If you’re female, you don’t need to read any further; of course, you may want to?

We’d had a small supper party the night before. It was an autumnal meal, fairly simple yet wholesome; bruschetta, roasted vegetables and salmon, and apple & blackberry crumble. Oh! And custard – because you can’t have crumble without custard! What follows are thoughts that flew around the inside of my empty skull in the early morning, about 0415. I could not get back to sleep and had to write them down. To do this, I put my bedside light on, apologising to Celina for doing so. On other occasions I have come into our living room and, having poured myself a small glass of orange juice, scribbled half-asleep by the light from the open fridge door. It’s always curious to discover if any of these dubious pearls of wisdom are readable in the cold light of morning; only you can judge the content!

You may recall my rather immature descriptions of feeling bloated in PC 28 ….. “ … I felt like one of those large rubber bouncing balls, with two large hand holds, that children can ride on. “Bounce! Bounce.!” ….. except I had feet at the other end ….. just the middle that was so bloated. Puffer fish pump themselves up when confronted with danger. That was exactly how I felt, like a Puffer fish!”

My tummy felt full, as I imagined it would be if pregnant; it was stuffed up under the ribcage! There was a photograph many years ago of a supposedly six-month pregnant man, wearing a godforsaken sweater, advertising the Family Planning Association? “Would you be more careful if it was you that got pregnant?” ran the subtext. Well, in this early morning, that’s me! I needed a pee. I got up and sleepily walked to the ensuite; I had somehow to get my huge tummy in so that I could stand over the loo. A chum of mine once said that one of the problems of developing a belly is that you can’t see your willy! And despite what you girls think, we need to! OK! You can do it by feel, but there’s something very necessary about a visual. One sees it in public loos. Chaps unzip or unbutton and bend forward to make sure it’s ….. still there? … hasn’t got caught up in your knickers? … ‘out’, so that when you pee the output goes where it should? These are all legitimate concerns for us men; well, certainly for me!

I’ve always thought that my behind was a sensible size, in proportion to my body, as it were, not too big and not too small; shades of Goldilocks and the three bears huh? Well, all this Bikram Yoga changes your body shape, so much so that my bum has become quite small – at the same time as my tummy sadly has got, er, larger. OK! I know there is a tendency for male waistlines to grow larger from middle age, but my centre of gravity used to run down through my spine. If I leant forward the body adjusted to a different centre – or you fall over, forwards or backwards. But now, with an expanding stomach in front, and a shrinking bum er behind, you have to lean a little backwards to maintain the centre of gravity. However I greedily attach myself to the belief I read in some well-respected medical magazine that taking Statins, as I do post-heart bypass, encourages the intake of some 10% more calories than I need –so straight onto the waist line! Nothing I can do about it then?!!

Carly Simon’s 1972 song “You’re So Vain” always runs around inside my head! In fact the newspapers only this week reported she’s admitted that one verse refers to Warren Beatty. So not me then! Am I? Vain? Since my tummy’s got bigger, I hate walking past a shop window and seeing a reflection of myself. My military training, so many years ago, had taught me to stand upright: “Neck in the back of the collar! Mr Yates Sir!” Sergeant Cameron screamed two inches from my face on the parade ground at Sandhurst. Now worn-out neck vertebrae prevent this. “Who’s that old man with the pot belly? Oh! God! It’s me!!”

 

The growing tummy has an effect on my clothes obviously. At what point do I give up trying to pretend that I still have a size 34 inch waist and recognise that even I am not immune to the ravages of time (you hear the personal disbelief loud and clear in these words?) But it would mean taking quite a few clothes to the charity shop so there must be another way? Currently, by the end of the day, the waist band of my knickers has been folded in two by the tummy pressure. The measurement Body Mass Index comes to mind, as well as that ratio waist to bum. If your bum’s getting smaller and your waist bigger ….. er …..

One of the causes of my tummy getting bigger could be water retention. We sweat so much in our Bikram Yoga sessions, about a litre and a half, that the body adjusts by carrying more fluid, in preparation; otherwise you could get dehydrated quite quickly. You might also think that all this Bikram Yoga should give one a ‘six-pack’, so there would be no possibility of developing a middle-aged spread. We certainly do some 14 double sit-ups in each session, and yes, there was a hint of one some years ago, but sadly I suspect now that the weight of my tummy has crushed it ….. or maybe simply buried it!!

Of course most people tend to lose weight when they are going through the dying embers of a relationship. I say ‘most’ people because some binge-eat to cope with the sadness. The converse is certainly true; when you are in a loving and fulfilling relationship …… you put on weight. Maybe my growing waistline is simply a reflection of my wonderful life with Celina …… and I should not worry at all? Pass another piece of coffee cake please? I climb back into bed ….. and the dreams restart.

“I had a dream.” Ah! Yes! Now, can I read what I scribbled?

Richard – 21^st November 2015 – richardyates24@gmail.com

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 – 8^th November 2015 – richardyates24@gmail.com

1. “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”

There are various milestones that we humans reach, ponder perhaps and pass, be they your first kiss, your first relationship, going to university, getting your degree/professional qualification, learning how to fry an egg/make a cake, change jobs, marry, maybe divorce, your first child, your second child, the death of a parent/someone close, some health scare, an overseas holiday, writing your first novel/composing your first music/playing an instrument/starting your own business/climbing the corporate ladder, your first house, second house, representing yourself/team/county/country at something, becoming well known, keeping a low profile ….. but your birthdays are a constant reminder, as if one needed one, of the relentless progress of your own existence!

Do you recognise the inevitable build-up of emotion in the days prior to your birthday, sort of difficult not to recognise that your birthday is approaching?  A   warm feeling? “Oh! Yes! My birthday’s next week/tomorrow/today” An event to share with loved ones, remembering the excitement from childhood … and carrying that childish excitement into adulthood. “It’s my birthday! Look at me!”

I always assume that everyone likes to celebrate their birthday but acknowledge that that isn’t necessarily the case. I am reminded of that lovely story from Winnie-the-Pooh about Eeyore’s birthday. Eeyore was an ‘Old Grey Donkey’, probably made of felt and stuffed with kapok, who was generally very miserable about life; I have certainly met some human Eeyores! ‘Gloomy and Doomy’!! Anyway, Pooh and Piglet find out it’s Eeyore’s birthday and give him a couple of presents, including a balloon, and get Owl to write a card. Because no one else can read, Owl thinks he’s very important and wrote the card: “Hipy Papy Bthuthdth Thuthda Bthuthdy’. So Eeyore was extremely happy.

At my first boarding school, aged 8, one’s birthday was recognised by a place at the top table in the dining room ….. and a little knitted Golliwog (not very PC!) to put in the top pocket of one’s jacket. I still have a very classy pen knife (every boy needs a penknife!) that has silver sides and my initials, given on my 12^th birthday, a large Oxford Illustrated Dictionary from my maiden aunt on my 16^th, a Sheaffer fountain pen that I still have from my 18th, its barrel worn and battered by constant use but the initials still visible, and a pewter tankard inscribed with the date of my 21st.

You may have missed that 70 years ago the United Nations came into being, to replace the somewhat ineffective League of Nations. From its initial membership of 51 states, there are now 193, suggesting that, despite its critics, it remains an effective and essential intergovernmental organisation, in promoting human rights and providing humanitarian aid in time of famine or natural disasters. It’s been less effective in peacekeeping, constrained by its members from being more interventional! Its birthday was on the 24^th of October.

My birthday was also on 24^th October and a few chums, actually quite an eclectic bunch, came to help celebrate. We had jellies and balloons, sausages and bacon wraps, smoked salmon …… and cake. The candles on the cake could have spelt ‘Happy Birthday’ but rather like Eeyore’s card said “bhtaiy pparhyd” – everyone knew what it said! When it came to blowing out the candles and singing that song, there was a nod to the United Nations and to our multicultural society. The song ‘Happy Birthday’ originates from 1893 and has been translated into at least 18 languages. There was a fairly competent rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ in English; I admit to helping this one, although sang ‘Happy Birthday to me’ and not ‘Happy Birthday to I’! After a suitable pause, the Brazilian Portuguese version ‘Parabens ……’ rang out. Suddenly the assembled group got into the mood: I’ve never heard it sung in Arabic before …… or indeed in French ….. and then in Italian …… but never in Mandarin …… and certainly not Hungarian …. and some words in Czech! We didn’t have party games, but we should have played ‘sticking the tail on the donkey’, particularly as the first part of Eeyore’s birthday story concerns him losing his …. tail!!

Funny how I seem to have clusters of birthdays during the year; for instance in May and June, and then in October (Scorpio!!). Two days before mine was the birthday of my great chum Alwin …. and a business colleague David …… and two of our Bikram instructors …… and the husband of a fellow Bikram student.

I hope I’m not the only one to observe that often the ‘Qualifying Age’ for something moves just before you get there – or so it seems! The age you can vote, the age you qualify for your pension, the years needs to qualify for X or Y, changes to time-bars, drinking alcohol in USA, or even driving a car. Next it’ll be the qualifying age to die!

Birthday parties are fun and …. very necessary! But I was reminded of that parable from the Christian New Testament – Matthew 22; about the religious who have no time for God, represented in the story by those who accept the invitation but when the food is ready claim they are too busy to turn up! So, another birthday reached …… and celebrated. But how about this question to think about for the next few minutes: “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?” Funny life inn’t? Just some scribbles, huh!

Richard – 27^th October 2015 – richardyates24@gmail.com

I always take for granted that I have good health and that, providing I keep myself reasonably fit and eat reasonably healthily, I shall continue to enjoy a long and fun life. But as I enter that age when the names in the obituary column of the newspaper become familiar, I am reminded that there is neither rhyme nor reason as to who lives for a long time and those whose lives are unreasonably short. What’s reasonable or unreasonable, you may well ask? Well…….

Although not ambidextrous, I take for granted my dextrous agility with two hands, the right one being dominant. I have 8 fingers and two thumbs, some might say10 fingers. The span of one hand is about 9 inches, the thumb an inch long and the width of a hand excluding the thumb approximately 4 inches. From the tip of my fingers, at arm’s length, to my nose is about a metre (39 inches). (Those of you with mathematical ability spotted the conversion error in my last PC about Foz, but I am assured that a metre is about 39 inches!). We even have a ‘rule of thumb’ in our language – a general or approximate rule, based on experience and practice. Until you lose the use of your thumb, you don’t realise just how useful it is, this digit that allows us to hold things, between thumb and forefinger, that allows us to twist a bottle top or unscrew a jar, for instance. And that pad at the base of the thumb, useful for determining whether meat is rare, medium done or well done! All in all, it’s a very useful part of the body.

The last 24 hours in Rio de Janeiro arrived last Wednesday; a couple of hours on the beach, lunch, the final bits of packing …….. then my life turned upside down! It went something like this. I am sure at some stage in your life you’ve watched a cooking demonstration or a demonstration of a ‘must have’ kitchen aid? The sort of thing that the British company Lakeland stocks; originally an online outlet, it’s been so successful that it’s opened some high street stores – selling all that ‘stuff’ you never thought you needed. Well, have you even bought a Mandoline? Not to be confused with a Mandolin, that stringed instrument of the ‘lute’ family, a Mandoline in the kitchen is a gadget for slicing fruit and vegetables thinly; adjustable, at its thinnest setting a slice of cucumber or pear can appear translucent. When you need one, it’s brilliant; when you don’t, it sits in the cupboard/on the shelf. Occasionally I cook something in Rio …… and thought that the kitchen needed a mandoline. Bought in February, it’s been unused for 6 months, so I was asked to demonstrate.

Set up, a courgette was duly sliced thinly, using the safety device that is actually an interface between your hand and the vegetable/fruit and blade. Anxious to show its versatility, I picked up a small potato, altered the setting so the slice would be thicker, then with typical stupidity masquerading as overconfidence, pushed the potato against the blade, without the interface! The first slice was perfect, the second was equally perfect, except that it came with the addition of a slice of my thumb. One of those “Oh! S**t!” moments in life when you wish, very sincerely, as if this would make a difference, for the ability to turn the clock back – even a second would have helped! I’m sure my subconscious registered what had happened before my brain went through that “Oh! S**t!” moment. I am reminded of that story from the Battle of Waterloo, of Wellington sitting astride his horse with his Chief of Staff, Lord Uxbridge, next to him, watching the progress of the battle. Suddenly Ubxbridge’s conscious kicks in – “By God Sir! I’ve lost my leg.” he exclaims! Wellington looks down the bridge of his long nose at his Chief of Staff’s uniform: “By God Sir! So you have.” At this point Uxbridge fell from his saddle in shock; he survived the amputation.

I stared at the thumb, altered in shape as it was by the removal of a thick slice of my skin and epidermis. I’m always rather relieved to see my own blood, good and fresh and very red, healthy you might say; except in this case, aided no doubt by my daily Asprin to reduce the likelihood of blood clots, there was a lot of it! And more seemed to be produced as I stared at it – these few seconds frozen in disbelief. Brief thoughts of ‘What if …..?’litter our lives like confetti after a wedding and they filled my little brain! I lifted my arm above my heart, hoping that the flow would slacken, going against gravity as it were. An icepack materialised. I think I’m pretty unflappable in a crisis, so watched and listened whilst everyone else discussed what to do. This was, after all, about 3 o’clock; only seven hours before our flight departed.

“You’ll need a stitch.” was the general perceived wisdom and that this should be performed as quickly as possible. In the UK you would either go to your GP practice and hope nursey was in, or go to the A&E department of your local hospital. Brazil’s public hospitals do not have a great reputation so the private sector flourishes. I learned that I would be taken to Clinica Dermatological de Ipanema. So, bundled into a car, through the tunnels under Os Dois Irmáos, skirting Gávea and along the south side of Lagoa, and eventually into Ipanema. The clinic has been warned of my needs, and within 10 minutes of arriving, Dr Andrea Sanchez ushered me into her room. She was too polite to say what surely was going on in her mind, just accepting that I was obviously a complete prat! I didn’t think she would pull the skin close enough together to be able to thread some stitches but I was wrong! Five were eventually expertly tied off. Funny how the smallest of cuts can be hugely painful!

A slow journey in the traffic back to Iposeria, time for a shower and then we were off; I held my bandaged thumb as if it was some prize pumpkin; what a prat! And all for the sake of a slice of potato! We never did find the piece of flesh ……! Funny life, innit!

Richard Yates – richardyates24@gmail.com

I bumped into my namesake Richard yesterday. We had a chat!

“So, you’ve been travelling – again! Where did you go this time?”

I detect a certain jealousy! “Iguaçu!”

“Where? That sounds like a large reptile not a place.”

“Iguaçu, not Iguana (!), claims to be the world’s biggest waterfall, and it’s in South America.”

“Now wait a minute. My western education tells me Niagara Falls, on the border of Canada and the United States, is the biggest; I learnt that at school.”

“Not everything you learn at school is gospel; you learn that later in life. Maybe you think the Italians invented Pasta, and now we know it was the, er?, Chinese!! Only joking!”

“If it isn’t Niagara, it must be Victoria Falls, on the border of Zambia and Zimbabwe in Southern Africa?”

“Well, Niagara is small by comparison to Victoria Falls, which has a width of some 1700m, the largest curtain of flowing water in the world. Iguaçu is another kilometre wider, but there are some 250 separate falls within this width.” (See note)

“Just a thought though, whilst we’re talking about Victoria Falls. Surely they should be renamed Mugabe Falls, or better still Robert Falls, as the Africans seem to want to erase any memory of the history of their colonisation. That would be PC (Ed: Politically Correct and not Post Card!) as far as the Zimbabweans are concerned but Queen Victoria might start spinning in her grave. She can’t complain though; I don’t think there is anyone else in human history who has had so many statutes raised in her honour, or places named after her.”

“Anyway, you flew for hours in a plane ….  just to see some water flowing over a cliff?”

 “You could look at it like that but ……. I read some time ago that when the then US President Roosevelt’s wife, Eleanor, visited Iguaçu back in 1930s, she was heard to remark: “Poor Niagara!” So it’s not only me!”

“Haven’t you got better things to do, better ways of spending your pension?”

“But this is all about witnessing the awesome power of nature and believe me, Iguaçu Falls are awesome! Incidentally, weren’t you amazed to read that the two tectonic plates on the west coast of South America that caused the Chilean earthquake last month move laterally about 80mm per year – that’s more than three inches?”

“Anyway, where is this place Iguaçu ….. whatever you call it?”

“Near Foz do Iguaçu, a small town in the south west of Brazil, where three countries come together – Argentina, Paraguay and Brazil.”

“You call it Fozzzzzz?”

“Well actually it’s pronounced Foysh. Foz means ‘mouth of the river’ (delta?) and Iguaçu means ‘Great Waters’ in the local Tupi-Guarani language. The falls are some 23kms upstream of the town which is situated at the confluence of the Iguaçu and Paraná rivers.”

“Is there anything else to do, apart from watching water flow over an edge?”

“God, you can be so supercilious sometimes! Haven’t you ever watched in wonder, at nature? Simple pleasures like sitting on the beach and getting lost in the rhythm of the waves breaking on the shore, or watching a stormy sea expend its immense power crashing into cliffs; these are some of life’s pleasures, surely? Enormous waterfalls like Foz do Iguaçu are mesmerising; it’s not just the fact that water is flowing over a cliff, it’s its continuity, its colour, its perceived power …… the noise alone is deafening. At Iguaçu you can walk along the river towards the falls, and then there’s a walkway out onto one of the flat areas of rock. At the end you are surrounded by water, at the edge of an 80m drop, with huge falls behind you, covering you with spray, your ears pounded by noise, like being in a washing machine on its rinse cycle perhaps. Now do you get the picture?”

“OK! Maybe it’s worth a trip. So, did you get out onto the river or take a helicopter trip over the falls?”

“We could have gone up in a helicopter, to look at the falls from the air, but it was a very short 10 minute flight ….. for which they wanted to charge £60 per person ….. and we decided that my pension didn’t stretch to that! But we did risk a boat trip, on one of those rigid raider boats. We were told we would get wet ….. but they didn’t say we would bounce up river to some of the minor waterfalls ….. and then nose into one of them! The sound of falling water, the force of the water on our backs, eyes closed to protect ourselves, everyone screaming with …… well, either exhilaration or sheer terror! Completely soaked; ‘knicker wet’ as I would say! The relief when we re-joined the main river was palpable!”

“Ha! Serves you right, you adrenalin junkie you!”

“In the rain, we visited the local bird park (see below), but we also saw lots of birds and wild animals, some simply wandering around the hotel gardens!”

“Did you stay close to the falls?”

“On the Brazilian side of the falls there is one hotel that is actually within the Parque Nacional do Iguacu, an immense area of Atlantic Forest some 1700km², in which the Iguaçu Falls are located.

The Hotel das Cataratas is just the place to stay; it was completed in 1958 and oozes old world charm mixed with C21st efficiency. One advantage of staying here is that when the park closes overnight, as a guest you have the falls and forest to yourself!

So there you have it, a few memories of being surrounded by water – some water huh! Just some scribbles, you might say!

Richard  Yates – richardyates24@gmail.com

Note: The Angel Falls in Venezuela have the longest single fall of water, some 980m, nine times that of Niagara, Victoria or Iguaçu!

 A Toucan

Celina’s parents live in a gated community tucked into the hillside below Pedra da Gávea, an 845 metre pinnacle of granite and gneiss that rises high into the sky, on the western edge of Sáo Conrado. This majestic mountain is bare rock but at its base the jungle is luxurious, and full of birds, monkeys, snakes and insects. It’s easy to spot different families of small monkeys or the odd Toucan, not only in the jungle but also in the cultivated gardens. For here amongst the greenery, enterprising Cariocas, as Rio residents call themselves, started building family-size houses back in the 1960s. Exclusivity is guaranteed not only by the large plots but also by the Guarita, the security people manning the entry gate 24/7. The residents of this particular community keep themselves very much to themselves and there is a delightful serenity about the place. Driving in on the cobbled road with the jungle encroaching from all sides, you realise this is an oasis of calm away from the chaotic traffic and noise that defines modern Rio de Janeiro.

Pedra da Gávea

The young man from next door called on Saturday afternoon. “We’re having a party tonight. Here’s my telephone number! Please call me if the music’s too loud.” The house is maybe thirty metres away, the gardens adjoining; any ‘party’ in the tropics will be centred around the pool and given that this is Brazil, will not start too early, finish quite late, and feature music and dancing. And why not? “What a considerate chap” we all thought. But already a sense of foreboding had descended on us. “Early to bed, early to rise …. ” is not something understood by adolescents ….. so it was probable that we would not have a quiet night.

At about 2000 the music started; we learned later they were simply testing the sound levels ….. presumably to ensure that the guests were not deafened. Personally I thought they should have tested the sound levels in this house …. for in addition to the microphone producing that piercing high-pitched feedback noise, and the DJ going through that ‘testing 1,2,3’ (but in Brazilian Portuguese of course!) routine that seems to be in their DNA, levels of the base frequencies created an oscillation that began to reverberate through the whole house. Windows vibrated as the sound waves crashed against the glass. Wow! Conversation was impossible here so how did they communicate next door?

There is a law in Brazil that says that any noise should be kept to a minimum after 2200. A little restrictive you might think and unreasonable; probably ignored by everyone? (You may recall from PC 9 that the last entrant to the Carnival Samba Schools’ Parade was not scheduled to start until 0330!!) But there clearly is a need to have some guidelines about noise within an urban area. In London, Hyde Park has become a popular venue for large music events, but the residents whose houses overlook it have persuaded the council to enforce a “no music after 2330” rule. Those who earn a living playing a guitar or singing songs have long been known for poor time keeping; often gigs will run late. Not any more in Hyde Park I hear, particularly after a party when the electricity supply was turned off at 1130, even though Sir Paul McCartney was only halfway through ‘Hey Jude’ or some such!

Years ago I called out the local council’s ‘noise abatement team’ in Wandsworth, London because an Evangelical church had set up rehearsals three times a week in a community hall at the bottom of my minute 12ft garden. Whilst ‘Gospel’ singing has a certain attraction, the voice of the pastor screaming and shouting for some devil or other to leave the apparently tormented soul was too much. I’m sure we have a list of pet hates? Neighbours who love screeching female opera singers, neighbours whose choice of music is not ours, neighbours whose way of communicating with each other is to scream and shout ….. the yapping of a small dog, the DIY enthusiast drilling and hammering past midnight …… the list goes on. But it needs a bit of give and take, doesn’t it, tolerance and acceptance of someone else’s rights in exchange for recognition of one’s own!

Two years ago when we were here at the turn of the year, one party somewhere within the community was quite loud, but hey it was New Year’s Eve! We’ll simply close the windows and put the air conditioning on. Air conditioning plants are generally quite noisy and this would drown out the party noise! It was an extremely hot night; some 30°C approaching midnight. Then the electricity went out, something which happens here in Rio quite often. So …… no air conditioning …… and because of the heat we need to have the windows open ……. so the party came into the bedroom ……. or so it seemed. Never sure what to do? Get up and attempt to join the party? Read? Tossing and turning in a hot bedroom leaves one exhausted come the morning.

Back to this Saturday evening. So we called the young man, Felipe I think his name was, to say the noise was too much. “Oh! We’re just trying the noise levels.” “Come around” we said ……. hoping of course that he would hear, feel (!), the noise in this house and do something about it. “Ah! We are trying to raise money for our ‘Prom’ by having a party.” “How many people are you expecting?” we asked, as the house is not a huge. “450” I think it was at this point Celina and I decided we were potentially on a hiding to nothing. Four hundred and fifty people make a huge amount of noise just talking, let alone having some music playing and as the noise levels rise, the volume is turned up to compensate. Whilst it was not our concern how 450 youngsters were going to fit into the house and garden, we reckoned it was time for Plan B.

Saturday night in Rio is always a busy night for hotels, and currently Rio is hosting a Rocking Rio festival with the likes of Rod Stewart, Elton John, Queen etc, so spare  accommodation is at a premium. But a hotel somewhere was going to be essential, if we were going to get a smidgen of sleep. Eventually we found a room in the Sheraton on a promontory below Vidigal, one of Rio’s favelas. We drove over about 2200 and checked in. Hotels in Brazil tend to add a service charge and ‘taxes’ as extras to the quoted room rate ….. and breakfast was not included …. eventually we got an upgrade, free breakfast  and made our way to the 19th floor. Noisy? Well, the nightclub at the top of Vidigal was pumping out its music, the room was near a noisy lift shaft and, despite the double glazing, there was a fair amount of traffic noise. Hey! Hoh! How lucky to be able to escape the local party.

Big hotel chains have a certain sameness about them; maybe that’s why some people like them, the certainty of facilities and decor, of the breakfast …….. but the view of the sea and beach, of a seaside condominium, of Vidigal higgledy piggledy up the hillside and, if I craned my neck far enough around, a view of one of the two mountain peaks that are called Os Dois Irmāos (The Two Brothers) was stunning.

Peace and calm had returned to Rua Iposeira when we arrived back on Sunday morning. The ‘rave’ was over, the only reminder a few empty bottles in the street and odd pieces of the ‘entry wristband’. I’ve called this PC ‘One person’s party can be another person’s nightmare’. And so it was last Saturday, here in tropical Rio de Janerio.

Richard Yates – richardyates24@gmail.com

 

 

No! No! No! I don’t mean to be nosey, and couldn’t care less whether you have a ‘Savings Account’ at the Co-Operative or millions sitting offshore somewhere. I just want to explore how you value yourself. Most of us need to earn money to buy the essentials for survival, if nothing else: – food, shelter, clothing etc. But as we in the developed world have got used to the basics, the majority of us start wanting to have enough money to, oh! I don’t know, go on holiday, buy a nicer/better/bigger car/house, the latest wide screen/flat screen/surround sound TV/tablet/stereo system, ‘designer’ clothes. Then we get on the treadmill, wanting more of this and more of that, not ‘needing but ‘wanting’.

So we develop a sense of worth, false or not!! Maybe you heard of Linda Evangelista, the model, who wouldn’t get out of bed for an assignment worth less than US$10,000? I suspect the majority of my readers would settle for far less. But what? It was a question that I often asked clients who were searching for some employment; “But what are you worth?” Would you, for instance, get out of bed for £10 an hour, £30 an hour, £150 an hour? (or in salary terms £30k, £50k, £70k or more.) Immediately you would see the intellectual tussle going on behind the eyes – mustn’t appear greedy, but the more the merrier …… but not obscene!! A recent programme about people living alternative lifestyles highlighted the use of barter, payment in kind and not with money. But you still need to value your expertise/work, even if you are simply exchanging your efforts for their hens’ efforts!

In the British Army you knew what everyone was paid as there were published pay scales, and that’s true across all public servants. And in some ways that’s very healthy; there’s no jealousy, no competition around pay per say. I remember when I first joined I was paid £65 a month! But that was in the days you could buy a nice house for £8000! When I left, I had to negotiate with my prospective employer what they thought I was worth, or maybe simply what the job was worth. After I joined I remember looking at other members of the team thinking “I wonder what they get paid?” I hope I am not alone in thinking like this!!

We were in Seattle in June, and there was much talk about Washington State’s minimum wage, and how the city of Seattle was going to raise the minimum wage for non-salaried people within the city to $15, from just under $10 – a 50% increase. (cf with the UK minimum wage for those over 25, of £7.20 an hour from next year) Wonderful idea, you might think. The reality is that those earning more than $15 an hour will get no pay rise ….. and then we get into the whole aspect of “What am I worth?” People are saying:  but I’ve got more experience/better qualifications, so deserve more; I come in early and go home late, so I deserve more; I’ve got a harder job so I deserve more …. more than those on the new minimum wage. You’ve read, I suspect, of the company where the boss decided everyone should be paid the same, including himself, and set that level at US$70,000. Great for those who got an increase, but not for those who got a decrease!

The hospitality industry is one of those where wages are comparatively low and I have grown up expecting to give a little bit extra to the waiter/waitress for good service. It helps, we understand, to supplement their paltry wage. Yesterday evening we went to a small Japanese restaurant in Brighton. It’s not at all pretentious and the food is well cooked. Whilst perusing the menu, I noticed at the bottom the words: “No Service Charge Added to Your Bill. Tipping at your discretion.”  God! It’s confusing! I’ve read recently that the term ‘service charge’ is not to be confused with a tip to your waiter. Sorry? I read it again; the, er, ‘charge for service’ is not a gratuity? So what is it? An overhead for the business? So why not include it in the costs of your meals?

Some years ago I remember having lunch in the English seafood restaurant Wheelers, in London. I opted to pay by credit card, only to find on the bill 12.5% had already added for ‘service’ and then the little blue paper slip had space for ….. a tip! I reflected that this was a somewhat sharp practice!

Why are we expected to award good service only in the hospitality industry? If you had taken your car to the garage for a service, were treated efficiently and well, but when you went to collect it they showed you the bill ….. and invited you to add 10-12% as a tip? I don’t think so! You wouldn’t tip the person taking your money for a tank full of petrol, unless it wasn’t self-service, when you might. So it’s all about the personal interaction with your waiter when you eat out, is it?

We were on the Alaskan ferry MV Colorado in June. The ferry is a State-run enterprise ….. so the staff, in the restaurant for instance, are Government employees. There was a large sign saying: ‘Please do not tip the staff’.  “No government employees are ever allowed to receive tips anywhere in the country. This applies to gifts as well; these are considered bribes, and therefore not acceptable. The government generally pays pretty well and has great benefits, so their employees shouldn’t need to rely on tips anyway.” – a Seattle resident writes.

It takes a while to get your head around this, we are so used to ‘tip’; normally we tip because it’s the ‘done thing to do’, but occasionally we tip because the person waiting on our table is really good at the job. Sometimes we decline to tip because it’s been so bad! The crew on the MV Colombia might have been on a good wage, but what’s so wrong in giving a little something for attentive service? How could I ‘bribe’ the waiter? Or are we ‘tipping’ in the private sector because we know the wages are so low? A recent survey, and you know how accurate ‘they’ are (!) found that the French tipped the least (7%) of all nationalities with the Americans the most generous (13%).

I’ve run out of space, so can’t get on my pet hobby horse, the one with ‘bonus’ written on its backside. Why should you receive a ‘bonus’ for doing your job properly?

This PC is rather muddled, like the thoughts mulling around inside my head. Still, it is what it is, mere scribbles.

Richard Yates – richardyates24@gmail.com

Do you feel the same way as I do, that so much of life is immediately in front of us but sometimes we just don’t see it? Maybe you agree with the words of WH Davies “….. we don’t have time to stand and stare.”? In PC 19 (September 2014) I wrote about a number of coincidences that I have experienced. Prompted by a new one so bizarre, I have recalled a few more!

The other weekend we drove up the motorway to north London for lunch. On our way we were passed by a Range Rover with a distinctive number plate ‘1 BNT’. Vehicle number plates in the UK currently have two letters denoting place of registration, two numbers denoting year of manufacture, and three arbitrary letters. Older formats have simple numbers and letters, or letters and numbers. Some people pay huge sums of money to purchase a particular combination that might mean something to them, and clearly this owner had done so. What it stood for I am not sure, but ‘Number One Bint’ comes to mind. For those not familiar with the slang English vernacular ‘bint’ is a derogatory term for woman, but could in this case be the exact proud opposite! Anyway, having made some guesses, we thought nothing more of it as we journeyed onwards. We were later than planned in returning …… but you can imagine our complete amazement ….. to pass the same Range Rover traveling south later that evening. Here of course, in the same time and space, but recognising it purely because of its distinctive plate! What a coincidence! What a chance!

I am struggling to get to grips with Brazilian Portuguese, and currently have the benefit of a tutor here at home. We took a break while Celina and I went off to Alaska, but I did take some homework with me; good intentions etc … we all do it!! Day Two on the ferry on the inshore coastal passage on our way to Juneau, I’m sitting on the deck in the blazing sunshine trying to concentrate on ……. “Estar is used to express location and temporary qualities, while ser is used to express more permanent characteristics. Compare está frio (it’s cold – temporarily!) with Alaska é frio (Alaska is cold – permanently!)” But hang on, it’s 80F (27C) and it’s not cold!! Funny how these stereotypes get established in the belief system. But more importantly, what a coincidence to be in Alaska and read a comment about it in a book …… about the Brazilian language!

Back in May this year I noticed that The Times carried a photograph of a house being towed on a barge ‘down river to Putney’. As the picture was taken by Tower Bridge in London, my nautical knowledge told me that Putney is upriver by convention; so I wrote to the Editor to tell him!! It was not published! Unbeknown to me, my brother, who obviously shares with me a somewhat pedantic like for the correct English, had written in to remind the nation that in the Royal Navy the convention is you serve ‘in’ a ship and not ‘on’ a ship, after The Times got it wrong. His letter was not published either!! However, both our letters were referred to in the Saturday Feedback column with Rose Wild, without Ms Wild realising we were related. Now that’s a coincidence. We had a delightful email exchange!

Read from the third paragraph until ‘ebb tide’.

I mentioned in PC 44 that when we were in Whitehorse, Alaska, we went to the Vaudeville show. The compere had a lovely practiced way of engaging with the audience; he leaned towards the front row and asked a lady sitting there: “Where are you from?” “Portland, Oregon.” “Sorry!” he said. (Note this is an exclamation mark and not a question mark) She repeated herself: “Portland Oregon.” as anyone would. “No, I heard you the first time! Just sorry for you!” (Note: Actually he might be right! The city has a bumper sticker – “Keep Portland Weird”!) Then he asked: “Actually, where are you from, Portland being a big place?” “Albany” the woman sheepishly replied” Celina and I live on a street in Hove, just under 5000 miles away, called Albany Villas!

In the mid-1990s I spent one evening a week attending a Philosophy course at the School of Economic Science. Each week we would look at a particular topic: consciousness, mind/body/nature, beauty – for example, with a facilitator guiding the discussion, and looking at various texts and comments from writers across the centuries. The three hour session would finish with a self-centring exercise and the facilitator then closed the evening with some pertinent quotation. The quotations were from various sources, from poets and Greek philosophers, from playwrights such as Shakespeare to religious texts from the great religions of the world. One evening in early January, having just come back from a Christmas spent in Sydney Australia, I couldn’t keep my attention centred on my ‘self’ during these quiet few minutes at the end. I found my mind drifting around the world, like that DHL TV advertisement of a red tape wrapping the world. At the end of the tape was ……. Sydney, and I imagined myself walking up Darling Street, past a church. In the churchyard was one of those large advertising boards; it carried a quotation from St Matthew: “Come unto me all ye who labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. … For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

I am brought back into the philosophy session with a jolt. Robin is reading that evening’s quotation: “Come unto me all ……” Now that is very, very spooky!!

Our minds generalise for us, cutting out much of what we see. For instance, we might see a tree, the mind having decided we don’t need to see the individual leaves, twigs, bark etc. So when we want to look at what is before us, we need to concentrate, to look, to observe, with every joule of our energy; the result is very enriching.

Just some scribbles for the end of the English summer.

Richard Yates – richardyates24@gmail.com

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 Yates – richardyates24@gmail.com

Sandwiched either side of our trip to Alaska in June, we visited three cities in North America; Seattle, Vancouver and San Francisco, all part of great grandfather George’s travels. I know there are many of you who will know these cities intimately, some of you living there as I write, but I thought I could just record my own observations.

I think Seattle, up there in the top left corner of Washington State, is unknown to most Europeans – or perhaps that’s the way those that live here want it to be. It’s simply gorgeous, a city astride sea inlets and overshadowed by a huge mountain, Mount Rainier. I say ‘overshadowed’ but this is not strictly true as the highest mountain of the Cascade Range lies some 60 miles to the south; the snow-caped peak of this active volcano is clearly visible from the city – providing it’s not raining, and apparently it rains a lot in Seattle!

Mount Rainier

Seattle is the home of large American corporations such as Boeing, of Microsoft, of Starbucks …….. and of Nordstrom. Who? Nordstrom! Founded in 1901 by Swede John Nordstrom, it’s told that Swedish immigrants in America found it difficult to buy shoes big enough; maybe you didn’t know that they have big feet? Nordstrom started as a shoe shop but now has over 300 department stores in 38 states in the USA. It has an enviable reputation for exceptional customer service.

All waterfront cities offer their inhabitants the option to commute to work by boat and Seattle is no exception; ferries crisscross the harbour and even connect with Victoria, on the south end of Vancouver Island in Canada. On Puget Sound, Seattle’s surrounded by islands, evergreen forests and to the west the enormous Olympus National Park. It rains a lot in Seattle but they make good coffee; I have a T shirt from Seattle: “When it rains, we pour!” (Ho! Ho!) We were extremely lucky and had hot, dry sunny weather. Near the city waterfront is Pike’s Place Market, a jumble of little stalls and shops over three floors, and a magnet for tourists. On the street level there’s a fish stall where staff physically throw huge salmon between them, and rig fish with wires so that, when tweeked, they appear alive, much to the horror, and amusement, of the watching crowds.

I have cousins in Vancouver who are descendants of great grandfather George’s brother Arthur, so we could not visit Alaska without dropping in here. A flight from Anchorage took us to Vancouver, and a short ride on the Skytrain dropped us close to our hotel on the harbour. Vancouver is a bustling coastal city of some 600,000 people of every colour and creed; there is a young vibrant feel about the place. Five years ago it hosted the Winter Olympics, and its location, surrounded by sea and mountains, invites outdoor pursuits of every variety. After a lovely catch-up over dinner, a 90 minute ferry ride the following morning took us to Nanaimo on Vancouver Island, home to a first cousin whom I had not seen for 40 years or so!

It was here I saw for the first time George’s original ‘My Darling Eva’ letters; my photocopies do not do justice to this wonderful personal treasure trove of local news, thoughts, feelings, worries and inquisitive questions about his family back in London. I forgave my hand for shaking slightly as I held these family heirlooms from over 100 years ago.

Vancouver Island is an absolute delight; it’s ‘Chill Out’ Island – with kayaking, sailing, flying, trekking, yoga (even Bikram!) and the like – but little swimming as the water is just too cold. We flew back to Vancouver after two nights by float plane; what a way to travel!

The historic octagonal Hudson’s Bay Company Fort, the Nanaimo Bastion, dating from 1854

George had lived in Reno, Nevada and in San Francisco from 1880 for at least a decade, working in the gold mines and sharing with Eva the joy of having their three children born here. When we were in the Pantanal in Brazil last year, we met a delightful American couple who said: “Do drop in if you’re passing San Francisco!” (as if!!) When we looked at some maps San Francisco seemed quite close to Vancouver; and I had a first cousin (once removed) living here …… so it seemed a good idea to tack onto this Alaskan trip another city connected with George, San Francisco.

We stayed downtown, and on the first morning hired bikes and rode out over a fog-shrouded Golden Gate Bridge to Sausalito. We were not alone (!) and it’s the only place I have been where they have a huge carpark …… for bicycles! A light lunch and we were back on a bike-friendly ferry to the city. Some shopping and then dinner with my relative; interesting to learn of the opportunities of internet-savvy businessmen in this city. The following morning, up the hill, down the hill ….. to Fisherman’s Wharf, which was the jumping off point for the tour of Alcatraz, the notorious historic prison sitting on an island in the bay. Strange to stroll around a complex that once housed some of America’s most hardened criminals from 1934-1963, and was now a major tourist attraction. Remember the films, ‘The Birdman of Alcatraz’, ‘The Rock’ and ‘Escape from Alcatraz’? Well, the birdman was a psycho who had no birds in the prison …… and no one escaped and remained alive.

A fog-shrouded Golden Gate Bridge

We met our ‘Pantanal’ chums, had some lunch, drifted about Telegraph Hill, admiring the stunning views in all directions, and then drove inland to where they lived, a quaint little place called ‘Alamo’, (See PS below) about 30 miles east of San Francisco, near Walnut Creek. So nice to see where others live, away from a tourist city. After dinner we caught the Bay Area Rapid Transit back into the city centre and prepared for our flight back to the UK the following day.

So there you have it, memories of people, places and things from this summer; mere scribbles you might say.

Richard Yates – richaryates24@gmail.com

P.S. As a young boy I read about The Alamo, of Davey Crocket with his Racoon-skin hat and Jim Bowie with his knife; they were our comic book folk heroes, even if we weren’t American! In fact The Battle of The Alamo, a fort in the city of San Antonio, was between rebellious Texans and the Mexican Army. Fought in March 1836, all the 200 defenders of the fort were killed within 2 hours.