Part One

Head down Cowley Road, East Oxford, towards the scruffy part of town, and in a couple of minutes you would come across Uhuru Wholefoods. Internet sources state that the shop first opened in 1973. I was there at the beginning. I remember it well.

In the early 1970s, wholefoods were a minority thing; beans, buckwheat, and brown rice marked you out. Between them, Uhuru and the alternative bookshop across the road became favourite places to hang out. You soon got to know the movers and shakers in the local countercultural scene.

On the magazine rack of the bookshop one morning I found what I was looking for. It was a modest publication dealing with the subject of communal living, with the imaginative title of 'Communes'. Sandwiched between articles on rearing goats and growing happy vegetables was the 'Wanted' section. This was a bit like a communes dating site: people looking for communes; communes looking for people; people looking for other people. By now it was clear to me beyond doubt: my future lay in the counterculture, and communal living was the way to go. 

I searched the listings eagerly. Eventually I came upon a near fit: 'Looking for others to start commune project. A view to rural self-sufficiency. Vegetarian.' This ticked the boxes, and my letter of introduction was in the post the very next day.

I received a reply in next-to no time. A group of people was meeting shortly to explore possibilities. Would I like to come? You bet I would.... 

Part Two 

Before very long I was on my way to not-very-promising South Kenton, a fairly anonymous pinprick in the vast jungle of tree-lined, semi-detached suburbia that is north-west London. Here was found the residence of one Dave Pound, the writer of the ad and the letter. And here also a group of us congregated, in preparation for a greater meeting of potentially kindred spirits out in the countryside.

We were like a band of merry troubadours in search of light and high adventure as we set out on the (to me) long suburban train journey into town. A sunny Saturday morning in early summer, a group of explorers, quiet revolutionaries. There was Erica, Jen, and Vicky, all friends of Dave; John, another local boy; Dave himself, of course; and a very young, long-haired Irish Brummie with owl-like features, who went by the name of Mottie.

On into the belly of the big city, through the turmoil of Victoria station; then out again, leaving behind the metropolis, past the southern hilly limits of the North Downs. All change, Dorking.

Tall and slim, quiet and unassuming, Dave was the undoubted leader of the group. He was, in fact, the only person with the faintest clue where we were going. Equipped with map and written instructions, he was soon guiding us along quiet country lanes. It seemed a long way, but I didn't really care. We were a happy band, and the warm sun was shining kindly on our endeavour.

"Nearly there" declared Dave after close to an hour of walking. "It's the house over there." He pointed across a large grassy field to a cottage in the distance. Rather than take the road leading around the field, we decided on the direct route straight across. As Dave opened the gate, a tiny figure appeared on the far side, and began to make his way towards us. As he drew closer I could begin to make out his appearance. Dressed in old boots and dark brown trousers, he was bare from the waist upwards, his tanned and slender frame exuding health and well-being. With long, plentiful mouse-brown hair, a complementary moustache and beard, and keen, piercing yet kindly eyes, he was the perfect freak. He greeted us quietly, then led us over the grass and caked mud in the direction of his house. This was Liberty Fox. 

Others had already arrived for this gathering of tribal spirits. There were in total around a dozen of us. It was quite a weekend. Walking, talking, laughing; cooking, eating, doing the dishes, sharing the other chores. Sitting deep into the night swapping stories, visions, ideas, experiences. So much to discuss in so short a time: our hopes, wishes, preferences, for a better future - for ourselves and, by the way, for the world. A goodly library of knowledge was assembled over a memorable weekend, on wild food, free food, growing vegetables, dodging the system, beating the system, and the rest. Then it was time to go home.

Part Three

From that moment on, really, the die was cast for me. These were the kind of people that I wanted to spend time with, to make my life with. It was an inspiration and a deep relief to talk freely with others about the things which made me tick: taking life into your own hands, out of reach of the Establishment and 'straight society'; living in harmony rather than in a constant fight for control, power, and supremacy. We wanted the world, and now would do just fine.

It was the first time in my life that I had come face-to-face with others who I could call true kindred spirits. I had always had friends: play friends, cricket friends, music friends. But none with whom that magic spark of life mutually understood would awaken, light up, dance until the early hours of the night. Life would never be quite the same again. I knew. 

One thing was clear, to me and to the others. Engaging with the system, the Establishment as it was then called, was a waste of time. Politics, economic systems - be they capitalist or communist -, the straight press with its newspapers, were all rotten to the core. The darkness that they let loose upon humanity was inherent, they could not be cured from within. They simply had to go, to be replaced; and we were intending to set out a practical alternative in ways of living.

Writing this almost fifty years after the event, I would say that nothing much has changed. Our analysis was spot-on. The depth and degree of the nefariousness is something that maybe we did not fully realise, and which has only become apparent in more recent times, but in terms of basic understanding, we had it nailed.   

I was surprised to discover over the following weeks that not everyone had left the weekend with the same fire burning in their belly. Some just dissolved back into the ether, never to be heard of again. One such couple was Tim and Jane. I don't actually remember their names, but they looked as if they should be Tim and Jane. He was tall, rangy, intelligent in a vaguely academic way, sporting the obligatory long, slightly greasy hair, beard, and moustache. She was shorter, chubby, shuffling along gamely in her long flowing skirt, the archetypal Earth Mother. They were, I considered, ideal commune material. What was wrong? Maybe they didn't like my hairstyle.

For those remaining ones, the task ahead was clear. We needed to spend time together, to see whether we were properly compatible; and we had to discuss details, pooling our visions for life in the future.

Very soon, Dave was back in touch. A free festival was coming up shortly, due to be held somewhere on the north Devon coast. It was a perfect location for the next rendezvous of the fledgling revolution. Would we be there? The answer was obvious.

Photos: Uhuru Wholefoods, 1972 -75. From cowleyroad.org

Remember: the 'life story' posts can be read from the very beginning, in the 'archives' section.