Mark Seymour - Tour Guide

14/09/2024

A Young Soldier’s Adventure: Winston Churchill in the Boer War

The dawn of the 20th century was approaching, and the British Empire found itself embroiled in a bitter struggle far from its shores. On the vast, rugged plains of South Africa, the Boer War was unfolding—a conflict that would forever shape the history of Britain and South Africa. It was a war fought between the British and the Boer settlers, descendants of Dutch colonists, in the Transvaal and Orange Free State. The war was fierce, with each side vying for dominance over the region's resources and sovereignty.

Amid this conflict, a young man was about to make his mark on history, one who would later be remembered as one of Britain’s greatest statesmen. His name was Winston Churchill.

In 1899, Winston Churchill was just 25 years old, a young man with grand ambitions. The Boer War was the perfect opportunity for him to prove himself, both as a soldier and as a writer. Having already gained some experience in military engagements, including in Cuba and India, he was eager for another adventure. His ambitions went beyond the battlefield, however. Churchill wanted to make a name for himself as a war correspondent, someone who could report on the gritty reality of combat to a fascinated British public.

Churchill was both fearless and opportunistic. In his eyes, the Boer War was not only a clash of empires but a personal battleground where he could distinguish himself. With his characteristic determination, he secured a position as a correspondent for the Morning Post, a London-based newspaper. His goal was simple: to make history by witnessing it up close.

Churchill’s journey to South Africa began in late October 1899, as British forces were already engaged in bloody skirmishes with the Boer commandos. The war had begun earlier that month, with the Boers launching preemptive strikes against British-held territories. It quickly became apparent that this was not going to be an easy or quick conflict. The Boers were highly skilled fighters, adept in guerrilla warfare and deeply familiar with the terrain.

When Churchill arrived in Cape Town, the situation was dire for the British. They had underestimated the Boers, who had inflicted several stinging defeats on British forces at the Battle of Talana Hill and the Siege of Ladysmith. Eager to witness the action firsthand, Churchill made his way northward toward the front lines, where he hoped to chronicle the British military’s efforts and join the fight.

Churchill’s first taste of combat in the Boer War came in November 1899, just weeks after his arrival. On the 15th of that month, he found himself aboard an armored train that was dispatched to patrol the railway between Estcourt and Chieveley. The train, laden with British soldiers, was supposed to serve as a reconnaissance tool, ensuring that the Boers did not cut off the railway lines that were essential for British supply and communication routes.

Churchill, ever the intrepid correspondent, was riding along to gather material for his reports. However, what was meant to be a simple patrol quickly turned into a nightmare. As the train trundled along the tracks, it fell into a well-planned Boer ambush. The Boers, led by the seasoned General Louis Botha, had blocked the tracks with boulders and set up a firing position in the surrounding hills.

Suddenly, the train lurched to a stop as it struck the barricade. Chaos erupted. Bullets whizzed through the air, and Boer artillery began shelling the vulnerable train. The British soldiers scrambled for cover, and the situation quickly became desperate. Despite the intensity of the attack, Churchill sprang into action.

With remarkable presence of mind, Churchill took charge of organizing the evacuation of the train. Realizing that the Boers were determined to capture the train and its occupants, he directed the soldiers to work together to free the carriages that had not been derailed. His quick thinking and leadership undoubtedly saved lives as the soldiers worked under fire to get the train moving again.

But the Boers were relentless. Soon, the British soldiers and civilians aboard the train were either dead or captured. Churchill, too, was taken prisoner, despite his attempts to flee. As the Boers closed in, he was forced to surrender. His capture marked a pivotal moment in his life, one that would ultimately elevate his reputation.

Churchill’s capture by the Boers sent shockwaves through Britain. He was not only a correspondent but also the son of Lord Randolph Churchill, a prominent figure in British politics. The young man’s daring exploits were already well known, and now he had become a prisoner of war. The Boers transported him to Pretoria, where he was held in the State Model School, a makeshift prison for captured British officers.

For Churchill, imprisonment was a humiliating and frustrating experience. He had always prided himself on his independence and daring, and now he found himself confined to a small cell, cut off from the outside world. Yet, even in captivity, Churchill’s resolve remained unshaken. He quickly began plotting his escape.

The prison was well guarded, and Churchill knew that escaping would be a formidable challenge. But he also recognized that remaining a prisoner was not an option if he wanted to make his name as a hero. Escape was not only a matter of personal pride but also of professional necessity.

Over the weeks of his captivity, Churchill meticulously observed the guards' routines and studied the layout of the prison. He befriended two fellow British officers, Captain Haldane and Sergeant Brockie, and together they began planning a coordinated escape. However, fate would intervene, and Churchill would ultimately make his bid for freedom alone.

On the night of December 12, 1899, Churchill saw his opportunity. Under the cover of darkness, he managed to slip past the guards and scale the prison wall. The escape was nerve-wracking, but Churchill's boldness paid off. Once outside the prison, he faced an even more daunting challenge: traversing hundreds of miles of enemy territory without being caught.

Churchill had no maps, no compass, and only a few provisions. He was deep in Boer-controlled territory, and the odds were stacked against him. Yet, he pressed on, determined to make his way to safety. His journey through the South African wilderness was one of courage and resourcefulness. For days, he trekked through the harsh landscape, hiding during the day and moving under the cover of night.

After days of evading capture, Churchill’s luck finally turned. He stumbled upon the home of a British sympathizer, a man named John Howard, who worked at a coal mine. Howard took Churchill in, providing him with food, shelter, and—most importantly—information about how to reach British lines.

With Howard’s assistance, Churchill managed to stow away on a train bound for Portuguese East Africa (modern-day Mozambique), a neutral territory. The journey was perilous, but after several days, he crossed into safety. From there, he was able to make contact with British authorities, and soon he was on his way back to the British-held port of Durban.

Churchill’s escape from Boer captivity made headlines across Britain. The public was enthralled by the young man’s daring and determination. Overnight, he became a national hero. His articles, detailing his experiences in South Africa, were widely read, and his reputation as a brave and resourceful leader was cemented.

Yet, for Churchill, the adventure was far from over. Rather than returning home to bask in his newfound fame, he chose to stay in South Africa and rejoin the British Army. In early 1900, Churchill received a commission as a lieutenant in the South African Light Horse, a volunteer cavalry unit. He returned to the front lines, eager to continue the fight against the Boers.

Over the following months, Churchill participated in several key battles, including the Relief of Ladysmith and the Battle of Spion Kop. These engagements were grueling, with heavy casualties on both sides. The Boer fighters, though outnumbered and outgunned, proved to be formidable opponents. But the tide was slowly turning in favor of the British.

Throughout the remainder of the war, Churchill continued to write, sending dispatches back to the Morning Post. His vivid descriptions of the war, combined with his reputation as a hero, helped to further boost his profile in Britain. By the time the war finally ended in 1902, Churchill had established himself not only as a brave soldier but also as a talented writer and a rising political star.

The Boer War was a pivotal moment in Winston Churchill’s life. It provided him with the platform he needed to launch his political career. Upon his return to Britain, he stood for Parliament and was elected as the Conservative Member of Parliament for Oldham in 1900, just months after the end of the war. From there, Churchill’s career would go on to reach unprecedented heights, culminating in his leadership during World War II.

But beyond its impact on his political career, the Boer War shaped Churchill’s views on warfare, empire, and leadership. He witnessed firsthand the brutality of modern conflict, the resilience of ordinary soldiers, and the complexities of colonialism. These experiences would stay with him throughout his life, informing his decisions during the many crises that lay ahead.

For Churchill, the Boer War was more than just an adventure—it was the crucible in which his character was forged. It was the moment when he transformed from a young, ambitious adventurer into a national hero and future leader. His daring escape from Boer captivity became a symbol of his indomitable spirit, a spirit that would carry him through the darkest days of World War II and ultimately earn him a place in the pantheon of great historical figures.

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12/09/2024

A wonderful story that has been revealing itself to me over the last few years is the one surrounding the gladiators of York, a city that I have the good fortune to visit frequently. York, or Eboracum as it was called in Roman times, is steeped in history, with stories etched into its very stones. But few tales are as captivating as that of the gladiators who fought in the grand arenas of this northern outpost of the Roman Empire.

This story begins nearly 2,000 years ago, in a time of great upheaval and uncertainty. It was a time when the Roman Empire stretched its grasp over vast lands, but even the might of Rome could not prevent the political strife and civil wars that threatened to tear it apart. And it was in this turbulent era that the gladiators of Eboracum lived, fought, and died. One of them, a man whose name has been lost to time, left behind his account of those days—a haunting testament to the brutality and fleeting nature of life in the arena. The year was 211 AD. Our great Emperor Septimus Severus had died here in Eboracum, in the spring. It was a sad day, and the city has been in mourning ever since. The people of Eboracum had adored Severus, who had made the city his northern base for the conquest of Caledonia, the land to the north. His death left a void that rippled through the empire, especially here at its northernmost edge.

But death waits for no man, not even an emperor, and life in Eboracum continued. The governor, Gaius Julius Marcus, in an effort to both placate the restless citizens and to honor the late emperor, decreed that there would be games—grand games, like those in the heart of the empire. The forum, usually abuzz with trade and politics, had turned into a hive of activity, preparing for the spectacle that would soon unfold. Merchants, senators, and officers from every corner of the empire arrived, their pockets heavy with coin. They came for the games, but also for the deals that could be struck in the shadows, for Rome was not built on blood and iron alone.

The city’s gladiators, men of many nations and many fates, were summoned. For them, the games represented both opportunity and almost certain death. Some fought for glory, others for freedom, and still others simply to survive another day. One such man was a soldier-turned-gladiator, a man whose life had been defined by war, betrayal, and slavery.

"My legion had been disgraced," he wrote, "for siding with Albinus during the great civil war more than a decade ago. It was ‘decimated,’ and I was selected. My life was not ended, but I was put into slavery, and I have been training and fighting as a gladiator ever since."

The civil war he spoke of had torn the empire apart. After the death of Emperor Pertinax in 193 AD, a power struggle ensued between Septimius Severus and Clodius Albinus. Albinus, a governor of Britannia, had at one time been allied with Severus but later turned against him in a bid for the throne. The conflict culminated in the Battle of Lugdunum, where Albinus was defeated, and those who had sided with him faced severe punishment. For this man and many others, their loyalty to the wrong leader had cost them their freedom, and in some cases, their lives.Now, more than a decade later, this former legionary found himself in Eboracum, a slave fighting for the amusement of the very empire he had once sworn to defend. He knew that the games would be huge—many of his fellow warriors would not survive the month, and perhaps he would not either.

The arena was a grand structure, towering over the surrounding buildings like a monument to Rome’s power. It was here that the people of Eboracum gathered, eager to witness the brutal spectacle of gladiators clashing in mortal combat. The arena was not as large as the Colosseum in Rome, but it was still an impressive sight. Stone seats rose in tiers around the central sand-covered pit, where the fighters would face off. It was a place where men were reduced to their most primal selves, where the roar of the crowd could drown out the sound of death.

The forum was busy receiving senators, merchants, and officers from Rome, each one eager to witness the games. Much coin was being spent, deals were being made, and the anticipation in the city was palpable. The people were hungry for blood, and the gladiators would give it to them.

"Yesterday we were marched out to the main road leading into the city," the gladiator wrote, "There we expanded the ditch… it will be the site of our burial, should we fall." The ditch was a grim reminder of what was at stake. If a man fell in the arena, there would be no honor in his death, no grand funeral rites. His body would be discarded in the earth like so many others before him, a nameless soul lost to the passage of time.The men who would fight in these games came from all corners of the empire. There were warriors from Germania, with their tall, muscular frames and wild hair; from Syria, with their dark eyes and quick movements; from Epirus, Thracia, and Hispania, each with their own distinct fighting styles and techniques. And of course, there were men from Britannia, the local people who had been subjugated by the Roman legions.

"Men here are from all over the Empire," the gladiator wrote, "Men like me are here because of the woes of our commanders, others were common criminals… two are unwanted political hostages. Now we are all equal, and I fear that few of us will survive."

Among the gladiators were men who had once been soldiers, like himself, men who had tasted battle on distant fields and now found themselves pitted against one another for the amusement of the crowd. Others were criminals, sentenced to the arena as punishment for their misdeeds. And then there were the political hostages, men who had been captured in Rome’s endless wars of expansion and conquest. Once, they had been princes and noblemen, but now they were just slaves, like the rest of them. The gladiator spoke of two such men—unwanted political hostages. One was a prince from a distant land, captured by the legions during a campaign in the east. The other was a tribal leader from the forests of Germania, his people crushed under the heel of Rome’s military machine. Both had been brought to Eboracum as trophies of war, and now they would fight for their lives in the arena.

Despite their diverse origins, the gladiators had one thing in common: they were all equal in the eyes of the crowd. The Roman people cared little for a man’s past or his status. In the arena, only strength and skill mattered. Victory brought glory, and defeat brought death.The day of the games arrived with the fanfare and excitement that the people of Eboracum had been waiting for. The streets were filled with citizens, their voices raised in excitement as they made their way to the arena. Inside, the crowd buzzed with anticipation, eager for the spectacle to begin.

For the gladiators, however, it was a day of dread. They had trained for weeks, honing their bodies and minds for the fight ahead. But no amount of preparation could erase the fear that gnawed at their hearts. Each man knew that today might be his last.

The gladiator who had once been a soldier stood among them, his muscles tense, his heart racing. He had fought many battles in his life, but none like this. Here, there was no greater cause, no banner to rally behind. There was only survival.

The governor, Gaius Julius Marcus, presided over the games, his face a mask of indifference as he watched the proceedings from his high seat. To him, the gladiators were nothing more than tools, their lives expendable in the name of entertainment.
I write these short pieces as a way to encourage travel. More can be found here.

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08/09/2024

Many of you read my short historical and tour guiding tales.If you enjoy my short snippets, you can support me here…..I thank you.
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04/09/2024

Walking up the trail, I’m fully aware of the thousands of people who have walked this footpath before me. Ancient Britons, Romans, Vikings, Saxons, Normans, Plantagenet knights, Hanoverian sightseers… and of course, the local people who live in the shadow of Cherhill White Horse today. The rapeseed is in full bloom, painting the fields in a sea of yellow, and birds hum gently in the trees that surround this part of the trail. The gentle hum of nature envelops me, grounding me to the earth and the centuries of history beneath my feet.

As I start to ascend a steep ridge, the air feels thicker, charged with the energy of the past. I can now look across to the scars that are deeply cut into the side of the hill—remnants of great banks and ditches. When these were first carved into the hillside and ridge, twenty-foot-high banks afforded the residents of an Iron Age community protection. Multiple layers of banks, with a stockade wall on top of each and gorse or thorn filling the ditch itself, would have been formidable obstructions to any unfriendly visitor. Even after 2,500 years, they remain immense, a testament to the ingenuity and resilience of the people who once called this place home.

The trail becomes steeper, and my breath quickens as I near the crest of the ridge. Amongst the trees, I can just make out the shape of a Neolithic burial mound. Someone was buried here, 5,000 years ago—someone who wished for a splendid view. It is one of many in the area, and I’ve had the pleasure of visiting them all over the years. Each mound feels like a whisper from the past, a quiet monument to lives lived long ago. Standing on top of this one, I look down upon the banks of an ancient camp—certainly an Iron Age village, and likely associated with the banks on the ridge. This community may have begun in the Bronze Age… imagine that! People have lived here continually for nearly 5,000 years.

I turn slowly, looking to the other side of the burial mound, where the head of the white horse emerges from the landscape. Cut into the turf on the side of the ridge in the late 18th century, it was likely created by the local estate owner as a sign of his loyalty to the new Hanoverian king. Its stark white shape stands out against the green of the hillside, a striking contrast that has made it a popular landmark and one of many in the area.

Walking another hundred yards to the south, I find myself standing in the shadow of a huge memorial obelisk. Standing 125 feet high, it commemorates the life of Sir William Petty—a great man of the 1600s. The obelisk is weathered by centuries of wind and rain, but it remains imposing, a silent sentinel watching over the landscape.

As I stand there, absorbing the history that surrounds me, I hear footsteps approaching. I turn and see a figure emerging from the trees. It’s a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a slight smile playing on his lips. His dark hair curls slightly at the ends, and there’s something familiar about him, though I’m certain we’ve never met.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he says, his voice warm and inviting.

“It is,” I reply, returning his smile. “This place is incredible. The history here… it’s overwhelming.”

He nods, looking around as if seeing the landscape for the first time. “It is. There’s something about standing here, knowing how many lives have touched this place. It makes you feel… connected, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, exactly,” I agree. “It’s like you can feel the presence of all those who came before.”

He steps closer, his gaze now fixed on the white horse. “I come here often,” he says. “There’s a certain peace in knowing that this land has seen so much, that it will continue to see so much after we’re gone.”

His words resonate with me. I feel a kinship with this stranger, a shared understanding of the deep connection between the past and the present. “I’m Emma, by the way,” I say, extending my hand……

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08/07/2024

I’ve worked for Dr Alsop for many years, and I have to say that he’s a funny old chap…. Brilliant and eccentric…. But odd.
Last week he interrupted me from my labours. Tim and I had been digging new sewage pits behind his property, over yonder, in Calne.
He was slightly inebriated, having already consumed several large glasses of Bristol sherry….. pointing skywards and towards the Ridgeway, he said ‘I want it over there. I want it cut up on the ridge’.
Puzzled I got into a conversation with him.
He took me into his parlour and pointed at a pamphlet that he had gathered in the market. Our new king George, a Hanoverian, was going to embark on a grand tour of Britain, and he was going to travel through Calne. Dr Alsop explained to me that the kings heraldic symbol was a white horse, and that being very friendly with Mr Stubbs, the horse painter, he had decided to place a white horse on his land, looking down onto the town.
Intrigued, I asked him how this was to be achieved.
His idea was barmy……..! Absolutely barmy !
So, here I am.
Tim is with me along with master William and his three brothers, the Oakenshott family and seven other menfolk……. My weary band of volunteers.
We have ‘volunteered’….. we will be paid, but it’s not been decided how much, yet…… to cut the turf off of the Ridgeway, in the design of a great white horse.
Strangely enough, there is another that already exists, further along the ridge at Uffington. She is a beautiful animal and very very old!…. And a horse at Westbury …. So Dr Allsops horse will have good company.
Removing the turf reveals the natural chalk underneath…. A glistening white chalk, when dry…. It looks beautiful from here.
I am standing next to the good doctor as he bellows into his megaphone, instructing our friends up on the slope, where to make their next cut.
They move efficiently and methodically.
He sips on his sherry…… hesitates…. Stoops to pick up the two empty bottles by his side…. And hands them to me.
Triumphantly announcing ‘there are a dozen more of those down by the gate, would you take them up to the horses head. I’d like them to be upturned into the chalk…..they will be the animals eye !’
I stared at the bottles.
I picked them up and headed to the gate.
Dr Alsop……. A brilliant mind.

(I write these ‘snippets’ in an attempt at arousing your curiosity, and perhaps entice you to travel.)

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14/04/2024

I’ve been to almost as many places as my luggage. 😂

What’re your travel/luggage horror stories ?

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02/04/2024

I’m heading up to York and then will start my first tour of the season from Harrogate.
Fountains Abbey, Yorkshire Dales, Hadrians Wall, Viking country in Northumberland, the Farne Islands and so much more awaits myself and my adventurous tour members……. I’m really looking forward to it…. Yay!!!!!

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07/03/2024

“Once the travel bug bites there is no known antidote, and I know that I shall be happily infected until the end of my life.” – Michael Palin

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07/03/2024

“ my name is Dee…John Dee.
I was the Queens Wizard !
I lament at my loss of status and wealth, but more than these things, I am sorry that my Queen turned away from me. Yes, she allowed me to return after a period of wandering through Europe, but I never really regained her trust….. and I know not why.
My father had been one of Henry VIII’s courtiers, and being Welsh himself, he had influence. My turn came when Elizabeth took the throne as hers. She wanted advice, learning, and more of a world view. My name was put to her and so we conversed on world events. We had been friends since she was a child, and when Queen Mary previously had me arrested on some trumped up Catholic charges, I believe Elizabeth arranged for my freedom.
Her kingdom was in fear of the might of European Catholics and she wanted to assure that England had a place in the world.
My education had taught me that the world is a much bigger place than most think, full of endless possibility, and I put it to her that we could have trading colonies in ‘New Worlds’, and perhaps even our own ‘British Empire’…..in fact, today I am credited with coining the term. She listened with great intent and asked many questions.
She was a clever woman.
My studies took me into the occult… astronomy, alchemy and many other areas of learning, and I accumulated a great library……. My books were my love. My mind expanded, my influence grew, and my loyalty to her majesty grew., although members of the Church were always out for my blood.
On one fine day, we had an argument over religion…..of course it was over religion. Mankind is obsessed with it….. she became angry. I left her company and was afraid. I feared for my life for weeks afterwards and decided to take myself overseas. I think other influencers had gained her ear.
So I went to Europe in the late 1540s and visited great people, amongst them Mercator and Ortelius, the famous cartographers. The experience was amazing and I will be forever grateful for the advice and instruction that I received from other clever people.
When on her throne, I advised her on many things….I believe that she had come to trust me again…. I aided her captains with mapping and navigation, as the explored the ‘New Worlds’… and I gave her my wisdom.
Slowly, I became absorbed by the occult and was known as Elizabeth’s Wizard…. This thrilled me, and coveting the title I went back to Europe and once again met great people and learnt knew things.
However, all great men become imbroiled in scandal….or scandal embroils them… and I eventually had to flee back to England because others felt that I was spying for Elizabeth ( if she had asked me to, I would have). Upon arrival in England I believe that my Queen, Elizabeth, had decided that I would be too much of a political liability and so she gained me a position in Manchester…far from court!
And now, here I am, an old man, full of thoughts and yearning for the influence I once had…..and the wealth….. and my books!
Perhaps I am bitter…… I know I am.
James I wants nothing from me.”

I write snippets to help inform and to encourage people to travel. Places are famous because of people, and people have a story. As a small group tour company owner, and a long serving guide for Rick Steves, my passion is telling these stories.

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06/03/2024

It’s a little frosty this morning….. ice is crunching under my boots.

But we’ve done it and the view from the keep of Conwy Castle is glorious.

I served with the king in Ireland. He’s a good man but recently, however, his leadership has come into question and I feel that my cousin Owain, is right.

We need to gain our own autonomy or have a new king.!

This morning my nerves were racing as Gwilym and I carried our carpentry tools and a plank up to the gatehouse. The guards glanced at us and let us enter.

Some of the soldiers were at mass in the town, as they should be. Only three guards remained guarding the castle.

Gwilym and I killed them one at a time, and closed the gates.

We have taken the castle. It has fallen to just two of us.

Owain and our friends are outside of the town wall. There are more than forty of them and they’ll have no problem gaining entry…..we have done our job. They will do theirs.

My nerves are calming down now. The town looks quiet and the bells are ringing. I can see two mussel boats at anchor on the river.

History has just been written.

They call me Rhys……I am one of five brothers, all sons of Tudur ap Goronwy. We are Tudors, and proud.

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North Wales 2023Please email us at [email protected] if you would like to book a place on one of these unique small group tours 10 Day North West Wales Tour Itinerary 2023March 16 - March 25I have chosen to run this tour out of one location as there is so much to experience in this part of t...