Sipping ginger tea and eating a large succulent red grape –  my body radiates warmth, at least that is what it feels like, in that afterglow of a massage. I’m on the third floor of the Banyan Tree Spa complex in Estoril, Portugal – a collection of pools, spas, saunas, a gym, treatment rooms and an indoor/outdoor café. The Spa Pool has water jets and a large circular section where the water rotates at about 2 mph. Swim against the current or simply let it lift you and take you – around and around!! Just the place for a wet Friday afternoon.

Massage has a funny reputation, a sort of nudge-nudge, wink-wink, amongst the male species and that reputation is not helped by some dubious massage parlours being used as a front for prostitution. You will have seen the different types of proper massages being advertised – Swedish, Aromatherapy, Hot Stone, Chair, Deep Tissue, Trigger Point, Shiatsu and Thai – and unless you regularly have them in conjunction with keeping fit or for some medical relief, it’s likely you only have one or two a year, on holiday maybe? I once heard a masseur saying that one a year is a complete waste of time – but hey that ‘afterglow’ is something, so why not have more?

Celina gave me a gift of a 90 minutes Thai massage: “Apparently it’s really fantastic!” I love massages, so readily said: ‘Yes please’. I prefer being massaged by someone of the opposite sex as that introduces an imaginary world that excites and disappoints in equal measure. I once had a massage by a chap who was blind; with his enhanced sense of touch and space it was unique, but it missed that frisson that develops, in my mind if nowhere else, between a male and female.

One website says: “Thai massage is a unique blend of assisted yoga, passive stretching, and pressing massage movements. Thai massage is more energizing than other forms of massage: it’s a little bit like yoga without doing the work, as the therapist moves and stretches you in a sequence of postures, usually on a mat on the floor. Like shiatsu, Thai massage aligns the energies of the body. The massage therapist uses rhythmic compression along the body’s energy lines to reduce stress and improve flexibility and one’s range of motion. It is done fully clothed. This type of massage can reduce muscle spasticity and back pain, and has been shown to be useful in treating balance problems and migraine symptoms.”

So at 1720 I check in with Deborah at the Reception Desk, go and change into those obligatory white towelling bath robes, and report back. A Thai woman appears; it’s not until later I ask her name – Nicole – and there’s probably a Thai name by which she’s known at home, but here she’s trying to westernise herself. I think about asking but realise that pronouncing a Thai name might stretch my linguistic ability.

“OK. Go in there and take your clothes off. Here’s a sarong to wrap around yourself” – so much for the ‘fully clothed’! Obviously what follows is about my own experience, from my masculine perspectives. On my return she gestures towards a chair; I sit and have my feet washed – just so indulgent! Orchids and that piped music so typical of these places – ‘The Music of the Andean Pipes’ – Thai style! Then I am instructed to lie face down on the massage table, naked; she shields me from herself with a large green sheet, although there isn’t much to see! And once I’m prone I can’t see much either, as my head is face down in that little indentation in the table, tastefully covered with white gauze. After some initial kneading on my legs, I sense she climbs onto the table and starts on my hips and lower back, I can feel her thighs against my legs and that contact is ……… She presses her torso against my back and it feels good!

Being completely naked there isn’t that pulling-down-the-hem-of-your-knickers normally associated with the masseuse working on your hips. Nicole simply moves the sheet and, besides, she’s seen it all before! I’m grateful she doesn’t chastise me for my sunburnt buttocks, the result of an hour in the sun earlier. At some point, in this warm haze of sensory overload, my arms are down the side of the table; she brushes her thigh against my hand and I smile to myself.

I ask how long she’s been in Portugal and she says she’s here for eighteen months. Her English is very limited (but better than my Thai!) so conversation doesn’t flow; she just gets on with her job, applying her skill and oil to my body. I wonder what she’s thinking as she adjusts the sheet to ensure my limited modesty as her hands massage my inner thigh; probably wondering which noodle bar she will go to when she finishes, with the other masseuses with whom she shares an apartment. My thoughts are not on supper! I learn later that a Thai company provides the masseuses for a two year stint.

There was certainly no sexual attraction between Nicole and me but the mere fact that some stranger’s hands are touching my skin, sometimes quite intimately, does cause feelings, strokes the imagination one might say. The fantasy suggests her asking: ‘You like something extra sir?’ but in reality that is exactly what it is, a male fantasy.  Add the fact that my masseur was a woman, so masseuse, and it’s most men’s pleasure. I say most men as some presumably are repulsed by such intimate contact, but if you are a tactile person like me, it’s heaven. I am instructed to turn over onto my back, the raised sheet much like a magician’s cloak, and the fantasies I had when ‘tummy down’ restart, as I suspect do Nicole’s about noodles.

Towards the end she lifts a leg to one side and pushes against the hip, opening that joint to its furthest extension. Wow! The Thai massage ‘Spinal Twist in Lying Position’. A few minutes massaging the hands and fingers, then my skull and I’m done. Off for a shower in a side room then, dressed, back for ginger tea and large succulent red grapes.

For Nicole this is just a professional job, what she does, and she relies on feedback from her clients. I mark her card accordingly – excellent. It cost Celina an arm and a leg, an appropriate expression here perhaps, and I hope Nicole gets at least 50%, but somehow doubt it.

On the way back from the Spa, Celina and I compare notes. She suggests a massage is a bit like a sexy dance between two strangers. Whilst there need be no sexual attraction, the act of following one’s natural rhythms and inclination can engender a feeling of sexiness. She’s hit the nail on the head; a great analogy. A true basic instinct, this sexual urge, encouraged by the sense of touch, of smell, of heat, of oil ….. and lots of imagination!

The Thai goodbye, hands together, fingers steepled, slight hardly-discernible bow and she’s gone – and leaves my empty outstretched hand, the normal British ‘goodbye’ gesture, untouched!!

Richard 23rd August 2018                                                                richardyates24@gmail.com

Sitting outside A Brasileira, the cafe on Rua Garrett in the Chiado quarter of downtown Lisbon (see PC 112), having a double espresso and a couple of naughty Pastel de Natas, I reach for my iPad and scribble. Around me sit tourists from across the world, although as this is the European holiday period the majority seem not to have travelled too far. It’s cloudy and muggy, not typical of normal Portuguese late July weather but this year is anything but normal, with global temperatures in the northern hemisphere significantly above average. The loss of life in a raging fire east of Athens is on everyone’s mind.

It is too airless inside the café so I try my luck at one of the outside tables, conscious that most are taken by smokers. Sure enough, just after I’ve sat down a five-people family group occupy a near-by empty table and packets of Gaulloise are placed on the table, together with the obligatory mobile phones ….. in case Mutti calls from München to check on the family, especially on Otto with his cold. Otto I should add looks 24! I watch the down-on-their-luck trying to cadge a cigarette, or just a light for their carefully cobbled-together roll-up made from picked-up fag ends. Further down the street cardboard from a shop’s merchandise’s boxes are used to insulate another from the little cobbled tiled pavement. The tourists step over the lying form, without so much as a look of sympathy, for this example of street life is in every city, a sad reflection on the world we live in.

The pace of life here is slow. The Portuguese are slow people, at least the modern ones, but you remember how its sailors and adventurers opened up the rest of the world to Europe? No slouch then huh?  Recently the singer Madonna, who’s made her home in Lisbon, was reported to be exasperated at the attitude of the Portuguese: “Lisbon is an ancient city and no one is in a hurry to do things.” Maybe she should sing ‘Like a Prayer’ more regularly?  The image of the typical Portuguese man or woman hasn’t changed much in decades – the black clothes, the rather bowed legs, the flat cap – and it still projects the country; somewhat rural and backward-looking. Of course sometimes this pace has its attractions, particular for those used to the rush rush rush some of us endure. It reminded me of that observation about how someone was so laid back they almost fell over. But when you come up against this personally, trying to get a builder to come and quote, for instance, it frustrates and irritates in equal measure. And when they do come, they turn up at 8pm and start hammering!!

I had read about Mafra in a general book about Portuguese history, but didn’t inspect the DK entry carefully enough! “Open W-M except on 25 December.” …… ie closed on Tuesday. We visited ….. on a Tuesday; the Palácio de Mafra was closed …… for cleaning ….. but the basilica was open. A thirty minute drive wasted you might think, for Mafra lies about 35kms north of Estoril but actually, apart from the magnificent library with its beautifully crafted marbled inlaid mosaic floor …… (See note)

…… I wondered how many of the 800 rooms one would see on the guided tour? Certainly I could give the room containing hundreds of animals stuffed by taxidermists a hundred years or so ago a miss …… so all we saw was the basilica, built between the king’s bedchamber tower and that of the queen’s. We peered inside; cavernous! Bigger than St. Peter’s in Rome? Maybe? And ‘dusty’ didn’t do it. (Maybe not part of the Tuesday cleaning programme?) Statues to those considered at the time worthy of sainthood or public commendation adorn the alcoves, the domed ceilings intricately laid with coloured marble and actually, for a Catholic Church, plain ….. but it sits in the biggest of buildings.

It was originally designed in 1717 to house 13 monks; I am not sure why thirteen, but it was obviously not an unlucky number then. The extravagance, the exuberance and sheer folly ran away with the Italian architect Ludwig and his client the king, João V. Portugal’s coffers were overflowing with gold from one of their newest colonies Brazil and, after 52,000, yes fifty two thousand builders laboured away for 13 years the result was a monastery for 300 Franciscan monks. For 104 years it was their home and a place for the hunting/shooting/ fishing set to spend their weekends. Actually I think ‘Le weekend’ is a modern concept and those who went stayed for as long as they wanted! Wasn’t it Maggie Smith as Downton Abbey’s Violet Crawley who asked “What’s a weekend?”

Eventually like all good things it came to an end. The monks got their marching orders in 1834 when all religious orders were dissolved …… and the king took all the furniture to Brazil in 1807 when his court fled the advancing French. The palace lay empty; the monarchy ended in 1910 and the then king left for Twickenham ….. so now it’s empty and a hideous example of how to waste money. But I read the Portuguese have been wasting money for decades!

Sintra, which lies south of Mafra, is a little like Disneyland, although I have never been to either the original one or even the French one. A magnet for tourists all the year round, it’s the Portuguese equivalent of Petropolis in Brazil or Shimla in India, built by the monarch in the former case and the British Government in India in the latter case as somewhere to escape the summer heat. I should add that Sintra is normally surrounded by mist and low cloud; and so it was when we went! Lying north of the capital Lisbon it’s close enough for a trip for those taking a city-break weekend. Three palaces and their grounds cover some tens of square kilometres and we visited the Palácio National de Sintra, started in the C14th on the site of a Moorish palace. The best bit was the chimneys for the large palace kitchens and it’s these that give it, for me, a Disney feel; they are gorgeous!

There is also the Palácio da Pena and the Rococo Palacio de Queluz, a C18th development of a hunting lodge, to see but we left those for another time. I find after three hours of looking, peering, visualising and studying, my brain starts to fry and if anyone suggests a coffee, my hand is in the air quicker than you can say disconbobulation.

Richard August 2018

Note: “There is a colony of bats which live in the library and protect the ancient books from insect damage. These small bats are let out at night and can eat twice their weight in insects. This natural form of pest control has been in place for over 300 years.” Now that’s fascinating!!

 

The streets of any strange city are often confusing; normally one city block looks like any another; one way streets and directions to unfamiliar areas compound one’s sense of unease, tinged of course with the excitement of discovery. Walking around is at your own pace; driving one is in the flowing traffic and you need to know where you are going, or at least have a sense of that direction. These days you can have as much assistance as you like in the form of a satellite navigation/information system beamed to your smart phone or in-car dashboard display. They help quite a lot, although when they  start ‘recalculating’ because that side road she (also a female huh?) asked you to turn down was either a one way street the wrong way, blocked by a council refuse-collecting vehicle or just looked plain wrong, you want to shout at the sky: “aaggghhhh”!

So it was on a Sunday in early July we found ourselves heading to a school building (Escola Secundaria Maria Amalia Vaz de Carvalho) in the Portuguese capital Lisbon in search of a yoga class, taking place in an inflated tent. I think the principal is great. Take over some space, in this case a spare classroom, inflate your yoga studio inside (note: not inflating your ego!), pump in the heat and conduct an hour’s Vinyasa or something similar.

On Rua Sampaio e Pina we found the entrance to the waste ground that was obviously used as a car park and nodded to Santos, who was the weekend security chap. “Bom dia. Yoga?” he asked politely, peering through the car window. “Bom Dia. Sim!” He pointed to a rusted iron fence through which we should drive; down a ramp and park in the dust, among the weeds, alongside an enormous building. The sun was high in the sky and it was hot. We were early and were just discussing life and the universe when another car pulls up and out steps a young woman who says she’s Sophia and she’s our yoga teacher; she had made a ready assumption we were there for yoga! Why else would you be there on a Sunday morning? We walk towards a small white metal door at the rear of the building. Up a flight of stairs …. to the door of the studio.

“Is there a loo I can use?”

“Yes, down this corridor take the first right, another 50 metres, on the right.”

We knew there were showers we could use after the class and took advantage of someone coming out of the previous class to guide us. She asked whether we were Sophia’s parents – think I could have been her grandfather more like!!  It was a ten day Camel Ride, as they say; along this corridor, down some stairs, along that corridor, turn right, another 100 metres – it’s a large school building. Dusty indoor plants (Ficus Benjamina), looking as though they needed sunlight, water and a good feed, make a feeble attempt to brighten the entrance hall

On the way we pass the signs of school life at this time of year; notices on doors: ‘Exams: Silence!!’; School Sports’ Day’s photographs; timetables largely coloured out; photos of past Alumni; displays in English and Portuguese of subject matter – biological systems, the planets, geological strata etc; a noticeboard with personal messages and holiday advertisements etc. The half-tiled corridor walls bring back my own memories of decades ago, although these are that blue colour so loved of the Portuguese, not the mud brown on my Wiltshire school corridors! We eventually reach the showers, look, and retrace our steps, hoping we’ll find those showers when we need them!

“You can change in there” says Sophia, pointing to one closed door for me and to another door for Celina. In mine lies detritus from the IT Department. How quickly machines become obsolescent and then obsolete in the technology sector these days; dead desktops, keyboards by the dozen, cables everywhere, the odd printer and many screens all piled higgledy piggledy in the corner. Dusty and forlorn; depressing actually! I am reminded of that little green cursor winking at me …… fond memories of my first VDU.

The pod glows purple and blue in the room next door and our fellow participants, some nine in all, are gathering and finding a floor space. The light level is low so Sophia, when she starts the class at the front, sort of appears in silhouette. Soon we are sweating in the 38ºC heat and going through the asanas; after almost two weeks of no yoga, this is good. All too soon it was over, we say our thanks and namastes, and head for the showers; we are the only ones going in that direction, suggesting that the others preferred to shower at home.

Down this corridor, these stairs, left by the potted plants and there we were five minutes later, the girls and boys shower rooms. The building was completely empty, the echoes of children and staff and bells and doors closing all too apparent on this quiet Sunday; I felt like I was trespassing in this empty school, devoid of pupils and staff  yet haunted and inhabited by its past. We decided to simply use one room and chose the boys’ – easier to explain if interrupted maybe? Rather worn and paint-splattered floor tiles, a shower area around by the windows and ….. no hot water! But we coped – washing the sweat off and a brisk dry with a towel.

Then out in to the hot sunshine, into the baking car, switch on Jezebel 2, and ask her to take us to Jardim des Amoreiras in the Rato district. “Turn  right out of the car park ……” Here we go again, except this time we’re relaxed and exercised, so in theory it should be a doddle.

Richard 27^th July 2018                                          richardyates24@gmail.com

Our luggage was different this time. Normally we’ve established how many suitcases we can take with our airline allowance and packed accordingly, with a weather eye on the bathroom scales – those extra pots of Oxford Vintage Marmalade that we believe are coveted or that special Muesli that someone the other end identified as their favourite in the whole wide world and could you bring a bag or two (another 500 or 1000g eating into your weight allowance!!). And eventually it’s done and we leave for the airport, our minds running a mental check-list to ensure that it’s only at the top of the road that we shout stop and not think f**k when you get to the departure gate at the airport!!

One of my pet hates is the electrical socket difference. How did the world develop different plugs and sockets? Bit like PAL and VHS but some of you will be too young to remember those video formats? Surely this is something the UN should insist on, a change to one standard and it would have to be the UK system because that’s the best!! How many travel adaptors do I own? Too many – and often not the right one! (See note)

This time we were packing for an extended time away in Portugal and not Brazil, where some of the European descendants still hanker after certain English favourites. In Europe these are probably now available in the Saloio supermarket in Estoril, an upmarket delicatessen that serves a sizeable British ex-pat community. …. but going by sea ferry and car we were able to take as much as we wanted – weird! For example: “Should we take a picnic bag?” “Why not, it doesn’t take up much room.” “A kitchen sink?” “Nah!”

Do you have a box or a tin or a bag with all your loose foreign change, or are you good and drop it into the charity envelope proffered by the stewardess on the aircraft prior to landing or into that cardboard box close to arrivals? When I worked for Short Brothers in the second half of the 1980s my role was to go and meet potential customers; I was a salesman but I think I was called Sales Executive or Manager or some such as the word ‘salesman’ in the UK carries certain connotations, connections with second hand cars and the name Arthur Daley!! In those 5 years I covered just under 300,000 miles with Singapore Airlines alone and visited a large number of countries. Each time I came back with some loose change and generally put it into old Schimmelpenninck cigarillo tins I had for some reason kept (in case ?). Being quite organised I labelled each tin, according to the contents – Deutsche marks, Danish Krone, French Francs, Indian Rupees, Singaporean dollars, Malaysian Ringget, Australian Dollars etc. Now I only have some Euros or Brazilian Reals in coinage and don’t really need those tins.

Some of you will be aware that Celina and I took the ferry to Santander in northern Spain and then drove to Estoril in Portugal. Apart from the Dartford crossing of The Thames to the east of London where you have to pay a toll, no longer through a machine but only ‘online’, it’s rare for me to travel on a toll road. Here on the Iberian Peninsula motorways charging for their use are common.

The locals will have one of those cards that are automatically read by sensors on an overhead gantry at the Toll Gate, and are charged monthly. Tourists have to pay at a personnel-manned or machined-manned gate. We thought we had got the hang of it, then found ourselves with a ticket that needed to be paid when we got off the motorway. An hour later, in the outside lane of three, the exit booths were upon us before we realised it and we drove through an open gate. Aagghhhh!!

So, when we got into the hotel in Porto, we asked the reception staff how we could pay. “On the right of the Praça do Marquês de Pombal there’s a Post Office counter inside the CTT bank.” The man we found there laughed and almost accused us of trying to avoid paying. Then he told us he couldn’t take the payment but if we went down the street, turned left etc etc “You are in a car, no?” “No!” “OK, rather a long walk.” But this wasn’t the half of it, as they say. The attendant in the garage to which we had been directed said he couldn’t help but if we went …… five sets of traffic lights …… turn left …… can’t miss it. “You’re in a car, no?” “No!” “OK, rather a long walk …..” Eventually we did find the offices of the company Via Verde who operate the toll roads and paid what we should have paid three hours before. The dubious bonus was we saw parts of Porto that tourists rarely see ……. and I understand why!

Porto, on the Douro River, is the commercial capital and second largest Portuguese city: the inhabitants think it’s the best. It has of course given its name to the fortified wine beloved of after-dinner drinkers and the warehouses of the great trading families line the river – Taylors, Sandeman, Graham, Vasconcelos to name but a few. I have drunk enough port in my life to know it’s glorious, in the right place and at the right time. It was an essential part of the formal dining I enjoyed, and endured, in my military life. After the debris of the last course had been cleared away, the port decanters came out and were placed at each end of the dining table. As far as I remember, the ‘form’ was for the person at the end to offer it to the person on their right …… and then pass it clockwise. Once all the glasses were full, the appointed president asked the Vice-President to propose a toast to The Queen who, in the case of the Royal Regiment of Artillery, was also our Captain General. We got to our feet, toasted Her Majesty, and then got on with the more informal entertainment. Maybe some of that port had been in casks on one of these small boats on the Douro River, decades ago.

Richard 14^th July 2018

Note: The eagled-eyed among you will notice a UK plugged extension cable. This trip I decided to take one and then replace its UK end plug with a Portuguese one – that’s on the assumption that I can find a plug as most electrical appliances these days have a molded non-replaceable one.

 

 

 

I went looking for a family seat ….. and added a few more threads to my knowledge of the family’s tapestry. In our hall there is an oil painting of a rather gorgeous lady and only recently I found out that she was a great great grandmother, Sarah Fosbery. I know from the marriage certificate of one of her nine daughters that she lived in Adare, County Limerick, in Ireland. A few of you may stop reading now, the blinds coming down with the words ‘great great gra…’, having a phobia for uncovering our unique ancestry; personally I think it’s fascinating and important and helps me feel more grounded in this world.

Sarah Eleanor Fosbery 1822-1861

Andrew Black was my contact and I hoped through him to find the family seat, the house near the town of Adare. He was a rather amusing chap, typically Irish, self-educated and self-made; he called a spade a spade, or a shovel, depending on his mood. He continuously expounded his dislikes for food, especially those dishes from other countries, a dislike of sport in any form and a fervent dislike for any other race than the Irish or English – well the white ones at least. Each position was justified with a passion; I sensed that within a few months we could have had some form of discussion, but he just ‘switched to send’ and talked …. and talked ….. as those from his country have a reputation to so do. He assured me he could ‘show me Curraghbridge House’ so we booked a couple of nights in the Absolute Hotel in Limerick (Note 1).

I couldn’t come to the City of Limerick without understanding something of its history, as that was crucial to my own. The city sits at the upper limit of the navigational part of the river Shannon and has played a hugely important part in the history of Ireland. The castle dates from 1200; rebellions by the largely Catholic population led to it being besieged a number of times. The last one was in 1690 when the defeated Catholic armies of King James retreated to Limerick after the Battle of the Boyne and were besieged by the armies of the Protestant King William lll. The Treaty of Limerick in 1691 created a peace that lasts until today, although I sense that those with long memories believe this a black moment in Irish history. This treaty allowed Patrick Sarsfield, 1^st Earl of Lucan, to sail with his Irish Jacobite Army of some 19,000 to France, in what became known as the Flight of the Wild Geese (Note 2). With the Protestants victorious, land was distributed to a number of loyal English families who emigrated to Ireland. Burke’s ‘The Landed Gentry of Ireland’ (1910)  records that a Francis Fosbery was ‘said to have emigrated to Ireland 1690’ and settled in Clorane, on land south of the Shannon river, to the west of the town of Adare (pronounced Adooore if you have the Irish brogue!).

Limerick today is a place of “wonderful pubs, friendly people, scenic riverside views and an enormous castle”, but mention it to any Irishman, particularly those from Dublin, and they frequently mention the city’s nickname of ‘Stab City’. For sure there are areas of deprivation just like in many modern towns and cities, but we found the place safe and interesting, although I did find the height of the shower head in the Absolute Hotel had been fixed for Leprechauns, but that is a minor criticism!

During our countryside search for Curraghbridge House we stopped at various little bungalows, built on tiny plots of land a direct result of land distribution, to inquire about the house owner and ask if someone had his contact number; no one did!

Curraghbridge House, behind the locked gate, in the distance

I was by now growing frustrated that Andrew hadn’t made contact before our arrival, but the sun was out and this was Ireland, where there is little sense of hurry! At one such stop I did a double take, for the oldish chap was wearing what my somewhat distant father would have worn when gardening – a pair of dun coloured corduroy trousers sitting high on the waist with a piece of bailer twine to keep them up, and turn-ups A rather well-worn shirt of the same sort of grubby colour and muddy shoes completed the look, that of the care-worn Irish male. We saw a similar look the following day, passing through Kilrush. It was market day and, in addition to the food stalls laid out up and down the High Street, a group of men were hanging around outside the S. O’Ouibir Pub with a collection of dubious looking horses and ponies.

We had driven along the north banks of the Shannon estuary and eventually had lunch at Kilkee on the Atlantic Ocean. We were blessed with gorgeous weather, completely contrary to the expected rain, and eventually paddled in the sea at Spanish Point.

We never got onto the land or into the house of Curraghbridge but knowing it’s there, this family seat, and its importance in my history, made this trip very worthwhile. (Note 3)

Richard 29th June 2018

Note 1         The city rather downplays its obvious connection to the word limerick as a form of nonsense verse, made particularly popular by Edward Lear, which are rather rare today. The reason for the connection is lost in time!! It’s ‘ a jingle, now usually epigrammatic (short poem ending in a witty or ingenious turn of thought), and frequently indecent, consisting of five lines.’ Here’s an example from Anita V: “An infatuated man from Dover, was left by his imaginary lover. He pulled at his hair, in sheer despair, forgetting his wig was his cover.” And of course we know them as nursery rhymes. For example: “Hickory, dickory, dock, The mouse ran up the clock. The clock struck one, And down he run, Hickory, dickory, dock.”

Note 2         These troops continued to serve King James as he planned and then aborted an invasion of England. Lord Lucan was himself killed in the Battle of Landen in 1693; he was aged 33.

Note 3         Sarah had nine daughters and died shortly after the arrival of the last, aged just 39. Her husband Francis married again and, eventually, produced an heir. Unable to inherit anything from the family estate, well, apart from their mother’s portrait, all the girls emigrated to New Zealand apart from one who went to the USA.

Note 4         Limerick hit the headlines again in 1996 when Frank McCourt published his story ‘Angela’s Ashes’ about growing up in the poverty and deprivation that was Limerick in the 1930s. It’s been suggested that 60% of his account was fabricated and embellished but I know how difficult I find it to remember last year let alone sixty years ago so I would sympathise if it was the case!

 

My personal view ……. picking and choosing the bits I understand ……. from an ever-changing scenario!!

After a number of false starts (note 1) the people of Britain joined the European Union in 1973; a 1975 referendum confirmed the nation’s wish to remain a member by 67%. Wind the clock forward 41 years to 2016, when the then Prime Minster, David Cameron, honoured his manifesto commitment to hold a referendum on Britain’s continuing membership. It seemed they walked into a disaster of their own making; confident of the result, the Government’s campaign to stay in was negative, rather than positive, and I reflected at the time the language of the postal campaign was of a sixth form debating society, not worthy of an organisation with the collective intellectual weight of the nation!! So on 23^rd June we voted on whether to stay in or leave.

‘Take back control of our institutions; immigration and our future!’ was the message that screamed from the billboards across the country. The bogeyman was the potential, at some stage in the distant future, for Europe to develop into some socialist utopia, a Federal States of Europe, which I guess is a real anathema to most Brits; wave that flag and everyone will vote ‘out’. But today there are other issues. For those of you who live outside of Europe in other parts of the world, you may not know that EU citizens have freedom to work and live wherever they want to within its borders. For instance the Polish population in Britain, historically around 200,000 since the Second World War, has grown by just under a million since Poland joined the EU as its workers flooded in, armed with a great work ethic. Look for a plumber or builder, chances are they are Polish. More recently the Romanians, who joined the EU in 2007 but who had unrestricted access in 2014, have become the second-biggest non-British nationality living and working here. A section of society complains that these people ‘take our jobs’ – so voted ‘out’.

For those of us who believe it was better to stay in, ‘better the devil you know that the devil you don’t’, and for all its many faults (see note 2) believe it has been good for Britain, the result was like awakening in a nightmare – except this was real. I simply could not believe it – 52% voted to leave, although I was pleased Brighton & Hove was in the Remain camp. Sadly 69% of people over 65 voted to leave and whilst I fit into that category it’s only by age, not by either head or heart. Hoist with his own petard, Cameron resigned, ushering in the uncertain rule of Theresa May who had the unenviable task of implementing a policy she didn’t vote for. ‘Brexit is Brexit’. A headline oft repeated but never fully explained, because one senses that no one knows!!

‘Bring back control of our borders’. There was some very odd voting during the referendum. In Sunderland, in the North East of the country, they voted to leave despite the whole local economy being rescued from its past ship building days by Japanese car manufacturers, giving them an entry into other European countries tariff-free. Made in post-Brexit Britain cars will probably be subject to an import tax if sold into the EU. So it’s possible that manufacturing plants will move to mainland Europe. Cornwall, which as a deprived region was eligible for grants to improve its local economy, has been allocated £2.5bn between 2000 and 2020, yet voted to leave!! Talk about shooting yourself in the foot!

There is, in my view, another more odious aspect to those who voted ‘no’. They imagined that, in addition to the repatriation of millions of European citizens who live and work here, other ‘migrants’ would be forced out too. The other day someone said to me: ‘you know, lots of the Muslims will have to go too.’ I was too shocked to respond properly given the individual was educated and worldly. Britain has been subjected to immigration for ever. As a member of the Commonwealth we have accepted thousands of immigrants. For instance, when India and Pakistan were established in 1947, Anglo-Indians were expelled and settled here, just as Asian Indians did when expelled from Uganda by Idi Amin; the Commonwealth mother country opened its doors.

Recent newspaper reports have highlighted a common problem with immigrants. Despite living here for decades, thousands of immigrants don’t speak English, content to settle within their own established communities. Gradually that area becomes more like the country where the people came from, where they were born. ‘Good grief! They even allow Mosques to be built!’ But when we British expanded our empire, we built churches …… and if the ‘natives’ didn’t speak English we simply spoke louder. Ah! The circle of hypocrisy! Whilst every reasonable individual would, I suspect, like everyone to assimilate and learn English, the fact is we have large sections of some of our cities inhabited by those of Indian and Pakistani descent, and also little enclaves of Portuguese, areas of north London predominately Jewish, our French friends in ‘Petty France’. You can’t force people to be tolerant, but we do have a very multicultural society in Britain and you can’t put that particular genie back in the bottle, Brexit or no Brexit.

The comment about Muslims could equally have been made about Hindus or other religions but the visibility of head-scarfed or burka-clad female Muslims singles them out as being different. It’s not helped that Islam has been hijacked by extremists and the very wrong sort of PR specialists. Could it be that Islam is probably where Christianity was 600 years ago? But this issue has nothing to do with Brexit!!

Richard 15^th June 2018

 *Brexit is horrible shorthand for ‘Britain exiting the EU’.

Note 1.        Our entry was opposed by France’s President Charles de Gaulle, but he resigned in 1969, making our application more likely to be accepted.

Note 2.        I have two real hates about the EU. One is the historic fact it has two geographic locations where its Parliament sits, one in Brussels and one in Strasbourg. Every six months or so the MEPs and their staff decamp from Brussels to Strasbourg. The reason for this doubling of the cost was France’s insistence that the ‘European’ Parliament be in French soil. So a costly fudge was made. The second one, which people seem to accept, is that the audit of the EU’s finances is never completed, giving reign to wastage, potential corruption, misappropriate use of funds …… and no one is accountable!

 

“It’s been a hard day’s night, and I been (sic) working like a dog …..” sang The Beatles in 1964 and having scribbled PC 124 about ‘night’ it was the most obvious thing to pull together something about ‘day’ for my next blog.

I guess we have all been here? Eyes open, looking at the blackness of the night around one and then, gradually, becoming aware that there is an infinitesimal lightening, the darkness is lifting, objects have shape and meaning, the sky is discernible …….. dawn is breaking. That hour before sunrise is magical for those of us lucky enough to be up and out; sort of allows you to own the day that’s coming. ‘Day’ – the time during which the sun is above the horizon; the time it takes for the earth to revolve once on its axis; but the ‘Solar Day’ is defined as from noon to noon – go figure that!

Often playing around inside my skull is the song ‘Let the sunshine in!’ from the musical Hair. I never saw the show on stage but I am sure we can all identify with those lyrics. Many years ago I visited Osborne House, the summer palace of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert situated on the Isle of Wight on our south coast. The mirrored shutters in one of the state rooms were a very clever idea and I replicated them here in our apartment in Amber House. Wooden shutters are good insulators and it’s a joy to open them on a sunny morning and ‘let the sun shine in!’ The large windows face due East so facing the direction of sunrise ……. well, not quite true and actually only twice in the year, on the equatorial equinoxes. As summer arrives, the sun rises further and further to the north, until at the summer equinox it’s rising almost due North East! Conversely on the winter equinox it’s well down into the South East; almost 90º difference.

You may have read PC 45 about our trip in 2015 up into Alaska. On the longest day we were in Dawson City, preparing to drive further north to Eagle.

This was sunset (!) at 0125 on 20th June

Did you see that 2002 film Insomnia with Al Pacino playing a detective sent to a small Alaskan town to investigate a teenager murder? He has trouble sleeping, due to the almost endless daylight in the summer at that latitude. We had no such trouble but it is a weird thing, living in constant daylight. It seems the body needs that rhythm of awake and asleep/day and night.

And these celestial moments define so much for us. Hands up who hasn’t taken endless photographs of magnificent sunrises and fabulous sunsets?

Sunrise over Portland Harbour, Dorset

 

Sunset in Hove

The worship of the sun has been a constant feature of man’s existence, for we would not be here without its light and warmth. In the UK we have the 4m high Sarsen stones forming Stonehenge in Wiltshire where, on the summer solstice, the rising sun lines up with particular stones; Druids celebrate. Did you read of the alternative idea, that actually it was used at sunset on the winter solstice, as that signified the beginning of longer days, warmer days, days for sowing crops? You’ve heard the term ‘the sun shot’ probably; the altitude of the sun relative to the horizon can be used in navigation to determine your latitude, providing you know the time accurately.

When you know something to be true, it’s sort of difficult to imagine it otherwise! In PC 120 Virgins I mentioned that in biblical times it was not understood that both man and woman were needed for procreation, something we could not comprehend now. Similarly, it wasn’t until the C16th that it was proved, by a Polish mathematician called Copernicus, that the sun is the centre of our universe, and not the earth! And you can see why – we sense the sun rises and sets and don’t sense that the earth spins on its axis.

We get used to the way it is and hardly question it. The time it takes for the earth to complete its orbit of the sun is 365 days. Yes! Of course! Well, actually it orbits a common centre of gravity, pulled and pushed a little by other planets, but ‘around the sun’ works better huh? And this takes 365.256 or 365.243 days ……. so every four years working, with the Gregorian calendar, we add on an extra day, February 29^th . Folk lore in Britain says that’s the day a woman can ask a man to marry them, as it was a man’s right on every other day of the year; post-Harvey Weinstein that may change?

The sun defines our days but in Britain it can be a rare occurrence, this ‘sunshine’. Here our days are often cloudy, misty or sometimes foggy, the latter so disruptive if travelling but magical if just contemplating life. Without sunlight life would not exist, right? Crops wouldn’t grow; they use photosynthesis to convert the light energy into chemical energy which fuels the organism’s activities. Oxygen is produced as a by-product and this maintains sufficient levels in our atmosphere for life. But recently the Planet Earth series has shown life in a multitude of forms living in the complete darkness at the bottom of the oceans, at pressures that would crush a human.

We have hard days, good days, bad days, birth days, fun days, sad days, ‘Go ahead, make my day’ times (Clint Eastwood in Sudden Impact (1983), reinforced with his .44 Magnum), POETS’ Days (‘Piss Off Early Tomorrow’s Saturday’ – often used at work on a Friday), and the Sunday Times series ‘A Life in The Day’ where well-known individuals describe a typical day. The day, this 24 hour period when we work, rest and play, can also be an analogy for life itself, the span of our lives. This John Ellerton hymn is often sung at funerals; this is the first verse (read the rest please!)

‘The day Thou gavest Lord is ended,

The darkness falls at Thy behest;

To Thee our morning hymns ascended,

Thy praise shall sanctify our rest.’

 

Enjoy your day!

Richard 3^rd June 2018

 

 

 

The difficulty about writing a thousand words about ‘night’ is that my butterfly mind keeps landing on some other aspect I hadn’t considered; bear with me? Night – ‘The dark period after twilight and before dawn, generally one hour after sunset and one hour before sunrise.’; so says my dictionary under the entry ‘night’. (Note 1)

For most of us it’s simpler to imagine the sun rising, climbing to its noon zenith before its gradual descent and disappearance below the horizon, than thinking of the sun stationary and earth revolving on its axis. Funny to know that we are spinning at 1000 miles per hour, at the equator, and we have no sense of this in any way! In addition we orbit the sun at an average speed of 67,000 mph …… and yet life here is extremely static. Weird what we get used to, or maybe we never knew anything different so ……

Late afternoon in the UK; deep in the night-time in Australasia

The setting of the sun, often in glorious technicolour, ushers in the beginning of the ‘night-time’ period. This varies enormously, depending on the seasons and where you actually live on the planet. In the United Kingdom, London is just north of the 51^st parallel, where on the summer solstice night-time is a mere 7.5 hours; on the winter solstice this more than doubles to 16 hours. Within the whole of the UK there is wide variation as at this latitude the earth gets flatter towards the North Pole. The islands fit into 50-60º north (cf with New Zealand which lies between 35 and 50 degrees south) and has almost 19 hours of daylight at its northern tip on the summer solstice. (See note 2)

Enough of the geography refresher! Night and Day; black and white! The word night is associated with darkness, evil, the colour black, sinister activity etc etc. Politically you may recall Germany’s Kristallnacht (The Night of Broken Glass), the Nazi pogrom against the Jews on 9/10 November 1938, and ‘The Night of the Long Knives’ when Himmler’s black-shirted SS attempted the complete liquidation of Hitler’s brownshirts (SA). The latter has become a common label here in the UK to describe a surprise and complete reorganisation of a cabinet. And then, in 1997, Anne Widecombe, an ex-minister, said that the British Home Secretary at the time, a Michael Howard, was reckoned to ‘have something of the night about him’, as in shadiness or underhandedness!

So light becomes synonymous with living … and goodness ….. and the darkness with evil, ghosts and ghouls. But there are always some of us who enjoy the night time. In Andrew Lloyd-Webber’s The Phantom of the Opera, the phantom sings of the ‘Music of the Night. He believes that night time sharpens and heightens each sensation, stirs and wakes imagination; that night will slowly and gently ‘unfurl its splendour’. Don McClean sang of the ‘starry starry night’ in his song about Vincent Van Gough and I hope we all wonder at the sights available to us if we look up on a cloudless night. You may recall PC 20 about The Pantanal in Brazil; with absolutely no light pollution seeing the stars arching across the heavens above and the fireflies lighting up the scrub at ground level was absolutely magical.

Many years ago I was visiting a work colleague near Barnard Castle in Northumberland. They lived in a little village in the middle of nowhere. It was night-time by the time I left; I remember walking outside to get the car which had been parked about 100 metres away. Wow! Couldn’t see a thing!

Absolutely pitch black (a nod to the colour of tar maybe?); there were no street lights; mobile phones and their built-in torch hadn’t been invented so I was dependent on walking with one foot in front of the other, arms outstretched ….. in the general direction of the car!

During Officer Training quite a lot of emphasis was placed on infantry tactics. One particular exercise concerned night patrolling to gather information; we were very green and tried to do our best. I had some form of laryngitis and as luck would have it I was the radio operator. When using the set I could only respond in a husky cigarette-racked whisper, at low volume. I didn’t tell the directing staff of my incredibly sore throat and I suppose they assumed we were being very professional! But the real lesson we learned was that one’s eyes needs to adjust to darkness, to night time. “30 minutes to maximise your ability to see” was the advice. And without any moonlight that’s about right.

I prefer the daylight but sometimes needs must! At 0300 I might have been seen walking my Labrador Tom around the streets of Battersea if his success at foraging for fox carcases had caused an upset stomach and he needed to get out. Always fascinating to see who’s up at that time or how to avoid being stopped by a police patrol car who assume that anyone out was up to no good!

Of course we all started off in the womb, in the dark. But did you know that the developing foetus is able to detect light through the outer wall of the womb, even though the eyelids are still shut? And you remember as a child shining a torch on the underside of your hand and seeing the pink light visible through the translucent skin?

Then the word night has been used as an adjective, as in:

Night cap – an old-fashioned idea to keep the head warm in bed at night but survives as a way of going to sleep with some infusion of alcohol.

Night mare – originally a female monster or evil spirit, an incubus, which descended on someone sleeping. And then fun aspects, as in night club, make a night of it, being a night owl.

Being an offshore sailor I am well used to navigating at sea at night, when the various navigation aids of lighthouses and marker buoys enables you to establish your position accurately. Sometimes you needed a stopwatch to tell the difference between a flashing 1 (3) ….. and an quick (3) ….. and these days you would need to know that a red light sequence of flashing 1 (1) 2 (1) 2 (composite group occulting) is actually the Rampion wind farm off the coast here in Hove; 116 wind turbines lit up like Christmas trees!

Richard 20^th May 2018

Note 1. In fact there is a legal distinction between ‘housebreaking’ in the daylight and ‘burglary’ during the hours of darkness!

Note 1. I often ‘sense’ that New Zealand is geographically quite isolated but actually its reference in the northern hemisphere would be about Nantes in Northern France, such is the asymmetry of the earth.

Maybe it’s also something to do with the fact that the Antarctic is so much larger than the Arctic and its cooling effect extends hundreds of miles.

You can read the following and get the gist, an idea or the truth?

It’s a nightmare come true; thrown into the back of a police car and dumped in this cell.

“OK Gringo, entonces dices que eres inocente” (“OK Gringo! So you say you’re innocent”) the policeman sneers as he thrusts some paper towards me.Sweat drips down my back and the stubby pencil I’ve been given slips in my fingers. The word ‘anxious’ wouldn’t cut it; ‘shit scared’ would be better. So they want a statement; OK ….. now:

My name is Dean Jones. I’m 43, English and a writer. I came out to Cuba to make some progress on a crime novel I’m writing. You can check when I arrived, last week actually, and I booked a little cottage on the outskirts of Matanzas; I plan to stay for a month. I was getting stuck on a particular chapter and needed both some inspiration and a drink, so I walked into town and sat at an outside table in the Casa Blanca – you know where that is because that’s where you arrested me! The place was full of locals, chatting, eating, drinking or just staring into space, their thoughts a million miles away. You know your country has an international reputation for beautiful women, right? Well, that night the clientele included one or two very exotic ones; just couldn’t keep my eyes off!          Anyway, I’m half scribbling my story and half glancing around, and suddenly a rather tubby, grubby man’s coming across to my table. He’s extremely agitated and he screams at me:

“Has estado mirando a mi mujer.” (You’ve been looking at my woman)

He reaches across and grabs me by my shirt, lifting me onto my feet. He’s clearly had a few drinks and although I try to apologise, he’s not hearing anything. I sense I’m in for a beating, but I am a Black Belt in Judo and automatically switch into self-defence mode. His smelly breath, a mixture of garlic and alcohol, wafts over me; disgusting! I decide to jab him in the throat, a generally incapacitating move, but just as I am bringing back my arm to gain some momentum, this chap’s eyes go funny, he clutches his chest, crumples forward, hits the table and slides down to the dirty floor. I never made contact; I never touched him. I am no way responsible for his death.

Two hours later I’m released, with a caution to be more sensitive to the local cultures. The poor chap had had a heart attack and I am in the clear. I make my way back to my cottage intent on reworking my novel’s Chapter 4 but, before I can get started, there’s a knock on the door. I open it gingerly, not expecting anyone. It’s the beautiful woman from the Casa Blanca: “I come in, pleeeze?”

Or you can read the same events from a different perspective!!

Saturday’s are always the same. Pedro sleeps late on his rest day, scratches his raggedy backside a lot and heads to the Casa Branco as soon as he is sober enough to walk. His habits are disgusting. He spits, chews tobacco and wears the vilest T shirt – one he bought on holiday in Venezuela ten years ago – ironically stating the owner is ‘Number One!’ I try to wrest it off him to wash it but he resists.This evening he stands at the bar with his mates, hardly paying me any attention, quietly getting sozzled. Why do I stay I ask myself. I look around the packed place. The normal crowd is in and then, out on the terrace, I see a blonde- headed guy sitting by himself, alternating between drinking and tapping away at his laptop. Every now and again he looks around as if searching for the right phrase or maybe simply inspiration. Both must be in short supply. He catches my eye and dangerous though it might be, I give an imperceptible nod of my head as he’s quite cute, then look away. I don’t think I am the only one he’s fantasizing about.

Just before midnight Pedro suddenly understands that I might have an admirer; being a jealous type I know he won’t stand for it. Right enough, he gets off his stool and lurches over to the guy, who must be foreigner, a tourist maybe. I hope Pedro is not going to make a fool of himself, as he’s completely pissed and unsteady on his feet. He reaches across the table and grabs the guy by his shirt collar and lifts him towards him.

“Has estado mirando a mi mujer.” (You’ve been looking at my woman).”

The other man looks startled and surprised but then gathers his thoughts and I can tell he’s going to do something; the way his body moves, he is getting ready to hit Pedro. But I sense before he makes any contact, my crazy Pedro freezes, clutches his chest, shouts in agony, and crumples to the floor. I rush across to cradle my man, at the same time yelling to the barman to call an ambulance. Pedro is barely conscious, his breathing labored; somehow he manages to look rather serene …… and that’s a first! The police and medics arrive at about the same time. The former take the foreigner away and I jump into the ambulance with Pedro.

That dreadful DOA (Dead on Arrival) is pronounced …. I learn that the police have been informed that Pedro died of a heart attack ……. and I find out where the man is staying. An hour or so later I knock on his cottage door. “I come in pleeeze?” I ask, smiling.

I ditch the pidgin English: “Another dead Russian double agent – with his own nerve agent! Ha! High five!!”

Richard 5^th May 2018

 

 

Back in the day, I had a girlfriend who was the daughter of an army veterinary officer and her name was Margo. More recently I had a client who worked for one of the big insurance companies who was also called Margo …. but when my daughter announced she was going to name her new American Labrador puppy Margo too, with a ‘T’ or not I wasn’t sure, I wondered whether she should have been called Mango because she was of that colour.  I thought, incidentally, that Margo was the surrogate child …. until Jade became pregnant and Theo arrived ….. and Margo stayed.

I lost the argument about her name and Margo she stayed. That was 24 months ago and she has grown into a handsome, well behaved dog, so congratulations are due to my daughter for her patient training that has paid off in spades. Mind you Margo lives in a house with three children under 7 and two cats, so she had to be adaptable and not a pain in the arse!

After Easter Margo stayed with us here in Hove for ten days and I was reminded of the two other dogs I’ve had. While I was at university I took the decision to have a dog; after all, a three year residential course represented unusual stability in an ubiquitous Army career and, with parental agreement to look after her if I was posted overseas, I got a Boxer.

At the beginning of 1967 the second BBC television channel showed a drama called The Forsyte Saga on Saturday evenings, with a wonderful cast that included Susan Hampshire, Nyree Dawn Porter, Kenneth More and Margaret Tyzack. At the time there were not many television sets capable of receiving BBC2, which used the latest 625–line broadcasting system (cf 405 lines), so it was repeated on Sunday evenings eighteen months later when coverage had improved significantly. It was the last major British serial made in black & white and was compulsory viewing! Hard to believe, but evening Church services were rescheduled and pubs emptied as everyone sat before their TV sets …. and became hooked on the storylines. Susan Hampshire played Fleur …….. and this is a long-winded explanation as to why I called my boxer Fleur when she came into my life in 1969. Coincidentally my ex-sister-in-law, who lives just north of Seattle, is also called Fleur. The Boxer breed is well known for being highly strung and Fleur, a lightweight, slim dog, was one such. Sadly she died aged 7 but I would like to think she had a fun life; she certainly gave a lot of love.

Wind the clock forward twenty five years and in 2002 I got Tom, my beautiful black Labrador, through Labrador Rescue. The decision to get another dog was prompted by the death of my nephew William at the age of 18 from cancer. That ‘Why put off something you want to do, especially as ‘life’ is full of uncertainties?’ question ……. and the answer was Tom. A gentle giant if ever there was one; what he lacked in brain power he made up for with love and affection in spades. His walks were either around the streets in Battersea or across Wandsworth Common, an area of 70 hectares/170 acres of grass, trees, lakes and wild life which lay at the top of the road some 200m away from home. Walking there daily kept me aware of nature’s death and decay, of new birth and new growth, the changing seasons and all that they bring. Tom of course loved the ‘death’ bit and was good at ferreting out a decaying fox’s carcass!! Yuk.

He moved with us to Hove in 2012. The apartment leasehold building has a ‘no pet’ clause so we had to get permission from the landlord to have him, on the basis that he would not be around too much longer. If you are a pet owner you will recognise that awful moment when you realise that their life has become one of discomfort and it’s their time to go. Unless of course it’s a goldfish! That was six years ago and so when Margo came all these memories came flooding back.

We are reminded of the routines involved with owning a pet with Margo and it’s amazing how quickly we get into the early morning walk, the lunchtime wee, the afternoon long walk and ball games and the evening last-thing-at-night wander around the streets. Our jacket pockets become full of plastic poo bags, antiseptic gel and treats. We buy a stuffed material duck that lasts about one day before its capok has been ripped out; we go to the charity shop for a cheaper replacement. Tom never got into ripping his toys; funny how dogs can be so different. Margo will not pee on the concrete pavements so the grass of Hove Lawns becomes her first stop. Then it’s onto the pebble beach to poo. Without going into too much description of similar colours etc, could you find a dog deposit on a beach such as this?

One morning I looked, and looked ….. and then prayed that the rising tide would come soon!! And I have noticed there seems to have been an increase in ‘negative’ council by-law signs: “Dogs on leads!!” “No Cycling!” “No dogs on beach 1^st May – 30 September” “No BBQs on this beach” “Respect the ‘shared space’” and all that inclusive politically correct wording. Sometimes I just want to see a sign which simply says “Enjoy Yourself”!!

Funny how walking a dog ensures strangers smile, pass the time of day, acknowledge you in a way that sans chien would never happen. And whilst Wandsworth was inland, here on the coast I’m very conscious of high and low water times and the consequent size of the beach. During Margo’s time with us we had the second blue moon in a month, with the tidal difference over 6 metres.

And then she went home to her owners, the two cats and three young boys, and all she left, apart from her memories, were tufts of ginger hair in odd places and that faint whiff of damp dog. Lovely having another living creature with one.

 

Richard 21^st April 2018

PS I am actually not sure whether Margo is a Labrador, American or not! Every Labrador I know will devour their food faster than you can say Jeremy Corbyn; Tom would take about 47 seconds to get through 300g of dried food. Margo, on the other hand, would always leave some in her bowl so she could snack throughout the day. Strange huh!