I prefer not to have to contend with the indignity of getting mistaken for a woman.

On the Sunday after my return from Italy I had to entertain Miss Vigers, who had written to say that she was coming down as a tripper to Longleat - bringing a Canadian friend with her. Goodness she has grown old and wizened! But she still seems perfectly secure on her feet. I was aware how it was rather awful the way I switched straight back into a hypocritical display of affection towards a governess whom none of us ever loved. But I felt in a sense that I owed this much to her - as a tribute that was being witnessed by her friend. I have my doubts that we'll meet again.

That same evening I drove over to Tilshead for the start of the Wiltshire Yeomanry's camp. (The second one that I have attended, and what amounts to a final taste of army life for me - unless there is a war in my time.) Timmy Gibbs has now handed over to Hugh Brassy as our Colonel. My initial encounter with Johnny Verge, the Quartermaster, was of course a trifle strained in the light of that letter he sent me. But it's clear that he's trying to be friendly now, after (I hope) appreciating the error of his judgement on me. It is odd trying to pick up the thread of being a soldier once again. But right from the start, I've been conscious of a general friendliness towards me - from the troopers as well. Or it could be that I am maturing on the question of man-management. Nor am I quite so hopelessly ill-at-ease in the presence of strangers.

I find that my troop had been transferred for the duration of the camp to A Squadron - along with Sgt Wadman, whom I find a great help. I get on enormously well with him, and it would have been a great help if I'd had such back-up when I was in the Life Guards. I have always found it difficult to determine the degree to which I should alternate firmness in discipline, with an appropriate degree of friendliness towards those under me. But I find Sgt Wadman to be enormously supportive in this vein. Moreover there is a fine troop spirit prevailing, which entails that we all seem to like one another. If we had the time to get ourselves sorted out in our relationship towards one another, I think that we'd settle down into an excellent troop. I only hope that this feeling endures for the remainder of the camp.

I have certainly had my share of problems when everything seems to be going wrong - particularly during the scheme on Friday. One of my tanks failed to get mobile and had to be left behind for repairs. Then I wasn't ready by the hour we were supposed to advance. Then I misread the map and advanced down an erroneous centre line. Then all my wirelesses but one went off the air. But everyone seemed to be taking this in their stride. (How different to the days when I had Nipper screaming hysterically into my headphones!) So I have the feeling that I shall live down these disgraces.

The evenings have been spent either playing poker (to a very small loss), or coming back here to Longleat for a bath - returning to Tilshead in time to participate in their dinner nights. Tedious occasions for the most part, although sparking into vigorous argument sometimes, on subjects like the justification for Communist regimes within countries where poverty is rife. I found myself playing the devil's advocate, and enjoying it. Most of the people I meet are so stuffy in their views, so that they require to be shaken up by the realization that there is some sympathy for left wing ideology within their midst.

But there's always a danger that you're going to get singled out as a scapegoat when flouting their accepted creeds. And I had some trouble with John Sykes on one occasion. I daresay that we had both been drinking too much, but he can be a bit gormless at times. He was guffawing at me that I was talking sheer balls. Then he went off and armed himself with a soda-siphon, returning with it to squirt me from behind. Now if I had permitted him to get away with such behaviour, there'd have been repetitions of it whenever I was saying something that went against his beliefs. So I responded with vigour, picking up a siphon of my own and returning his fire. But in the fracas which followed, the siphons collided, and shattered, and I received two quite severe gashes to my left arm, which poured blood and looked most gruesome. The doctor was summoned and bandaged it up - during the process of which I was sick. But my honour had somehow been salvaged from the fact that I had given battle.

The Wiltshire Yeomanry held their sports day on Sunday - nothing exciting, although there were a few memorable sights, like Colonel Ferris jumping along inside a sack for the sack race. The only event in which I myself participated was the greasy pole. But it wasn't being organized correctly, in that (as participants) we were permitted to plant our feet on the ground at the bottom of the water - which furnished us with too solid a foothold as we sought to topple each other from our seat astride the pole. Anthony Snow and myself gave each other a tremendous battering, which I did finally win - although at the price of sheer exhaustion.

After dinner, we were all becoming too rowdy perhaps - pulling down each others' tents, with some luckless officers already abed. Next morning the sergeants were vowing revenge, claiming that we'd kept them awake all night.

On Monday was the beginning of the big scheme. All very slow at the start, and then it started to rain so that we were going round in wet clothes, which we had to dry out as best we could upon the engine covers of our tanks. But it became a repetitive process over the next three days, and we were eventually accustoming ourselves to the idea of being wet through - although it became a lot worse when the weather turned cold.

The scheme lasted until Thursday morning, and the odd part is that we were really quite enjoying ourselves, despite all the misery. Seeing how I only got three hours sleep on Tuesday, and one hour on Wednesday, our happiness was quite remarkable. And the umpires were continually informing us how an atomic shell had landed somewhere within the vicinity. In fact these were sometimes delivered with interesting pyrotechnical effects, with the cloud billowing up in a mushroom shape. Not that we were taking any of that too seriously.

There were just a few unpleasant episodes within the scheme - the main one concerning Tpr [J], who was my carrier driver. He was the troop's wag and had seemed quite funny at the start, inscribing all our vehicles with slogans. (`The Weymouth Arms', `Sir's Tank', `Portside - Suicide', `Local Letters - French Letters'....) They were removed after the Colonel had suggested they might be inappropriate. But [J]' attitude towards myself was becoming increasingly off-hand and cheeky. And Sgt Wadman eventually confided to me that he was known to be a difficult case, and that it would be best for me to pick some opportunity to "jump on him", and curb his insubordination. Sgt Wadman had already spoken to him on the subject, without it having the effect he desired. So he said it was now up to me, because if I didn't, the attitude might spread to some of the others until the troop's morale had been impaired.

So with this advice in mind, on returning from a recce with orders to move off immediately, and finding that we were unable to do so because Tpr [J] had disappeared, I put him on a charge as soon as he returned. And then all the grousing began. He claimed that he was suffering from varicose veins, and had gone over to the medical unit which was in a field nearby. But that was no excuse when he hadn't even asked permission from one of the corporals. He was now in a surly mood, declaring that he had a chit from his G.P. - not that he had the chit on him of course. So I thought I might call his bluff by taking him over to the medical unit to ask them for an opinion. But the medical attendant seemed reluctant to take the responsibility of declaring the varicose veins to be a ruse, and he felt it would be unwise for anyone to assume that the chit he claimed was a mere invention. So my safest course would be to send him back to base - which I did. And the rest of the troop were delighted, making it quite clear to me that they felt I'd done the right thing.

It didn't end there however. My Squadron-Leader Derek Magnal, wasn't any too pleased that I'd handed the problem over to him. He seemed to think that I might have overreacted in putting [J] on a charge, which would involve too much bother all round. So in the end he was just given a dressing down for indiscipline, and it was left at that.

Then there was another small piece of trouble with a sergeant of the Greys, who was supposed to be bringing up some wireless batteries to our Sqn HQ, but had managed to get himself lost. This was on Tuesday evening. Since I happened to be with Derek at the time, he sent me back to show him the way. Yet by the time I found him, he was in the bolshiest of moods - telling me how he was fed up with the entire scheme, and that I could take the batteries and do what I liked with them, but he was going back home. But this wasn't in any way convenient for me, since I was supposed to go on from here to rejoin my troop. I was in effect ordering him to transport them himself to the Sqn HQ, but he was telling me to get lost. Now this was quite clearly a case where, if we'd still been real soldiers instead of mere territorials, then I'd have been expected to put him on a charge. As it was however, it was best to take all this in my stride. Nobody really wants that a yeomanry camp should become too military. I took the batteries on board, and HQ simply had to wait for them until I'd collected my troop.

Derek Magnal was getting more than a little fed up with me by the end of the night march on Wednesday. The intercom system on Cpl Clifford's tank had broken down, so that he was obliged to sit on the front of it, where he could communicate with his driver. But the night was bitterly cold, so he was suffering badly. And since the troop had been issued with a rum ration which was in my keeping, I felt that his need was greater than mine and kept sending Pitman, my operator, running back to him with the bottle - which finally led to us getting separated, since we had to move off when he was back with Cpl Clifford. Then I came up over the air to tell him what to do, when there was supposed to be wireless silence - which earned me a sharp rebuke from Derek. And after I'd committed a few more misdemeanours, with additional rebukes, I began to feel that I could strangle the man. In other words, it was quite like old times. But I think my troop appreciated how I was doing my utmost to sustain their own morale - which was far more important than all the rest.

Friday was the day for handing in all our equipment, while in the evening there were a whole series of celebrations. Sgt Wadman persuaded me that it would go down very well with my troop if I slipped away for half an hour with him, to join in with their merry-making, down in a pub at Tilshead. He was right in that our appearance was greeted with cheers. They each insisted on giving me a drink until I'd had more whiskey than was good for me.... Then we all had to "Sing, say, pay, or show your fucking ring!" I chose to sing, but it was hardly tuneful.... Then after a round of "For he's a jolly good fellow" accolades, I returned with Sgt Wadman to the Sergeants' Mess, where the drinking was heavier still. This on top of all the wine I'd drunk at dinner! So I soon became paralytic.

While in this mood (which was jovial enough as I saw it) I poured a drop of beer over Sgt [K]'s head. He responded by throwing a pint in my face. I replied with another in his. I was feeling in good form, and supposed it was all quite funny. But Sgt [K] was becoming increasingly hostile as the exchange continued. He reminded me quite a lot of Ian Rankin, and was evidently quite as dangerous in a situation of establishing one-upmanship. So we'd finally reached a point when we'd emptied about six pints apiece over the other's head. Sgt [K] then departed from the Mess. And a little while later I did so myself, in the company of the remaining officers.

That wasn't the end of the evening however. Once we were out in the fresh air, I became exhilarated. Egged on by the others, I was rushing round the officers' lines, climbing up on their tents and banging on the canvass. Then I declared myself to be a mad dog with rabies, running round barking at everyone. I was even searching for the Colonel at one time, declaring that I must bite him - something which put the fear of God in him, as he confided to me later. But I never did manage to find which his tent might be.

Then it became a case of the others pursuing me, although their ultimate intent remained obscure. But it was quite an exciting chase, with me darting in and out of the tents while the rest of them were rushing to and fro with torches. And I finally took refuge back in the Sergeants' Mess, to find that Sgt [K] had returned. There was a bit of a silence when I first appeared. Then he turned to me and asked: "What would you have done if I had socked you a cracking good punch on the jaw?" My reply came spontaneously enough, which is fortunate or I might have lost face. I said: "I would have done nothing whatsoever - except to hit you a fucking sight harder than you'd hit me!" There were a few tense seconds, with the other sergeants present wondering, no doubt, if punches were about to fly. Then he released the tension by declaring: "I believe you would have! Yes I believe him. You know sir, we'd have made a fucking good team if we'd have been in the same troop together. We'd have been a crazy pair, but we could have done something!"

At that point the other officers discovered where I'd gone to earth, and they came to pull me out. But the sergeants defended me, until they were persuaded that it was time for me to go to bed. I then returned to my tent, but from that moment I can remember no more. But I'm told that the others had great difficulty in putting me to bed. Apparently I kept singing and reciting poems, and I lunged at anyone who attempted to take off my pants. But next morning I found myself securely in bed, although the floor of the tent bore evidence that I'd been sick during the night - something for which I had to apologise to the wretched man who was sharing my tent.

It appeared that my prestige in the regiment had risen sharply overnight - both with the officers and with the sergeants. Everywhere I went, I was greeted as a popular figure. But I also learnt that either Sgt [K] or Tpr [J] had exacted their revenge. Or it may even have been both of them. I was told how all the equipment in my tent had been flung outside, and had to be rearranged by the other officers before they could put me to bed. And the tyres of my car were flat - not that this really mattered, since I was carrying a pump in the boot. I'd prefer to think it was Sgt [K], rather than Tpr [J]. But I suppose that will remain one of the little mysteries which never get clarified. In good territorial spirit, I took all these matters in my stride!

On Tuesday afternoon we went duck-shooting. I had brought my gun - not that I have any intention of taking up shooting again at Longleat, although I should hasten to add that I have not been entirely consistent over my former decision to give it up. (I think there have been a couple of occasions when I have been out flighting duck with Christopher on the lakes at Longleat.) But when staying away with a family which indulges in such sport, they would regard it as enormously eccentric if I were to proclaim my present feelings on the subject. And as it was, I did find that I was enjoying myself. For one thing there were far more birds to shoot than I've ever found at Longleat. There were even some brief periods when I rediscovered the knack of hitting them - easier when they were flying towards me than when they were going away. There was one glorious moment when I brought down three duck in succession, and I did really begin to savour the killer instinct once again. Then I started to miss again, and the excitement subsided.