PC 412 Memories of Sandhurst (Continued from PC 410)

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The link between mental fitness and physical fitness is well researched. Thankfully we got physically fit, through sessions of PT, time in the swimming pool, ‘Battle PT’ runs, wearing kit and carrying one’s rifle, and undertaking long treks, particularly in the Brecon Beacons in South Wales. One evening towards the end of our fourth term, so probably early December, we got dropped off, at night, in the middle of nowhere! The first checkpoint was at the top of Pen y Fan, the highest mountain in this National Park, with a notoriously steep ascent to start; hard work, particularly carry full kit. Don’t forget this was light years before GPS and mobile phones; we had learned the basics of land navigation and worked with paper maps and old-fashioned compasses.

It was probably midnight when we got to the top and were given our next checkpoint, some 16kms away. There we had to inflate a rubber boat and paddle some 10 kms to the next point. Oh! I think there was a stretcher race in there somewhere. Sometime the following evening we gathered in a pub carpark, without any permission to enter so psychological torture (!) and were given our next task, a four-point speed-march over the Sennybridge Impact Area. Sleep deprived and mentally and physically exhausted, I remember distinctly seeing a three-masted sailing ship slide across the face of the full moon, as we laboured from one water-filled hole to another.

Once I realised sleep deprivation was something one had to deal with, I learned how to catnap. The memory of hallucinating that wonderful sailing ship triggered another, sleeping standing up! It was before dawn on day three of an exercise on the local training area known as Barossa. My platoon was to be the assault unit for a company attack at daybreak.

John Thewlis and the late Martin Ward-Harrison – somewhere

After a night in trenches, with patrols and sentry duty, everyone was knackered but, fortified by breakfast cooked over ‘hexy’ burners and a hot coffee, we formed up in our sections and silently made our way to the FUP (forming up point), some 1000 metres away (actually it was probably 1093 yards as this was pre-metric UK!). We tried to move quietly through the darkness, every now and again stopping to ensure everyone was together. I fell asleep upright and only woke because John Webster, who was behind me and who had expected me to move, had shuffled into me!

As our understanding of military tactics, albeit at a low level, grew, so did the opportunities to show how much we had learned. The gathering of intelligence is often achieved by patrolling, and the memory of one night patrol exercise has stayed with me. I am not sure who the platoon commander was, but I was his radio operator, equipped with an A41 radio set, about the size of a ream of A4 paper and weighed as much; its aerial was about 5 feet long. My task was to keep in touch with the controlling station, callsign Zero, and relay information as necessary. The problem was I had Laryngitis, so all my communications were barely audible, irrespective of how loud I wanted them to be! In the exercise debrief, the Directing Staff praised the quietness of the patrol; there are some benefits of being ill!

Sometimes we had to carry a lot of equipment

One aim of our training at Sandhurst was to teach us how to work as a team, both as a team member and as a team leader. Seems obvious, doesn’t it, but it is potentially one of the most difficult things confronting a leader. In each of the six Sandhurst terms, there was some Academy competition, be it the inter-company Drill Competition or the dreaded Assault Course, the winner the quickest team over a number of obstacles. The latter loomed at the start of the term in which it was placed as some mountain to climb. Actually that isn’t far from the truth as the ‘mountain’ was a ten foot wall. We were used to six-foot walls and one’s ability to climb up and over on one’s own. The 10ft wall required teamwork, technique and belief, particularly for the first and last person. To get the first person (A) on to the top of the wall, the tallest in the squad would stand with his back to the wall, with his hands cupped in front. Running from 10 metres or so, the second person (B – lightest and strong!) then placed his boot into the cupped hands of (A) and lifted himself up towards the top of the wall. His ascent was aided by (A) twisting his body and extending his arms upwards. Once on top, (B) could lean down and grab the next person (C), who was aided by (A). After the other five members of the section were over, this left (A) on his own at the bottom! (B) and (C) would both lean down, grab one of (A)’s arms, haul him up and over they all went. All this with the timekeeper’s stopwatch clicking away the minutes and seconds.

I am not sure the current training includes Bicycle Drill. Back in 1966 we were instructed how to stand next to a bicycle, how to mount, how to move off and how to stop. Saluting an officer whilst on a bicycle was not encouraged; we simply had to brace our arms, keeping looking forward! No helmets!

Sandhurst offered a full career to a pensionable age of 55. One loses contact with people, so I have little idea of how others’ careers developed. But I do know that my dear friend Martin Ward-Harrison was killed in Oman, that Sid Sonsomsouk retired as a general in his home country of Thailand and that Crichton Wakelin retired at 55, then took on a retired officer’s role for another ten years.

The lighter side of Burma 39. I spent two years with these guys – apart from the chap on the far right, Martin Ward-Harrison’s groom.

There have been many television programmes following recruits, from the time they cross the threshold of various training establishments, to when they ‘pass out’, get their commission. Some have followed Marine recruits at their school in Lympstone, some Police Cadets at their Hendon training establishment, some recruits at the Army Foundation College at Harrogate and there was one for those going through RMAS – ‘Sandhurst’ (ITV 2011). All have shown that given the right fertiliser, anyone can grow from boy to man, from girl to woman.

Richard 8th November 2024

Estoril Portugal

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS I did well at Sandhurst, becoming a Company Junior Under Officer and winning the Benson Award. This was awarded ‘to the cadet commissioned into the Royal Artillery who has shown himself most deserving on grounds of general efficiency and character at Sandhurst’. ‘From little acorns, mighty oak trees grow!’

PC 410 Memories of Sandhurst (Continued from PC 408)

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Britain has been a Christian country seemingly for ever and religion plays a crucial if understated role in the conduct of war, both at a personal level but also at an organisational one. One of our Captain instructors was a lay preacher and, on a weekend’s adventurous training exercise, led a small Sunday morning service – in the middle of a wood, in the rain. One comment has always stayed with me: ‘There are no atheists in a slit trench.’ Fortunately, I have never been in an operational slit trench, waiting to ‘go over the top’, but understand how those who were might have prayed to some higher being. At Sandhurst every Sunday we paraded in front of the Commandant and then marched off across the square to the chapel.

Nine hundred male voices singing hymns would lift anyone’s spirits and the memory of kneeling in the pew for the final minutes, quietly murmuring ‘Eternal Father, Strong to Save’ to the tune Melita by John Dykes, still brings goose pimples to my neck!

If you were tall and reasonably good at drill, you might be picked to be a Stick Orderly, as were Charles Wilson, Edward Armitage, William Burrell and myself; four of us out of 225 officer cadets in our intake, Number 39. (See PC 341 Tradition June 2023). On ceremonial occasions we stood at the four corners of the Inspection Dias, although I am not sure how effective my stick would have been in protecting the Commandant!

Prior to the Commandant’s Parade on a Sunday morning, the four Stick Orderlies would join him and his family for breakfast in the extremely large house that went with the job. I was a Stick Orderly for a year and recall that, after breakfast and before we need to get moving, we would gather in the Games Room in the house’s basement and compete on his Scalextric set. Such fun, and far removed from our next task, the tradition of escorting him and the Adjutant to where the other 886 cadets were lined up for inspection.

I was assigned to Burma Company in Victory College, one of three colleges making up the Academy. The other company names in Victory were Alamein (North Africa 1942), Rhine (1944), and Normandy (1944). Old College represented the past glories of Dettingen (1743 War of Austrian Succession), Waterloo (1815), Inkerman (1854 Crimea) and Blenheim (1704 War of Spanish Succession). New College companies reflected the First World War with Ypres (1914), Somme (1916), Gaza (1916) (Note 1) and Marne (1914). The organismal structure today is different, the number of companies reflecting the total number of officer cadets under training. Company names now include ‘Falklands’ and ‘Borneo’.

There is something fundamental to being a soldier, being capable of using weapons in times of war. Later I would serve in artillery regiments equipped with medium artillery, the 5.5in howitzer and subsequently the 155mm self-propelled M109, but at RMAS it was the self-loading rifle (SLR) and the general-purpose machine gun (GPMG), both using 7.62mm ammunition. I gained my marksman badge for the GPMG, taking in instruction like a duck to water ….. and it’s all about the breath! We were tested at various times, for instance after a 10-mile speed march, and we developed the habit of keeping one’s ‘small arm’ (aka personal weapon) close and clean. Obviously out on exercise or on the firing ranges, not in a classroom learning about Chemistry for instance. I highlight Chemistry as I had failed it twice at ‘O’ Level and I need to pass it. The lecturer was more interested in teaching us about his passion, seeking out the runners and their form in some horse race. We learned his techniques, lost a lot of money and I passed my Chemistry examination!

I have written that academic studies took up more than 50% of our working day. Having followed the science route in my choice of A Levels, I joined the ‘Special Maths and Science’ set, a pass ensuring my place at university a couple of years after commissioning. Non-science subjects covered International Relations, War Studies and Military Law. The latter is designed to “maintain order and discipline within the armed forces, and to ensure they can carry out their duties effectively. It covers a wide range of offences, from minor breaches of discipline to more serious crimes such as murder and rape.” As a commissioned officer, for minor offences I was ‘judge and jury; for more serious ones there’s a Courts Martial system, run by the Judge Advocate General’s Department.

One Easter holidays some of us volunteered to become military parachutists. I asked Crichton a week ago, who was also in Burma 39 and with whom I have kept in touch, who else was there, apart from him. “Sorry! I suffer from old git syndrome and simply can’t remember. Pity!” Anyway, twenty or thirty of us went off to some RAF base, I think Brize Norton as that’s where they are trained today, for three weeks. During that time, we learned exit, flight and landing techniques in large hangars with mock-up fuselages, completed three jumps from a balloon tethered at 800ft and a further five from a DC8/9 aircraft, the last one at night. Back at Sandhurst we wore a little lightbulb badge on our uniform to signify our proficiency, joined The Edward Bear Club (see PC 28 Balloons, Bacteria and Bloating December 2014) and jumped out of an aeroplane over Hankley Common near Aldershot for a summer picnic – called ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’, obviously!

There will be a Part 3

Richard 25th October 2024

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 The Middle East was fought over during the First World War and that arena of conflict was recognised by Gaza Company. The land borders we see today were laid out in the Sykes-Picot agreement of 1916, created by the French and British, with tacit assent from Russia and Italy. It defined their mutually agreed spheres of influence and control. Over 100 years later it remains a troubled and unsettled part of the world.

PC408 Memories of Sandhurst – The United Kingdom’s Royal Military Academy

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Towards the end of my teenage years, I wanted to be an architect …… but architecture was going through a difficult time and my stepfather suggested I join the British Army. His thought was that by the time I had spent three years or so serving Her Majesty, architectural opportunities might be better; I did 20 years!

To gain entry to the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst (RMAS) I had to attend the Regular Commissions Board, then located in Westbury, Wiltshire, to be assessed!

Fortunately I passed the various physical and mental tests, including the ‘speak for 5 minutes about … a milk bottle’!

The transition from boy to man, girl to woman, is, for some, complex and unnerving, for others it’s like water off the proverbial duck’s back. Everyone’s experience is unique, can never be otherwise and it could be forced upon one through the diktats of family life, the loss of a parent for instance, or tribal customs very early, but for most it happened after one’s 16th birthday; nowadays I sense it’s much earlier – more’s the shame! Of course there are those who never really grow up, still maintaining a childish outlook on life, the Peter Pans. The syndrome, used to describe those adults who are socially immature, refers to people who have reached an adult age but cannot face their adult sensations and responsibilities.

The Royal Military Academy (Note 1) turns boys into young men, girls into young women, ready to be deployed into combat should that be necessary, ready to lead. Nowadays the course is a year (Note 2) but in 1965 it was a two-year course mirroring and, in some respects, equalling the first-degree courses at many universities. The Academy had four intakes of Officer Cadets at any one time; commissioning took place in December and July. Some 60% of our time was spent on academics, the rest on learning our new craft, the military and the art of warfare (Note 3).

Our neighbour Meryl, an avid reader of my postcards, suggested I wrote something about my memories of the two years I spent at RMAS. Why, I am not quite sure; maybe she wanted to find out why I am how I am (?) but I doubted whether, in 1000 words or less, I could encapsulate my time growing, from teenager to adult, from schoolboy to Army Officer. Maybe I would need two or even three PCs? It was a disparate bunch of teenagers who formed up on the Victory College square as Burma Company Intake 39 in September 1965 and included three from overseas, Sid Sonsomsouk from Thailand, Ngambi from Uganda and Jo Nakamet from Kenya. No one was sure what we had let ourselves in for. It didn’t take long to find out!

How would I describe the first six weeks, when the days began very early and ended very late, when others dictated what you did? Challenging? Draining? Character building? Probably all of the above and more besides. A good example was ‘Changing Parades’, when we had to appear in the corridor outside our room in one form of dress, be inspected with infringements resulting in press-ups, before going back and changing into another form of dress – from full combat gear, to Service Dress, to PT Kit (Blue Blazer, Blue shorts, White T-Shirt, White ‘plimsols’ (Does anyone know what these are?)) to Parade Ground Uniform. Our rooms had, during the whole process, to remain immaculate. The instructors would scream and shout at any visible laziness or inattention. Faced with an external threat (the instructors!) we all began to coalesce into a group, safety in numbers and focusing our hate on our instructors. I think this was where the military saying ‘Kit on! Kit off!’ comes from.

Within the first month one of the platoon was suddenly diagnosed with leukaemia, disappeared to the Military Hospital in Aldershot ….. and died two months later. 

That’s me, in the bottom right-hand corner.

I have written before how the experience of becoming proficient at drill, in marching in time, swinging the appropriate arm, showing off our skills and being part of something, belonging, wanting, gets imbedded within one. Imagine being on parade with another 889 officer cadets, moving in formation to the familiar marching tunes, bursting with pride. That’s a great memory, acknowledging the hard work that preceded it, to get to the required standard. For those who have never had the privilege and opportunity, your life is missing something!

The main Sandhurst parades started at 1100. There were always little niggles, so the Academy Sergeant Major, a chap called Phillips, the most senior non-commissioned officer and otherwise known as ‘God’, would insist we would be lined up on Old College Square at 1030, to ensure there was no last-minute panic. Old College Square was a 10-minute march from New College Square, so College Sergeant Major Murphy, Irish Guards, (‘Spud’ behind his back, but never to his face!) insisted we were ready to leave at 1000, as there were always little niggles. Burma Company Sergeant Major Hewlett, Coldstream Guards, insisted we formed up for him at 0930, as there were always little niggles. Staff Sergeant Rooney, a Welsh Fusilier, insisted the platoon for which he was responsible formed up at 0900, as there were always little niggles. This is probably where the phrase ‘5 minutes before 5 minutes before …..’ originates.

(to be continued)

Richard 11th October 2024

Hove

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 Naval Officers are trained at the Royal Navy College Dartmouth and Air Force Officers at Cranwell

Note 2 A new term started last month with 288 Officer Cadets joining CC 243 for the 44-week course. There are 40 international cadets from 23 countries as diverse as Columbia and Kazakhstan. Of the 248 British cadets, just over half were educated in the state sector, 80% are university graduates and the average age is 22.

Note 3 The War Studies Department was run by John Keegan. The recent obituary of Duncan Anderson, who took over as its head in 1997, had an interesting snippet!  Keegan’s successor was a chap called John Pimlott, who had died after two grenades he picked up during a battlefield tour in France exploded in his study at home.

PC 429 Behind The Glass

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I don’t know about you, but I am often intrigued to know what goes on behind shop fronts that have frosted windows. They are the complete opposite of those using the shop window to entice potential customers, displaying something to make you want to go inside, maybe a poster showing a sale percentage reduction. Sometimes restaurants have an opaque window to give their customers some privacy and it’s the same for The Hove Practice, a private GPs’ surgery, which recently moved onto Church Road. Along the street is a massage clinic, with the obligatory hazy windows! We are lucky enough to have Kay Delphine, a very experienced masseuse, who comes to our apartment, otherwise we might have used one of these places. Some had a seedy reputation, offering more than a simple massage, but I sense those days have long gone.

Opposite etch (note 1), a restaurant on the corner of Church Road and Hove Street run by Steven Edwards, a winner of MasterChef The Professionals, is one such place. A non-descript opaque window with its shop signage, ‘CryoBright’, offering no real clue to what goes on inside.

A voucher at Christmas gave us a couple of ‘experiences’ at CryoBright and in late January we pushed open the door. CryoBright provides ‘convenient, affordable access to the most advanced wellness and recovery techniques.’ These include an infrared sauna, red light therapy, fat freezing, leg compression therapy, physiotherapy, whole body cryotherapy and massage, mainly aimed at those recovering from some form of sports injury, which I am not! I was interested in the leg compression trousers, to improve blood circulation to my feet, and in the cold chamber – out of curiosity!

The ‘Compression’ trousers slide over your legs then go through a 20-second sequence of inflate/deflate, inflate/deflate for 20 minutes. It seems very gentle, too gentle almost and so I decide to concentrate on the cold chamber.

The idea is that extreme cold acts as a stimulus to your nervous system, particularly to the hypothalamus, responsible for reacting to dangerous situations; the ‘fight or flight’ trigger. It initiates several physiological reactions in the body, the main one being to restrict blood flow to the periphery, concentrating it around one’s vital organs.

I said I am curious. Most of my experience of ‘cold’ is from winter weather, either skiing or on military exercises many years ago, when the wind chill can drop temperatures alarmingly. I am a pussy when it comes to swimming in a cold sea, such as in Estoril in Portugal, but the benefits of cold-water immersion are becoming more mainstream. Here in Hove many people swim in the sea all the year around, part of their daily routine, and swear by the invigorating afterglow. (Note 2) I guess we’ve all heard of Dutchman Wim Hof, aka the Iceman. In addition to plunging himself, and other paying customers, into freezing cold water, he markets a particular technique of breathing. Proper breathing is an essential part of practising yoga; in the hot yoga series you only breathe through your nose for the first hour.

My Wim Hof T Shirt

Hof’s technique involves inhaling through your nose or mouth, filling both belly and chest, and exhaling through your mouth. Each breath should be short and powerful; do 30 to 40 then stop. We all take our lungs for granted, never bothering to exercise them – it’s estimated we only use some 60% of our lung capacity. And I certainly hadn’t heard of COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease) until those first COVID months. In summary, I breathe well but wouldn’t want to plunge myself into a bath full of ice. (Note 3)

But when we returned from Portugal in September last year, a new cold-water shower, installed in the outer courtyard as part of the yoga studio’s new sauna offering, offered an opportunity to cool down quickly. Now, at the end of my 90 minutes 40°C hot yoga class, I go straight out and have a cold shower. Strangely, I have begun to look forward to it; odd huh! It’s wonderful!

At CryoBright, Rob explains that the cold chamber is designed to give your body a thermal shock so, wearing shorts, a facemask, gloves, socks and slippers and with a set of headphones clamped around my ears, I open the door and enter. Oh! I should have said, it’s minus 85C. I have opted for 4 minutes but after 5 seconds my brain is already saying ‘fly!’. Fortunately, I decide to stay, moving around, glancing at the large clock on an iPad outside that’s counting down the four minutes, listening to music. I wonder how my body is reacting, why my nipples are feeling particularly cold, and resist the temptation to focus on the time. Just enjoy the experience. Outside, I put my clothes back on; my back is tingling in a delicious way and I feel fantastic. We sign up for a package of sessions; this Monday was my eighth and now I look forward to freezing my b******* off!

Our curiosity has encouraged chums to try it. Spread the word!

Richard 7th March 2025

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS Celina also enjoys the cold chamber!

Note 1 Note the small ‘e’. Generally the first word of a sentence uses a capitalised first letter. There’s a distinction between ‘Etch’ and ‘etch’, although it’s personal! As a verb, to etch means to eat away the surface of something; I can only guess this is the tenuous connection for the title of the restaurant.

Note 2 In the summer of 1966, as an Officer Cadet at Sandhurst, I was attached to a Germany-based Artillery Battery for its two weeks Adventure Training near Oberammergau. I went with Staff Sergeant Curtis to recce a lake for some canoeing. The water looked inviting; he suggested I jump in. It was absolutely freezing, almost heart-stopping (!) and I got out as quickly as I had got in! Curtis laughed.

Note 3 The outdoor swimming pool water at Dauntsey’s School was fed directly from a cold spring. Maybe our lap times were quick as we wanted to get out as soon as possible.

PC 513 Saving Lives at Sea

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As an island nation, the people of the United Kingdom rely on His Majesty’s Coastguard to provide Search & Rescue operations, Maritime Safety & Prevention, Counter Pollution and Salvage, and emergency coordination through a national network of rescue centres 24/7, to ensure safety at sea. The Coastguard Rescue Service relies on around 3500 volunteer Coastguard Rescue Officers who are organised into nearly 300 teams to handle cliff, mud and water rescues, as well as searches for missing people. It is fully funded by the Department of Transport as part of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency.

It works alongside another emergency service, the Royal National Lifeboat Institution (RNLI), which was founded in 1824. The latter, surprisingly for this vital organisation, is a charity, funded by legacies (65%) and donations (30%). It’s based in Poole, Dorset and has some 2850 paid staff and around 9000 lifeboat volunteers. They operate more than 400 lifeboats (see PS) from 238 stations around the UK, the Channel Islands and The Isle of Man. Paid RNLI lifeguards provide services at nearly 250 beaches, including here at Brighton & Hove.

To put the RNLI’s contribution to our nation in perspective, last year its lifeboats were launched over 9000 times. The volunteer crews saved the lives of 272 individuals who would otherwise not be alive; they went to the aid of over 8000 people. The beach lifeguards pulled another 117 men, women and children from the sea, preventing them drowning, in over 17,000 incidents, involving 36,200 people. These figures sort-of speak for themselves. Living by the sea, the local news often highlights an incident when someone was pulled from the sea, some innocently believing the sea always safe, others thinking it fun to have a swim after a few too many drinks in the pub. Calm seas can hide a dangerous undertow, rough seas will dump you on the beach with a disorienting force.

Having sailed in small and big yachts in many of the sea areas covered by the RNLI I have never, fortunately, had cause to ask for help, although it did cross my mind, with all the other ‘what ifs’, when St Barbara III, a Nicholson 43ft sloop belonging to the Royal Artillery Yacht Club, was taking in water off the coast of Arromanches in Northern France in 1979 (See PCs 209 and 211 Off Arromanches). I recognise their commitment and courage to provide the service they do.

Suddenly, in early September, the organisation was thrust into the limelight when two RNLI crews intercepted a dinghy carrying 120 asylum seekers off the Isle of Wight and brought them to safety. A month later the Bembridge and Yarmouth lifeboats picked up 149 asylum seekers and landed them at Haslar Marina in Gosport. Whilst Border Force patrol craft have dealt with the now constant flow of rubber dinghies full of asylum seekers making the shortest crossing from France to England, changes to the smugglers’ strategy saw them using the much longer route from the north coast of France to Portsmouth. Whilst the local population around Dover have got used to the stream of humanity, wet, tired, anxious, coming ashore to an uncertain future, for those who live in Portsmouth this was something new. Many anti-immigration protesters gathered in Portsmouth, wanting to flex their uninformed, polarised muscles to demonstrate that this was, in their view, unacceptable. 

What seemed to exacerbate the situation was that it was RNLI lifeboat crews, all volunteers, who had been called out to escort the dinghies ashore. It was like waving a red flag at a bull; anyone associated with the rescue was immediately tarred with the same brush (wow! Two idioms in one sentence! Sorry!) Whilst some of these mindless idiots tried to intimidate the boat crews at sea, many more threatened them and their families on land. In reading more about the situation, I learned a new word: ‘doxxing’; not an example of a good-looking word, is it? I found out that when an individual’s personal information is publicly shared, usually with the purpose of harassment, humiliation or threat, it’s doxxing. The ignorance of those involved knows no bounds. For example, the Royal National Institute of Blind People (RNIB) was erroneously targeted on social media. A spokesperson reminded the public that they were not ‘lifeboat people’ but said: ‘there is something we can all agree on, the RNLI are brave and brilliant.’

Maybe at some point next summer, Peter of Portsmouth, one of the leaders of the anti-asylum activists, will take to his paddleboard off an Isle of Wight beach. Underestimating the strength of a Spring tide, he might be swept out to sea. Luckily, someone sees his distress, sees him waving his arms, and calls the alarm. The lifeboat from Bembridge is dispatched but, sadly for Peter, when the boat nears the paddleboard, the crew recognise him from his activities this month …… and motored on past; they might have even given him a wave, sort-of: ‘Hello Peter!’

Actually, this wouldn’t happen for, no matter how much of a dickhead Peter from Portsmouth had been, Lifeboat volunteers don’t differentiate, don’t discriminate when it comes to saving lives at sea, yachtsmen, asylum seekers, paddleboarders or dickheads – everyone is treated as a human being, a life worth saving. The RNLI has lost over 600 volunteers since 1824 in their attempts to save the crew of a trawler, yacht, or inflatable rubber dingy. For example, all 8 crew members of the Longhope lifeboat died when their boat capsized in severe weather in March 1969 off the coast of Orkney, going to the aid of a drifting Liberian cargo ship SS Irene. The disaster accelerated the development of self-righting lifeboats.

Still individuals volunteer, still people risk their own life to save someone else’s. Long may this generosity of spirit reign supreme over the views of a blinkered minority.

Richard 16th October 2026

Hove

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS The RNLI announced this week that five lifeboat stations in Devon are to get new vessels by 2030, as the RNLI updates its fleet. It said data showed that between 2017 and 2025, 98% of responses were within 10 nautical miles of shore.

PC 211 Off Arromanches (continued …. see PC 209)

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Asking Kevin, both mate and the yacht’s mate and the most competent of my crew, to take the wheel I headed below. Sure enough there was about two inches of sea water washing around; lifting a board confirmed the bilges were full and it wasn’t simply water off crew oilskins. (Note 1). My heart started to beat faster as the crew expected me to sort it out!

I turned on the electric bilge pump; nothing happened. I shouted to John in the cockpit to find the manual pump, to make sure the tube was out of the locker and to start pumping. My mind began to fill with a thousand things I should do …… and they were all ‘NOW’! Where’s the pump? Saucepans please! Put a position on the chart, note in the log. Where are the flares? Is the life raft easily ready? What about life jackets? I had never felt the necessity of always wearing a life jacket on a yacht – but sense these days with smaller less-bulky ones available that might be an out-dated practice. But I knew down over the lee rail was the coast of Arromanches, with its rocky shallow foreshore extending far from the beach and we were on a falling tide. (Note 2) “Oh! Shit! The club’s flagship might go aground! Explain that to the Committee!” Then at last the first and only important question: “Why was there water inside?”

The crew formed a saucepan chain (you know what I mean!) and bailing began. Waves were breaking over the bow and it was unpleasant below and on deck. I needed to get the yacht in a more stable state so took the helm, brought the bow through the wind without changing the jib sheets and hove to. Wonderful! Suddenly the movements lessened and there was less noise.

Rudder tries to turn the yacht towards the wind; wind on the foresail resists

I hope none of you have had to heave to in an emergency; I certainly hadn’t before but had demonstrated the technique to those learning to sail. I had likened the sails to two hands around a bar of soap. Squeeze – tighten the sails and the wind has to accelerate through the narrower slot – the soap and it shoots out – and the boat moves forward. When you take the bow through the direction of the wind, and leave the foresail untouched, the mainsail and rudder try to move the boat forward and the headsail resists. The yacht simply sits, slightly head to wind, and if the sail areas are well balanced, hardly moves.

I have sailed on many wooden yachts that let water in, as the planking opened a millimetre or two beating hard to wind. The 30 sqm and 50 sqm yachts at the British Kiel Yacht Club (see PC 106) were particularly wet below and it was essential to have all your spare clothes and sleeping bag wrapped in black rubbish bags to keep them dry! But St Barbara III’s hull was made of GRP (Glass Reinforced Plastic) – God help us if we had somehow cracked the hull on some high bounce as we left the harbour!

Dismissing this nasty idea, my thoughts then turned to the anchor stowage. A more stable yacht meant less water was breaking over the bow ….. and finding its way below! I knew from experience that if the Kedge Anchor was not exactly positioned in its locker, with even a centimetre proud, the hatch cover would not fit and lock properly and water would seep in, and in rough conditions flood in. Turning on the foredeck lights, I took Hew with me and, clipping on at each stage, we made our way up to the bow.

Generic ‘anchor stowage’

Sure enough, we could make out the anchor locker lid was not flush with the deck. In their haste and in the pouring rain, coping with a pitching deck as we motored out through the harbour entrance, the foredeck crew hadn’t got the anchor properly stowed. It took Hew and I about 5 minutes to get it fitted properly and, as we made our way back to the cockpit, we hoped that the level of water on board would begin to reduce. After ten minutes that was noticeable and there was much relief all around.

I was a bit of a stickler for writing up both the daily log and the journal so, as we set a revised course for The Solent and Gosport, wrote up both whilst the emotion was running! Somewhere in the archives of the Royal Artillery Yacht Club are that log and the journal entries.

Google Earth showing The Solent, with the Isle of Wight on the bottom left and the entrance to Portsmouth top left

As is often the case when sailing, conditions can change quite rapidly. From our rough start from Trouville in a Force 7, the wind had gradually decreased as we crossed The Channel. We shook the rolls out of the mainsail and changed up to the No 1 Jib.  Abeam of the Nab Tower, the wind dropped completely, the sea strangely calm and the last few miles were made under engine. 

The Nab Tower at the entrance to The Solent

It was quite a relief to tie up alongside the pontoon in the Gosport Marina mid-afternoon and switch off – in every sense!

Richard New Year’s Day 2021

PS A Very Happy New Year to all my readers

Note 1 Gallows Humour is often part of a crisis and this was no exception!  I was reminded of part of Tales of Old Dartmoor, a radio sketch from The Goon Show (February 1956). To cut to the chase (It’s all on You Tube so if you have never listened to it, do so!) Dartmoor prison had somehow become HMS Dartmoor, a floating prison ship (!), and the crew were looking for the ‘treasure of the Count of Monte Cristo’. Rumour had it it lay under the floor of Cell 626. They lifted a flagstone.

“Ah! Look! Water.”

 “Salt Water!”

 “Look! There’s more of it! It’s coming in.”

Note 2. After reading PC 209 Jonathan sent me this photograph of his great uncle Harold Hickling briefing Churchill at the Mulbery Harbours off Arromanches. June 1944

PC 209 Off Arromanches; at night, in a gale!

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This is a page from my Royal Yachting Association Log Book. Note the entry for 10th – 17th June 1979:

…… doesn’t say more than the very basic headlines but the memories from those few days, in fact one particular two hour period, linger on over forty years later. I attended the two-year Army Staff Course at the end of the seventies: Division 1 at RMCS in 1978 and then a year at The Staff College Camberley 1979. In the summer of that second year we were fortunate enough to tour the Normandy beaches and hinterland used in D Day 1944. The Battlefield Tour was a welcome relief to classroom discussions and it lived up to its colloquial name, The Bottlefield Tour!

The battlefield tour was unique in that soldiers who had attacked and defended this part of northern France came and talked about their experiences and memories. I think it was the last, given the increasing age of our guest speakers; we were blessed. The administrative part of the tour was centred around Deauville but by tradition a number of us sailed across on service yachts to Trouville, the next-door harbour. I was lucky enough to skipper the RAYC flagship St Barbara III, a Nicholson 43.

The crew with St B on the left

After all the normal pre-voyage activity we assembled at Gosport opposite Portsmouth on 9th June. The weather forecast for the week was mixed, a bit like the weather of early June 1944, but for our outward trip was set fair. From memory a north-easterly F4 allowed us to clear the Solent forts and set a course for Trouville. Trouville, in keeping with a number of ports on the northern coast of France, could only be entered some two hours either side of high water.

We found the harbour entrance on the bow after some 65 miles of uneventful sailing and tied up stern-to on the harbour wall, bow to anchor, not a method I was well practised in but fortunately there weren’t too many rubberneckers!

When I was doing my military service or sailing offshore, the mnemonic ‘grid to mag add, mag to grid get rid’ served us well as the variation was some 4 degrees ……. and mistakes happened! An hour after our arrival one of the other skippers, who I knew well, took me aside up on the quay and quietly questioned whether you added the magnetic variation or not, as they had missed the channel entrance!! (Note 1)

Some left for the on-shore accommodation, others were staying on board. We did have a chance to have a party on Gladeye, skippered by Robin Duchesne.   

Of the tour itself, out of all the stands where a veteran, of whatever nationality or rank, told us of their experience, one particular talk stays in my memory. A grey-haired rather rotund Yeoman Officer told us he had been in command of a troop of three tanks and that they had come under fire from some Germany artillery on top of a ridge to his front. His leading tank was hit and he had watched in horror as his troop sergeant had emerged from the hatch in a ball of flame. We stood exactly where his tank had been 41 years before; on the horizon we could see the escarpment.

This lovely chap told us how it was. “I hadn’t really listened to much of the training about radio procedures and artillery cooperation and stuff, I just knew I wanted to get hold of some artillery fire to neutralise the enemy, and bloody quickly. I picked up my radio mic and yelled: “Hello Gunners, this is Tony! I need your help.” (Note 2) “Hello Tony, Gunners here!” a voice crackled in his headset “Where do you need us?” Tony admitted he wasn’t very good at map reading but after some discussion eventually the gunners put a round on the ground somewhere towards the ridge. From there Tony was able to say “Further on” “Right a bit” until he was satisfied that three rounds fire-for-effect would sort out Jerry. And it did!

The tour eventually ended and some of the participants left for the ferries whilst us sailors returned to the harbour basin in preparation for our trip back across the Channel. In an ideal world we would have time to wait for favourable weather but so often work commitments squeeze that window. The forecast was a squally Force 8 gusting 9 out of the North East …… so prudence suggested waiting a while. Just after midnight on 17th June, with the gale forecast to blow itself out, we hoisted the mainsail with its four rolls, tacked on the No2 Jib,

Bottom right shows the crew putting the reefs in. Bottom left happens to have the late Robin Duchesne.

…….. slipped our moorings and headed down the sheltered harbour entrance towards the sea. I sensed it was going to be a bit bumpy and ensured the fenders and warps were safely stored in their lockers and all the crew had well-fitted safety harnesses; I reminded myself the crew were not particularly experienced. Two of them worked on the foredeck, under the lights and in the torrential rain, to stow the anchor in its bow locker. Their stance was made difficult by the sea rolling in, and St Barbara rose and pitched as we motored out; every now and again there was a loud bang as she smashed into a large wave. By the time we cleared the entrance pilings they had returned to the safety of the cockpit. We could just about make our bearing to the Solent and, having hoisted the Jib, after about 30 minutes I switched off the engine; Tony went below to put the kettle on.

“Hey! Skipper! There’s lots of water on the cabin floor” (‘cabin sole’ for whom this sort of thing is important!)

To be continued …..

Richard 18th December 2020

Note 1 Each degree of variation over a distance of 60 miles will result in one nautical mile off course. A 4 degree variation would give you 4 nautical miles off course …… and the entrance to Trouville was a narrow dredged channel you approached on a transit!

Note 2 I was a Gunner so knew it should have been something like ‘Hello G31 this is Tango 23A over’

PC 54 The Loo

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Some subjects are so dry it’s difficult to get worked up about them, but my PC about loo paper brought back many memories for my readers, some good and some hilarious. So popular was this PC that it’s inspired me to go the next step and scribble about the actual loo.

Some of you will have visited ancient castles or manor houses in England where the ‘loo’ was a little seat in a turreted corner of the bedroom; an improvement from the portable box! From the outside, the turret overhung enough for the ‘drop’ to clear the stone façade. Some years ago there was a TV documentary series in the UK, trying to take a new look at old designs: one was about the loo. The design of the loo doesn’t seem to have changed much in more than 150 years.

There are many words for this receptacle for our daily waste. Whilst this list if not definitive …….loo, toilet, lavatory, ‘long drop’, khazi, WC (short for water closet), the crapper, the Dunny, the ‘restroom’, bog, the ‘ladies’ or ‘gents’ in a public environment, the facilities, the white phone, latrine, the John, little room and privy.

Funny how words become part of our language. Take ‘crap; possibly a verb and certainly a noun! It’s been around since the C17th referring to waste, but not used for bodily waste until 1846. But the word only became well known thanks to a Victorian plumber, Thomas Crapper. He was extremely successful in manufacturing bathroom fixtures and had a Royal Warrant. So ubiquitous were Mr Crapper’s toilet bowls, with his name written on the rim, that American servicemen stationed in Britain during WWII coined the phrase “going to the crapper”!

Thomas Crapper (1837 – 1910)

I do remember potties under the bed, but was shocked by this story, told to me in 1975 by a female newspaper reporter who had covered the kidnap by the IRA of a Dutch industrialist in County Kildare. Traced to a small village called Monasterevin, the siege attracted the world’s press, who had trouble finding somewhere to stay. My chum eventually found a house that offered the share of a bed (!) …… but was horrified to find that under the bed were emptied beer bottles ….. full of urine!

I am indebted to Paul for sending me this photograph, the latest design of ‘pissoire’ used by men at the Spa motor racing circuit in Belgium. He couldn’t find the female equivalent although you can buy a female ‘P EZ’ funnel on Amazon!

I wonder at what point the rocket-nose-shaped ‘pissoires’ take off?

Back in 1968 I chartered a small 19ft yacht for a week’s sailing in The Solent on the south coast of England. On board was fellow Gunner Gerry and two girl friends (note that this is girl …. friends and not girlfriends!) joined for the weekend. Braganza was a very basic sailing boat, with two small bunks and a little gas stove – but no loo! This doesn’t present a problem if you’re a bloke, but for members of the fairer sex a bucket placed below on the cabin sole of a moving/shifting/lurching sailing boat does not encourage the natural flow of things! On the Saturday evening we moored in Wootton Creek on the Isle of Wight …. and I have a very vivid memory of these two girls rowing the little pram dinghy ashore to find a proper loo. The speed at which they were rowing was possibly indicative of the urgency of their quest.

I remember painful experiences at boarding school. If you wanted to go to the loo before breakfast, you had to go before the breakfast bell sounded. After that, you were simply not allowed to go, irrespective of how desperate you might have been. I really to this day do not know what aspect of social behaviour I was meant to learn? If you need to go to the loo, you need to go to the loo – simple!

If you were camping in the 1960s and 1970s you simply took a shovel and walked off to somewhere where no one could see you. Cousin Susan writes: “…. Then there was the loo paper in Egypt and one small town in particular…..a hole in the middle of the floor, no loo paper and no doors so we had to get our friends to stand in the doorway so passers-by could not see us performing our acrobatic ablutions. My thighs were mighty strong in those days!”  Benedicte has similar memories of loos in China today – but would rather forget them! In the Army the camping arrangements were more formal; the Royal Engineers dug bore holes (should that be bored bore holes I wonder?). If it was cold it was OK, in this hessian-encircled latrine; if hot, the flies ensured it was not somewhere you lingered.

My stepfather loved smoking his pipe, particularly when mowing his wonderful lawn … but also, and sadly for the rest of us, when occupying the small downstairs loo. Part of his morning weekend routine, I guess, attempting the daily crossword in the paper, sucking on his tobacco-filled pipe and attending to nature … all at the same time. The little room needed a quarantine notice on the door for at least an hour afterwards.

Mind you, it isn’t necessarily your own loo experiences that are worth writing about. Jeremy Clarkson, a man made famous as much by his Top Gear TV Motoring programme as his ability to call a spade a spade, has a column in the UK Sunday Times. After someone complained of their hotel in Turkey, his weekly column was full of his own experiences, including this: “Certainly I cannot forget the converted old sheep station in the uplands of Bolivia. During my stay, I was woken one morning by a cleaner who entered my room without knocking, shuffled past my bed with a mumbled ‘Buenos dias’, went into my bathroom and took a noisy dump (slang for ‘going to the loo’!!) before shuffling out of the room with a frankly insufficient ‘gracias’”

I have always remembered a story that did the rounds one term at school; written on a grubby piece of paper it told the story of the confusion that arose between the use of WC for either ‘Wesleyan Chapel’ (Named after John Wesley, the founder of the Methodist Church in the C18th) or ‘Water Closet’. This being the C21st, I ‘googled’ it (That must be a verb by now – ‘to google’?) to get the story correct. It hasn’t lost its amusement after 50 something years and is reproduced in full below.

Celina’s father would sympathise with Paul who, recalling Bronco loo paper, wrote:  “Bronco was absolutely useless of course but then I have always detested loo paper of any sort, as it is just not up to the job (so to speak)! Every house I have ever owned has had a bidet and I would find it uncomfortable now to live without one.” Maybe he should try the combined loo/bidet; choose your music/scent/temperature/softness/air …… and away you go!

This PC seemed to go on and on; sorry! I normally try and constrain myself but seem to have suffered a bout of verbal diarrhoea with this one! Enjoy the scribbles!

Richard 8th November 2015                                               richardyates24@gmail.com

PS. “There was a little old English lady who was looking for a place to live in Switzerland.  She asked the local village schoolmaster to help her and together they found a place that suited her.  She returned to London to get her things, but on the way home she remembered that she had not noticed a bathroom in the new place, or as she called it, a water closet.  So when she arrived in London she wrote to the schoolmaster to inquire about a water closet in her place.  Being somewhat embarrassed to ask about this, she decided to just use the abbreviation W.C. rather than spell out the words.  When the schoolmaster received her letter he was puzzled by the initials W.C., never dreaming that she was referring to a bathroom.  So he went to the local minister to see if he knew what a W.C. was.  Of course, the minister thought it stood for the Wesleyan Church.  So the schoolmaster wrote this reply to the English lady.

Dear Madam,

The W.C. is situated nine miles from the house in the center of a beautiful grove of trees.  It is capable of holding 350 people at a time and is open on Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday of each week.  A large number of folks attend during the summer months, so it is suggested you go early, although there is plenty of standing room.  Some folks like to take their lunch and make a day of it, especially on Thursday when there is organ accompaniment.  The acoustics are very good and everyone can hear the slightest sound.

It may be of interest to you to know that my daughter was married in our W.C. and it was there she met her husband.

We hope you will be here in time for our bazaar to be held very soon.  The proceeds will go toward the purchase of plush seats for our W.C., which the folks agree are a long-felt need, as the present seats all have holes in them.

My wife is rather delicate; therefore, she cannot attend regularly.  It has been six months since the last time she went.  Naturally, it pains her very much not to be able to go more often. I shall close now with the desire to accommodate you in every way possible, and I will be happy to save you a seat down front or near the door, whichever you prefer.

Sincerely,

          Alfred Schmidt

Schoolmaster”

PC 47 Loo Paper

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It was Mark Twain who observed that travel broadens the mind; you don’t have to go far, however, even the local streets are full of rich pickings, if you care to look! I thought my own mind fairly broad, but it’s been stretched further by our recent North America travels, experiencing other places and other cultures. So when I encountered the thinnest, no, I really mean thinnest, loo paper in my life in Seattle, I thought this could be the subject of another PC ….. although it might need a little delicate handling ….. know what I mean? And if you had a rather prudish upbringing, maybe it’s best not to read any further!!

When I refer to ‘loo’ paper I encompass all the various descriptions of the genre; ‘toilet’ paper, ‘lavatory’ paper (very old fashioned maybe) …. and now the word ‘tissue’ is common-place. In France they refer to loo paper as PQ (a contraction of ‘papier cul’- ‘cul’ meaning ‘bum’ or ‘arse’); in German it’s ‘klopapier’ and in Portuguese ‘papel higiênico’. A couple of hundred years ago you might only have had the option of using some torn grass or old newspaper, but now the options are endless. The manufacturers of the ubiquitous ‘Wipes’, available for every cleaning job, have even developed the ‘toilet wipe’, which is ‘flushable’. Oh! Joy!

Back in the days of a less sensitive nation, in Britain there was ‘Jeyes Toilet Tissue’. Jeyes is now synonymous with cleaning products that get around the U-Bend but back then …. here was a cardboard pack of folded sheets of hard paper. The paper was a light brown in colour. It was neither absorbent nor comfortable; fortunately we have moved on. All loo paper used to be white, then coloured bathroom suites came into vogue and the manufacturers made a fortune in making loo paper that matched the various colours on offer – Avocardo, Peach etc. And we all know Andrex’s playful little puppy …… to advertise loo paper! I’m sorry, I simply do not see the connection here; what is the association between a sweet, soft, cuddly, youngster, having fun …. and wiping your bum?

If you worked for Her Majesty, as I did during my time in the British Army, we had ‘Government Issue’ loo paper; like the Jeyes stuff, but on every sheet it said ‘Government Issue’! If you were not a fan of a particular Government, the joke was obvious! And the ration that came in the ‘field pack’ had three small sheets per day; the common thought was ‘one up, one down, one polish’!

In Waitrose, an upmarket British supermarket, you can buy ‘Bathroom Tissue’ scented/coated in Aloe Vera, Jojoba or Cashmere. Do you sniff it before you use it, or do you really appreciate the difference in texture ……. by touching it? The mind boggles! In Yukon Territories, Canada, in a small place called Carmacks, a tourist emporium had a stack of loo paper wrapped as ‘Up North Toilet Paper’!?

The large, round container with a commercial-sized roll means less checking for cleaning staff , but have you ever found that the ‘free’ end is somewhere inside, almost stuck to the whole roll, and getting the free end usable takes forever? The ‘Seattle’ loo paper I think was designed for two (or more?) uses. The first is obvious, but the second? Well, it could easily have been used for tracing paper, it was so thin. And actually very difficult to take off the roll if the end was not obvious; a little like cling film/kitchen wrap when the effing end is completely invisible/undiscoverable!

One of the loos I use regularly (no pun intended!) is in our Bikram Studio complex. The overhead light is motion-activated (I’m sorry, this is just the way it comes to mind) which is fine unless you sit for longer than the timer allows – and the light goes off ….. and stays off until your flailing arms get noticed. In the Riverside Cottages we stayed in in Fairbanks, Alaska, they went one better, or worse! The shower/loo room had a timer for both light and extractor fan, and was customer-operated before you went in and locked the door. Well, here’s a conundrum. How long do you set it for before you enter? Get it wrong and you might end up in the dark, with your knickers around your ankles and …….

Bikram Yoga is practised in a studio where at least two walls have floor to ceiling mirrors. That’s fine, as part of the practice is to observed one’s half-hearted attempts to get into a certain posture; ‘must do better’, the voice in my head is often shouting! But in Brazil I encountered a mirrored wall …. in the loo! Aaaggghhhhh! The first time I used it, I was only wearing my Bikram shorts, ready for the session that would started shortly. After a minute or so sitting down, I suddenly looked to the right and ……. saw ……. well, Rodin’s Thinker is good to contemplate …… this sight was not! It sure hurried up my visit.

Recently I went into a loo, a rather narrow little room, sat down, did what I wanted to do, and then looked for the loo paper. After about 30 seconds, I located the roll, behind my shoulder. I almost dislocated said shoulder in trying to release a few sheets of paper; should I put my arm under my shoulder or above? Eventually the only way was to physically swivel on the loo seat through about 160°.

I don’t think we British have really got into using a Bidet, but I can understand its raison d’être! In an imagined nightmare scenario, you use the bidet ….. and look for a towel. There isn’t one! OK! There are probably some paper towels somewhere ….. but then you realise that in the C21st paper towels have been replaced by a Dyson Hot Air drier, fixed up on the wall. Success in the subsequent physical gymnastics required might guarantee you a place in the 2016 Olympics!!

Very mundane musings for a summer afternoon!

Richard 14 August 2015                                          richardyates24@gmail.com

PC 512 Does it Matter?

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Talk about choosing a title for some weekly scribbles with the opportunity to range far and wide! Maybe I should simply focus on personal issues like, for instance: ‘Do you insist on the loo seat being left down?’ OK! Immediately we are divided between those of you who call the ‘water closet’ the loo and those who call it the toilet! Or you might be confused and use the term ‘lavatory’ which, if I was being pedantic, is ‘a fixed basin with running water’ but can be used to refer to the whole room with a toilet (aka loo) and basin. We had a lunch party last week and the loo seat and lid were left up, left down, just the lid up ….. despite us having one of those soft closure lids! (Note 1) I hope our guests smiled when they saw that we buy our loo paper from ‘Who Gives a Crap’!

Doesn’t matter, does it, what you call it? And sitting down with friends for lunch, it doesn’t matter whether you call the piece of material to protect your clothes a napkin or a serviette, does it? Providing it’s material not paper!

It doesn’t matter how you perform a yoga posture – we are all different mentally and physically and no one should make any judgments. It simply does not matter – until the ego taps you on the shoulder and asks why you haven’t…..! And if you believe that the practice of yoga, hot or not, could be ego-free, try it yourself. You might even encounter a group ego!

Recently there have been television crime dramas based in Bristol and Belfast, hot on the tails of one about Brighton’s police force and how they cope with the mayhem that others see as ‘having a night out’! The latest Belfast series covers migration in Northern Ireland, overlaying the still-simmering religious divide.

It reminded me of the current ‘stand-off’ between Northern Ireland’s Orange Order (Note 2) and the people of Drumcree. As Max Hastings, writing in The Times, says: ‘The Orange Order wants to demonstrate its claimed legal entitlement to stage a sectarian march through an overwhelmingly nationalist housing estate in Drumcree.’ It mattered in 1857 when a government report stated: ‘The Orange system celebrates its festivals …. which lead to violence, outrage, religious animosities, hatred between classes and, too often, bloodshed and loss of life.’ Nothing seems to have changed in over a century and to those of us who live in Great Britain it’s anachronistic in the extreme. Surely time to abandon such wilful provocations as the Drumcree march and realise how much this would matter for the greater good?

Last month one of my postcards was titled ‘Communication’ and this month we have had another example of poor communication …… and it matters. The British Museum in London is exhibiting the Bayeux tapestry for the first time since it left these shores for France in 1080 …. and the 70m long display has attracted thousands of people wishing to view it. The exhibition has presumably been years in the planning, but no one seemed to anticipate the potential number of visitors. Long queues developed, not helped by people staying too long in front of the exhibit – clearly not allowed or imagined! They could have installed a moving walkway which would have helped.

But the lack of communication was obvious when early this month they had to close the exhibit to the public as they were hosting some corporate event. These things don’t happen overnight ….. so why didn’t they block out entrance to the public months ago? Some people travelled a long distance only to be told they would get a refund of the ticket – but no recognition that the British Museum’s poor organisation and communication had led to other nugatory travel and hotel expenses. Reminded me of the Hotel Fasano in Rio de Janeiro. There had been no warning that, during our short stay, the roof-top swimming pool would be closed for a corporate event. We the poor public are second best to corporate money. But timely communication would have helped.

I did come across a new item some months ago and thought ‘good for you’. Having been through the difficulties and agony of divorce, I was interested in the story about a woman whose second divorce cost both her and her husband £80k. It prompted her to start offering divorcing couples a cheaper option than the adversarial one that lines the pockets of solicitors and lawyers. She had clearance from SRA, but lawyers with a vested interest in the current system complained and she was up before a judge for offering unqualified advice; she could have gone to prison! Financial reductions in the state-funded Legal Aid budget have reduced the number of cases it can support from 180,000 to 10,000. The judge recognised there had to be a better way for Joe & Jill Public to access affordable legal advice and suggested she continue. A victory for common sense.

And, of course, it matters when you buy a bunch of fresh Basil and two days later it looks like the flopped ears of a hare. Last week I thought there must be a better way of keeping it fresh. The solution is to place it in a container with a little water, and a plastic bag over the top, essentially creating a little moist greenhouse. The last leaf was as fresh as the first.

And in the wider context of life, nothing really matters, however much we agonise about this and that.

Richard 9th October 2026

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 I hadn’t intended to mention this, but I scribbled about loo paper in August 2015 (PC 47) and followed that postcard with one about ‘The Loo’, with the famous Mr Crapper, in November that year (PC 54). I could email these to you as they are time-expired on WordPress.

Note 2 After King William of Orange (King William III) who invaded and secured Ireland for the Protestant crown by defeating the Catholic King James II in the Battle of the Boyne in 1690.