Born in 1948 to a British army officer (who later returned to farming) and a Jewish mother who had arrived in the UK on the Kindertransport—her parents murdered in the camps—Ian Cutler left school aged 15 with no qualifications and no regrets. Hating the narrow provincialism and boring facts and figures about Britain in particular, Cutler wanted to see the world that he suspected offered much more than he had seen so far. Aged 18, Cutler spent the last 2 years of the 'sixties' in Africa. The real culture shock was returning to Britain after two years of total immersion in African food, music, people, and the land itself. Imagine getting off the plane at Heathrow early one very cold and grey British winter day, boarding a bus with a single suitcase, and looking out of the bus window at streams of shivering workers walking or cycling to local factories, their canvas lunch bags across their shoulders, thinking what the hell am I doing here. It would be a further four or five years before he’d saved up enough money to go back to Africa, but only weeks later he was arrested for an act of terrorism (blowing-up a section of the Chinese built TAZARA railway line from Dar es Salaam to Lusaka); a case of mistaken identity as he was the only white guy in the wrong place at the wrong time; the white Rhodesian mercenaries who were responsible had long since fled. After a couple of weeks of house arrest (fortunately in the house of the local mayor’s daughter where he’d been staying) Cutler managed to sneak back to the capital on a night bus, get himself on a plane and home again. This time arriving back relieved that he’d had not been tortured or worse, and for the first time appreciating that Britain did indeed have something going for it—the security and anonymity that accompanies tedium. But banality has a way of giving way again to a lust for difference and adventure and Cutler moved from Somerset to London where he worked for a year as a road sweeper—a very satisfying experience. Sweeping the streets around a large Victorian mental asylum, and being fascinated by the richness of human life coming and going from within its walls, led to training as a mental health nurse and later as a general nurse also, following which he took a job as a primary care nurse in the Honduran rain forest. A heady experience that included witnessing (fatal) Wild West type shoot outs in local bars, a stay in the Bay Islands (Morgan the Pirate’s hang out) eating freshly caught crab in a hammock on the beach, and bathing in rock pools at night surrounded by fire flies. But the unfortunate coincidence of the Falklands war and the inevitable wave of anti-British sentiment in Latin America forced him back to the UK. After further forays around Europe and the Middle East, Cutler did eventually succumb to a fairly conventual life, retiring in 2011 as Director of Adult Social Services for a South Wales local authority. He had been living in Cardiff since 1985 with his wife Angela and their two sons, continuing to travel but not to the usual tourist destinations. The research for Angela’s first book ‘Auschwitz’, a travelogue come critique on holocaust tourism, included a journey to Minsk in search of the forest where Cutler’s grandparents were killed. And so, as with the rest of his life, meeting Angela and becoming infected by her own obsession with writing, was just the latest in a series of unplanned accidents that led to Cutler becoming an author in his late 50s. Cutler’s cynical attitude to life and his attraction to the the weird and unconventional, led to a series of biographical works on those who sought out life on the margins of human existence; starting with the ancient Greek cynics and chronicling the lives of their modern legatees. During his research for his latest book on fifteen tramp writers, Cutler made contact with someone who had met Kathleen Phelan (the final chapter of Golden Age of Vagabondage) on a boat from Spain to Morocco and tramped with her for 3 weeks through that country. Never one to let a chance encounter go to waste, Cutler ended up putting Golden Age on ice to write Jim Christy: A Vagabond Life—“Why pass up the chance of writing about a living vagabond when the subjects of my work to date were all dead.”
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