What's in a name?

My name is Patrick.

I'm called Patrick for a reason, a very special reason.

My grandfather, Captain Albert Marsh, asked my mother, his eldest daughter, to call her first child Patrick or Patricia, after the Saint's Day. 

This is why.

Captain Marsh was born in St Anthony-in-Roseland in the late 1800s and grew up to be a sailor. He was a merchant seaman during the First World War and was a junior officer on the crew of the "Tara" taking coal to troops in North Africa via Alexandria in Egypt. It was very dangerous work. The Mediterranean was constantly patrolled by German U-boats targeting the Allies' supply vessels. Merchant vessels were only lightly armed and certainly no match for the U-boats.

One day the "Tara" was torpedoed by a U-boat and sank rapidly, leaving many of the crew struggling to survive in the water. Having sunk the coal ship, the captain of the U-boat brought his submarine to the surface and set about rescuing as many of its crew as possible. He explained to the cold exhausted 'Tara' sailors that he could not do more than take them to the nearest shore and turn them over to the local Arab inhabitants, a tribe called the Senussi. 

The Senussi marched them off far into the desert and well away from the coast, to minimise their chances of escape and any means of sending messages. My 'Tara' crew suffered terrible hardships during this painful trek as they grew ever more weak, exhausted and sick. Some of them died along the way and were buried where they fell.

Survivors were reduced to eating the meagre rations put their way by their captors, plus whatever they could find in the desert, including even snails. After days of forced marching they eventually were led to a small, muddy waterhole marked by a lone fig tree, over a hundred miles out in the desert.

It was a truly desperate and seemingly hopeless situation.

Days and weeks went by, and the situation grew grimmer.

Then, one morning, the men woke to find that their Arab guards had silently abandoned them during the night. They were now alone, sick and starving.

Meanwhile, unknown to them, the Allies were advancing. Persistent rumours had got to them that there were a group of seamen abandoned out in the desert somewhere, most likely dead by now. Nevertheless, the British Army decided mount a rescue mission, just in case. It was led by the Duke of Westminster. He set off across the desert with forty armoured cars on his dramatic mission. Was their information true? If so, what was the likelihood of finding the men alive? How could they possibly find this tiny oasis with one fig tree in this vast desert? Did it even exist?

Despite the doubts, they went. This quote from the book "Prisoners of the Red Desert"  by R.S. Gwatkin-Williams describes it well ...

 "The fool journey, the knight-errant adventure on the hundred to one chance, had begun!"

They set off at 3am, into the desert. The two Arab guides they took with them appeared confident at first. Everything appeared to be going well, if only painfully slowly. Stoppages to repair punctures and breakdowns meant that they only averaged about twelve miles per hour. But they pressed on, further and further into the stony hot sands. Sixty, seventy, eighty miles, and still no sign of the lone fig tree which would tell them they'd found their destination. 

By now the guides were no longer so confident. They were arguing with each other and couldn't agree on which way to go. But, at the Duke's insistence, the convoy pressed on.

A hundred miles, a hundred and ten; by now the officers were warning the Duke that they'd used half their fuel and needed to turn back to be sure of reaching base. However, as the book describes, the Duke was "bloody minded" that day and said that they had two choices. Either camp where they were for the night and send some cars back to base for more fuel, or carry on further. Reluctantly it was decided to press on. They had passed one hundred and fifteen miles when suddenly one of the guides, Achmed, an old man with one eye, spotted what nobody else could see. 

The fig tree. 

He leapt from the vehicle and began running towards it.

The water hole had dried up. Only the fig tree and some rough graves remained, but at least he now was sure of where they were. Confidence returned and the expedition raced forward, on and on for another twelve or more miles. Then suddenly they stopped. 

As they rounded a dune, what appeared to be a large tented village lay before them. They prepared for possible resistance and  slowly advanced. Suddenly the 'village' dissolved into a few ragged shelters and a faint British cheer was heard. 

The mission was a success.

It was 3pm in the afternoon of St Patrick's Day, 1916.

My grandfather and his remaining colleagues were rescued.

And that is why I am called Patrick.

Peru - This is where the story really starts

My travel wishes never seemed to be the same as other people's. They always seemed to want to go south and lay on a beach getting sunburn, whereas I always fancied going north. They liked crowded beaches in summer, while I preferred deserted wind-swept beaches in winter. I was curious to see remote places, nature in it's wild state rather than tamed by man. Eventually this line of thought coalesced into one or two specific places I would like to visit. Foremost among them was Peru.

But first I had to earn a living and raise a family. I had responsibilities and, having been useless at education, precious little in the way of recognised skillls to offer any prospective employers. This came home to me like a sock of sand later in life, but more of that elsewhere in my blog, maybe.

Peru remained at the back of my mind, never mentioned, hidden.

This brings me, dear reader, to one dark night in the supposedly haunted Charney Manor, deep in the Vale of the White Horse.

I was self-employed until I was in my late thirties. We had a thriving business in the beautiful little town of Burford, by the River Windrush in Oxfordshire. It was a craft shop selling hand-made British items made by individual crafts men and women. We thrived for twenty years, having a wonderful time meeting fascinating people, but then recession struck the country and our business bit the dust.

I was suddenly faced with the task of getting a job. I had no discernible skills. No bits of 'official' paper, nothing to show the job centre people. Consequently they didn't want to know me. Shot any shred of confidence I had to shreds. 

I began scanning the job ads in local newspapers. After some weeks, with the situation growing desperate, a glimmer of a possibility came to light. Oxfam wanted someone to answer queries from the public. I had been answering questions from the public for years as a Tourist Information Officer and thought that at least I might get an interview. In short, I did. I got the job, and that is what brought me to Charney Manor.

I  had gone there one dingy winter afternnon with Oxfam's Training Officer, Howard, a great chap and a good friend. The Manor was, and at time f writing still is, used as a small conference and training centre, and we were there to set it up for a course we were running the next day. We arrived about teatime and met the caretaker. She showed us where everything was, and because we were staying the night she had prepared a light meal for us. 'And in case you get hungry in the night", she said, 'this is where we keep the chocolate digestive biscuits and the drinking chocolate.' She knew Howard well and that these were his favourites.

At that she bade us good night and went home.

This left just Howard and I in the 'haunted' Manor.

We finished setting up the conference room and had our supper, after which we relaxed in the leather chairs of the loungs with our wine by the glowing fire.We chatted about this and that, about the programme for the coming day, and somehow the conversation turned to where we each liked to go on our holidays. He liked India and I liked Norway, and then he said, 'Oh, I saw your name on a staff tour sheet the other day Pat, and singed it off as approved.'

'Did you? Mine? Are you sure?'

'Yes, he said casually, ' You're being sent to Peru.'

I didn't speak for several, long seconds.

I was stunned.

'Me? Peru? Are you sure? How do you know?'

'I saw your name on a list of Oxfam travellers I signed off last week. Your name was against Peru, with another chap from the Newcastle office.'

The rest of the evening was spent in large leather arm chairs in front of a glowing fire, talking about staff field tours. To be honest, I don't remember much about it. I was so excited.

I won't bore you further, but the two day meeting dragged by. My mind was already flying to Peru. 

Haunted Manor? Oh yes, did I mention that? 

Well, people had told me that Charney Manor had a haunted bedroom. When we went up to our rooms I asked Howard which room was supposed to be haunted. 

"Yours", he said.

"Oh, thanks very much!", I replied.

But do you know what? I couldn't have cared less. I was going to Peru. No ghost was going to rain on my parade. I drifted off to sleep counting llamas.

I've lots more to tell you about my time in Peru, but enough for now. 

If you're not bored with it already, you will be.

2nd December 2013 Monday

Well, I didn't manage to keep this going day to day, did I? But I will post something whenever I can. This might become tricky as I'm going to have to go back into hospital soon. Don't know for how long. It could be just for a couple of days, it could be longer. We'll see.

We watched an excellent documentary last night about Morecambe & Wise, one of the greatest double comedy acts this country has ever produced. Some say the best ever. They are both dead now, but they still make me laugh out loud, even though I've seen their shows many times. So funny. The reason I mention them is because Eric Morecambe had heart trouble, 'like what I have got', only worse. The medical services kept him going for many years. Medical techniques for hearts have advanced a huge amount since Eric's day - 'they do all the right things, in the right order', so I live in hope and have every confidence in our local cardiac teams.
Changing the subject, where are all the birds? Our garden is usually beginning to get really bird busy by this time of year, but now the bird food goes mouldy in the feeders and I have to keep changing it. It used to get quickly eaten before that happened before. Berries and apples, normally a scene of great bird feeding activity in December, are undisturbed. Is the countryside still full of food? Is it not cold enough yet? The Arctic northerlies forecast for this weekend might change all this, of course. We wait to see.

Although my recent set-back means I can't do the cardiac exercise sessions I used to do, we were still welcome at the group's Christmas Lunch today. It was good to meet up with everyone as we all enjoyed a lovely meal in a local hotel. After my upcoming hospital visit, I hope to get back to the group exercise again. 

And to round off a good day, I did an hour and a half of hospital radio this evening in Cirencester Hospital. I enjoy doing this each week, and they haven't chucked me out yet :-) Tonight I played a mix of big band swing and Christmas songs. My favourite was "In Dulci Lublio" by Chanticleer, although I like them all. That's why I chose them! The patients haven't stormed the studio with burning torches and pitchforks yet, so I must be doing something right. Either that, or they turn off the radio when I come on. Ho hum :-) 

25th November 2013 - Monday

Took it easy today, after a lovely family weekend with my son's family. My get up and go has got up and gone, so a little R&R for me was in order. Meanwhile D went about her usual energetic lifestyle in the morning and then we met for a lovely lunch in Mosaic Café. If you fancy trying it too, you will find it in the Woolmarket, off Dyer Street in Cirencester.

24th November 2013 - Sunday

Henry loves Lego. What a fantastic invention, Lego. My parents bought it for we children when we were very young, land as we grew, so did the Lego. We bought it for our children and the cycle began again. Now we're buying it for Henry. It was a real joy to see him play with it with his father.

One of the best holidays we had when the children were small as in Denmark, home of Lego. But we decided against going to Legoland because we thought it would be just another tacky tourist trap. And we had lots of other stuff to see, birthplace of Has Christian Andersen, Tivoli Gardens, Little Mermaid, and we only had seven days. However we did spare a couple of hours for it on the way back to catch the North Sea ferry. That's when we realised we had made a mistake. We should have given Legoland a whole day. It was amazing! Children, parents, we all had a great time there. (More in retro part of this blog).

Back the present, we all went for lunch at what is now becoming our traditional family lunch venue, the Organic Farm Shop & Cafe near Cirencester. My son is vegetarian and we all care about the quality of the food we eat, and this is one of those rare places we can all go together and choose widely and freely from the menu. So relaxing. So delicious. 

@FarmShopOrganic is deceptive from the outside. All the goodies are inside, like Aladdin's cave :-)

23rd November 2013 - Saturday

Every other Saturday in Cirencester means Farmers Market in the Marker Square. We always try to go because we firmly support buying local produce wherever possible, and the food we buy comes direct from the producers to us. Fruit, vegetables, meat, cakes, pickles, pies and pasties, the list goes on. Whether it costs more is a very moot point. All averaged out I don't think it does, but I do know that the quality is high because it hasn't been packed in plastic, it hasn't been carried hundreds of miles on trucks over several days. Rather, it has reached us direct from local farms that day and is really fresh. 

My son and his family were staying with us and enjoyed coming to the market. And then later we went to the National Arboretum at Westonbirt. This was wonderful because the sun shone, the autumn colours were still clinging to the trees, and our grandson discovered a mud hole. He immediately stomped into it and there he remained, stomping, until his Dad hauled him out with a broad hint of chocolate cake. Boring adults like us took pictures of trees, but mud was the hit of the day. 

I say the hit, but there was another contender who ran it close. His name is Gromit.

There was, to my chagrin, a first for me today. I was wheeled around Westonbirt in a wheelchair. My health has taken a downturn lately and I just couldn't walk around the beautiful Westonbirt trail of autumn colours with the family. I was prepared to wait while they went around, but they insisted I come too, persuaded me into a wheelchair and off we went. They are lovely, Westonbirt is lovely, and we all had a perfect day.

22nd November 2013 - Friday

I always like to watch BBC's Question Time if I can, because I enjoy some good political argument and to hear not only the inevitable MPs battling it out, but also well informed guests from other walks of life adding their views. Sadly this has been going off track lately, and I hope that it is only a phase. Tonight it reached a pitch and I turned it off in disgust.

The reason was that the non-MP guests had been unable to appear due to a train delay, leaving just three MPs on the panel. One of the first questions involved the inevitable "Should pensioners give up their benefits in this time of austerity? query. 

To my horror, the Liberal-Democrat MP, of all people, kicked off by referring to pensioners as though we were ALL wealthy property-owning baby boomers. Well, for her information, we are NOT. I am not. In my mid fifties I was £3000 in debt and owned no property. I still own no property. I depend on my State pension, plus some very small work pension income earned during the final stages of my working life, 

And I am not alone. There are many pensioners in this area who are in a similar position. In the media we frequently see pensioners having to decide whether or not to keep warm or eat. So why do many MPs appear to be woefully ignorant of the way we have to live? I'm lucky. I am warm and well fed, thanks to a very happy marriage. 

However, my point is that I get very angry when MPs threaten to take away the minor, - yes, minor - benefits we have been granted through bus passes and prescriptions. We still contribute around £30billion per annum to this country and still pay tax in most cases. I've been paying tax for the past 47 years and probably will do until I die. The tax-free threshold hardly even covers the old age pension for most of us, and anything extra, like my tiny work pension income is taxed.

I am proud to pay my fair share of tax, but I do NOT like being referred to as a "wealthy property owning baby boomer". 

I am not.

21st November 2013 - Thursday

Today has been an Alexcar day. Alexcars is our local coach company and we go on several of their trips every year. It's so relaxing to sit there and be wafted along on their magic carpet. No traffic stresses, no parking strains, and it's fascinating what you can see from the bus. You can peer at people and peek into parks and parlours. The big advantage is that you arrive at your destination relaxed and looking forward to the day. 

Today we arrived at Devizes.

Just a short trip across the county boundary into historic Wiltshire.

What do we do first on a day out? Look for lunch!

And Devizes didn't disappoint. We found a lovely pub called the Four Seasons, where I had roast chicken breast wrapped in finest Wiltshire bacon, while D had gorgeous pork belly. Wiltshire is famed for its top quality pig products, and the Four Seasons knows just how to cook them.

And serve up a glass or two of Merlot to go alongside.

We chose this trip to visit the Wiltshire Museum, recently restored and redesigned, making it now one of the leading museums in the country. That's what we'd heard, and we were delighted to find that it's true. Devizes is a lovely Wiltshire town, and if you go there, don't miss the museum, especially the golden 'lozenge', one of their prize exhibits. A fantastic object.

Wiltshire has a rich vein of pre-history running through it, with incredible relics to show. Many can be found in the museum or referred to here in depth, such as Stonehenge, Woodhenge, Avebury, Silbury Hill, the list goes on. 

I just love being immersed in all this and trying to make mental connections to my ancient ancestors in the rolling countryside. We and they are part of the same ancestral line, just numbers of generations apart. We gazed on the same landscape and felt the same wind, rain and sun. The same skies revolved above our heads. We are one and the same, merely separated by time. And my mind reels at my ancestors skills, especially in fine craftsmanship, all achieved without the aid of modern technology. Just head, hand, heart and eye.

The museum takes us back to see beautiful they objects created and left here in Mesolithic times, including by those here before our own Homo sapiens kind, and even before Neanderthal people. Most of the objects they left are flint axes, made for workaday tasks such as jointing game, but nonetheless beautiful works of art. I'm left with the impression that these people were highly practical, they had to be to survive, but they also had a heightened aesthetic sense. They knew a beautiful object when they saw it.

This book will tell you much more if you are interested.

20th November 2013

Today has been quiet. I've been too darned tired to do much, but I did walk into town in the pouring rain and do a little light shopping. Then the nice bit, I met D in the New Brewery Arts cafe for coffee and a fruit scone. Retirement would be just dandy if it didn't come, in my case, with a heart attack price tag. This has taken the edge off it, but there's still much to enjoy, coffee and cake being part of it. By the way, in case you're wondering, all the cakes D and I eat are half calories. That's because we buy just one cake each time, and have half each. Likewise desserts when we eat out, and so on. That way we don't miss such treats but still reduce calories.

I love apps that allow us to create collages like this. I aim to bring you all of the blue plaque properties in Cirencester this way, but don't hold your breath. They'll get done as and when. 

Bedtime.

Goodnight.

19th November 2013

We started today by going on our weekly visit to my 9(5 year old mother, who lives 20 miles away. The drive through the merging area of Cotswolds and upper Thames Valley is beautiful at all times of year, but especially in autumn. A fair covering of late red and gold leaves are still hanging on the trees and the effect when the low winter sun shines on them is stunning. Unfortunately this morning was dull, so here's one I prepared earlier to give you some idea of the scene.

Visiting my mother is more than being social. We are also part of the group of friends, relatives and professionals who look after her daily.  We get her lunch, clean and tidy the house and garden, and make sure she is taking her medical pills and potions. We're still going and so is she. Sometimes I think she'll put-do us all, especially me!

She has been, and still is, a wonderful mother, and we are happy to do what we can for her. I was very lucky to have such wonderful parents. Sadly, we lost my father far too early. I still think of him every day,  over forty years later.

In the evening we went to see the first live broadcast from the stage of the Royal Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, Stratford-Upon-Avon. The play was Shakespeare's Richard II. It went to cinemas around the world, and I hope they found it a success from their point of view, because it was terrific. We went to see it at a cinema in Cheltenham, and fifteen minutes before the play commenced the cameras there went live. It was almost like being at the theatre, although the cinema had slightly more comfortable seats. We were treated to a couple of short interviews, and then down went the auditorium lights and we were off. It was fantastic. Not only did we have the equivalent of the 'best seats in the house', we were often seemingly on stage with the actors thanks to brilliant camera work. I can't wait until the next one :)

18th November 2013

Today I got one of those nice fleeting surprises that put a smile on my face. I met another local tweeter. We Follow each other tweet-wise. I was getting on the bus as she was getting off, so our chat was brief, but it's always good to meet other tweeters. They become real people then, and not just tiddly pictures on your phone.

Then this afternoon I took D and friend to a funeral at Cheltenham Crematorium. I stayed outside and wandered round the beautiful grounds. Even on a dull wet day they were so restful and peaceful. I love the challenge of getting pictures anytime, but a dull wet day is a challenge. Here are two I took today. What do you think?

And here are two I took from the bus this morning in the rain.

This one is the old Toll House in Stratton from my top deck viewpoint. It's particularly interesting because it used to be four hundred yards down the road charging tolls.The times, they are a-changin'. 

Finally, on this scintillating, exciting day (Oh yes? I hear you cry ;) I went to a Hospital Radio Meeting in our local hospital. It was exciting. The lights keep going out in the closed hospital restaurant where we hold our meetings, and each time we jump out of our chairs and run around until we are spotted by the sensors and they come on again. I think it's a cunning NHS plan to prevent us becoming too sedentary. Presenters like me fall into two distinct groups, oldies like me and young technical wizards. Patients come in all shapes and sizes and so, broadly, do we. It's a great creative mix and we all enjoy it. 

"My name's Patrick, and you're listening to Cirencester Hospital Radio ... "

17th November 2013

This morning I went with D to Ashcroft Church. I am a member, but I don't always go because, late in life, I've discovered that I prefer going to the Quakers or, to give them their full title, the Religious Society of Friends. To many, the idea of sitting together in silence for an hour is a strange concept and/or extremely boring. But I don't find it so. 

To me, on one level that hour is therapeutic. No phone rings, no doorbell summons, no one asks me to do anything. It's me time. It's restful, relaxing. It allows my mind to free itself of daily noise. 

On a deeper level it allows me to 'listen' for answers. Quakers religious beliefs vary widely. Basically Christian, their interpretations of and relationship to biblical matters range widely. This freedom is refreshing. I was drawn to the Quakers for years, almost unconsciously. What helped me focus and actually step through the doors of a meeting house was a Quaker publicity poster declaring 'We don't tell you what to think'. I wish I'd crossed that threshold years ago. 

So, I like the Methodists. I like the Quakers. I attend both as time and circumstance allows, and I'm not going to choose one over the other in this blog. 

With most of the morning taken up with church matters, we decided to have lunch at the Brewery Arts Cafe, another favourite of ours. I had one of their 'doorstep' sandwiches for lunch. So tasty, and 'proper-job' doorsteps, huge size with extra salad local granary bread. Gorgeous!

Then W.H.Smiths made me an offer I couldn't refuse, a cunningly displayed mini e-reader for £29.99. Really? Thirty pounds? Yes sir, half-price but not for long. I succumbed, and am now the proud owner of a Kobo Mini E-Reader with five books on it so far. I am told it will hold a thousand. We'll see.

I spotted this intriguing window display on the way home. What a wacky legging for one-legged women, I thought.

16th November 2013

This morning we went to one of our favourite shopping destinations, the Organic Farm Shop. We get as much of our food there as fits our life style and limited budget. The quality of what we fuel our bodies with really matters to us, and this food is high quality. We know what's in it and, just as important, what's not in it. 

The other reason for visiting the farm is their delicious coffee and cake which, in the winter, is consumed by one of their lovely wood-burning stoves. If we want a real treat, we stay for lunch.

This afternoon I had intended to start clearing the heap of clutter on my side of the office. It didn't happen, again. I got distracted into starting to piece together some Christmas music for my weekly slot on Cirencester Hospital Radio. I share the time with my good friend Cliff. We share a love of music and both enjoy our radio stints. Once we start discussing music in the studio, it's so easy to forget that we're broadcasting. There's the ever-present danger of the record on air finishing and us forgetting to segué to the next, risking dead air, a radio sin. Hasn't happened yet, but the risk is there. What has happened is the record finishing and listeners being treated two old blokes rambling on about old record treasures they've found on second-hand stalls.

And so the day went by.

15th November 2013

This living on British Summer Time all the time is proving rather good. It's much more in synchronisation with the daylight. It really makes sense and I just cannot understand why this country keeps messing around with GMT and changing clocks. If we must change clocks, let's at least synchronise with our continental neighbours. Is there some perverse British cussedness that insists on the 'we're right and they're wrong' attitude even when they are obviously right and it's we who are clearly wrong? 

Hang on a moment. Just getting off my soapbox. 

That's better, now where was I? Oh yes, today ...

... Today, or rather this evening, D and I were invited, along with about fifty other people, to go to a lovely place near Gloucester called "Nature in Art". The clue is in the name, it is an art gallery devoted to pictures and sculptures of animals and birds. The occasion was the launch of a beautiful new book depicting and describing all the birds of Gloucestershire. We played a small part in gathering the information and raising the funds to create this beautiful volume and, as a result, not only got invited to the launch, but we're also presented with a free copy of this splendid, rather large, tome. It's called "The Birds of Gloucestershire" by Gordon Kirk and John Phillips. They thanked everyone for their support and signed our copies. About five years ago, when work started on the book, I was able to sponsor my favourite bird, the lapwing, so I'm proud to have my name in it. 

Hawfinches in the Forest of Dean by Terence Lambert

14th November 2014

One week of 'wubbish'! That's what this day's blog marks. Am I going to manage a second week? Only time will tell.

So, what have I got to offer today? Well, I went to the pictures/ took in a movie/ saw a film/ chilled out at a flick (Delete as appropriate:). I went to see 'Gravity'. Although I don't want to see it again, I really enjoyed seeing it once.

There are just two people in the cast, Sandra Bullock and George Clooney. Both play their parts extremely well. The story is simple and a little far fetched. I say a little because I remember the NASA Apollo 13 mission to the Moon. In Gravity two people hit a spot of space bother. The man dies but manages to help save the woman who, however, survives mainly through her own grit. I liked the fact that the woman played main role with the man buzzing round providing support, but did they really have to have her coming out of the water in a wet T shirt at the end? A cliché too far, perhaps. I also enjoyed the nods to the gênres greats, especially the one to 2001, 'I've got a bad feeling about this mission ... '.

Overall, it's great entertainment. The special effects are stunning and it's crying out to be shown in the IMAX format. And I hope I haven't given too much of the meager plot away, but then I don't think this is a film you'll want to see for the plot. The special effects steal the show. If you want plot, try Gorky Park, Nine Queens and hundreds of others.

The bus journey to the cinema in Cheltenham, up the Churn/ Thames valley was beautiful in the autumn sunshine. Rocking along on the bus made landscape photography just about impossible, but these recent photographs I took will give some idea of the views from the bus.

13th November 2013

We're trying to live by British Summer Time (BST) now. It is supposed to save money and be healthier. In other words, the idea is to leave our clocks on BST all year and not change them. I know it makes sense. We did it in this country for about three years back on the sixties, and I hoped we'd keep it. We didn't.

Of course, now we're doing it but the rest of the country isn't, so it really means that we just go to bed and get up an hour earlier. And all day we pretend that the rest of the world is out of step with us by an hour. It works quite well, and is better for our body clocks. What I like about it is that our waking time fits much better with natural daylight hours, a definite plus as far as I am concerned. We'll see how it goes on. 

I love a good crisp frost, and this morning we had the best one around here for a long time. 

This frost was on our car at breakfast time. They're always different, and seem to appear best on cars for some reason that I don't understand. I must look very suspicious as I walk down the road taking pictures of people's cars!

I get very annoyed by people who treat Big Issue sellers as street beggars, because they are certainly nothing of the sort. They are people trying to pick themselves up and build new lives for themselves. They are traders, buying and selling the Big Issue magazines, and as such well worth supporting. Most are very interesting people and rewarding to chat with. This week's 'Issue' has some particularly good articles in it, especially by it's founder John Bird. He's always worth a read.

As you probably know, I have a great urge to photograph everything around me. Usually I am behind the camera a real life is in front of it, but now, with iPhones et al it is so easy to turn the tables and take a picture of yourself taking a picture of yourself, if you follow me. Here's today's effort ...

Goodnight lovely readers. More tomorrow.

12th November 2013

Today the weather has been beautiful, crisp and autumnal. And I've been itching to take pictures all day. Here are two I did manage to grab around breakfast time.

They show the Abbey Grounds, a few steps from the town centre, a lovely area gifted to the town by the Chester-Master family many years ago. I love it and it is on part of our walk to town. There is another beautiful park in Cirencester, called Bathurst Park. More of this in later entries. 

My mother, well into her nineties now, lives around twenty miles away, and we visit her whenever we can. The drive, from the Cotswolds into the upper Thames Valley is beautiful, especially on days like today. And of course I took more pictures, this one near Quenington, Gloucestershire.

For years I've thought it mad that the UK insists on being out of step, time-wise, with neighbouring countries. Why do we do it? It's crazy. And it costs us money, real money. People think I'm daft for raising the subject, but today I found that I'm not alone.

You know it makes sense :-D

Today we heard that Sir John Tavener, composer, has died, aged sixty-nine. At my age, early seventies,  this is starting to get to me. The number of people who are dying younger than me is growing. It makes me realise, more strongly than ever, that I am living on borrowed time since my heart attack. So little time and so much to do. All I can do is take care, keep busy and await the call. It might seem odd, but having been close to death, I know that when it was close a resigned peace settled on me. Events were beyond my control. My life was no longer in my hands and I prepared to hand in my resignation. 

I saw beautiful colours. That much I remember.

11th November 2013

Armistice Day. The 11th day of the 11th month, and at 11a.m., ceasefire, thousands of people stand where they are and remain silent for two minutes in remembrance of those who sacrificed their lives for our freedom. 

That's why I wear poppies and why I respect this deeply solemn moment every year. I really value that freedom. And I very much appreciate the growing numbers of young people who do the same. Sadly, many of them are suffering too, having lost fathers and brothers, not forgetting sisters and mothers, in recent conflicts. War is terrible, and so often counter productive. We gain little but enemies so often these days. 

It's also been one of those days when I've lost far too much to a duff download on my computer. Not being technical by nature, I struggle when the 'wrong' things happen as I press my computer keys. Staring at the screen looking for clues doesn't help much, unfortunately. It's the language that beats me. I've found that everyone under twelve knows it from birth, which is where being born well before the age of computers puts me at a disadvantage. My one redeeming feature in this area is stubbornness. I just don't give up. Like a dog at a well gnawed bone I keep worrying at it. A tentative key press here, a slight file-drag there, and eventually my computer gives in and springs back to familiar life. That's when I turn it off and go to lie down in a darkened room, exhausted. Such was much of my day, and a lot of productive work just didn't get done. Remember, I am a mere man. I can't do multi-tasking.

What I did get done was to prepare my weekly programme for Cirencester Hospital Radio. There are actually two of us sharing the 7 'till 9 slot we've been given. Cliff does the first hour and I do the second, roughly speaking. If he can't make it I do a longer show to cover as much of his slot as possible, and vice versa. It's all voluntary and fun, and we usually share ten minutes or so on air changing seats. We're getting quite good at it now, but whether listeners would agree I really have no idea. In fact, we have no idea whether we actually have any listeners. We act as though we do, in order to improve our skills, but is there anybody out there? Who knows? 

Hospital radio audiences are, by their very nature, variable. Many patients aren't in hospital long enough to hear us; others more long term patients are possibly more ill and don't want to listen. Others might hear us once and then are discharged (and I'm not claiming that the two events are connected ). 

Whatever, however nicely we ask for notes and comments, we never get any. My own approach is the old Terry Wogan technique of imagining that I've got just one 'dear listener' out there, and I talk to them. They're great! I can play them jazz, comic, classic, romantic, blues, rock, they listen to it all, or not. I just don't know, but at least they haven't stormed the studio yet with pitchforks and burning torches. We've got away with it once again and lived to tell the tale. 

Now, next week a little light rock and roll I think ...

10th November 2013

      Today was Remembrance Sunday. D went to the service at Ashcroft and I went to the one at the war memorial by Cirencester Parish Church of St John. It's been a lovely autumn day and the setting by the magnificent church was beautiful and very atmospheric. I felt strongly a sense of the continuance of history. I've seen so many sepia photographs of others at the same ceremony in earlier years. History runs through time like a stream, and we each go with the flow for our allotted time. These days I feel like an old trout wondering if he'll make it again next year.

      Remembrance, or Poppy Day, means a lot to me. Apart from the old sepia photographs, I can remember taking pictures myself of the war memorial service in Burford back in the sixties. My father, all six feet six of him, was always there too. He was easy to spot in the crowd for obvious reasons. A wonderful man, he was loved by all the family and many others far beyond. He was a great role model for us and one we try to emulate, especially my brother and I. Whether we succeed to any degree is for others to judge.

      I try to wear both a red and a white poppy at this time of year, the red one lest I forget, and the white one because I believe that most, but not all, wars are unnecessary and we should strive more for peace.

I don't believe that red poppies are in any way a glorification of war. I knew many men and women who experienced the hell of war, most in WWI or WWII, and almost all thought it was wicked madness. In my experience I believe at least two major wars have been fought, falsely, in my name to my everlasting regret. They should never have happened and have been a terrible waste of lives. 

      Money raised by the British Legion through the sale of red poppies is used to help military families who have suffered as a result of war through death or injury. And I understand that they help them for life, not just while there's a vote in it.

      I feel that wars have made us more enemies than friends. I vote, I tweet, I wear two poppies, I could and must do more.

Enough of war.

Today has been a good day. My old uneasy companion Angina has been largely absent and I have managed to walk both into and back from town. I've taken a picture or two. Here's one ...

Every autumn this tree in the Abbey Grounds in Cirencester is glorious and I take a picture of it. This year is no exception. 

9th November 2013

Another good day. Very little angina, enabling me to walk briskly into town with D, do a little shopping, have coffee and walk home again. All in all about two miles of walking. Two days ago I could hardly walk to the the bus stop, and had to take the bus both ways. Crazy, and I never know, until I get up, whether I'm in for a good day or a bad day.

All this worries me, and I hope that my cardiac consultant can shed some light on this condition when I see him at the end of the month and offer a solution. I've had my three score and ten, but I was still hoping for another decade or so. But then I think of people like John Thaw, one of my favourite actors, gone way before his time at sixty-three, and my brother-in-law who dropped dead at sixty-seven. I'm lucky, and blessed.

This morning was wet and dreary, but I like to get my photographic fix each day. It might be anything that attracts me visually, although often I have to search for it. You often hear people say they have to get into the 'zone' before things happen, and it's like that with photography. Often, at first glance, there seems to be nothing worth photographing but, if you're not distracted, you can sometimes get into the zone. Suddenly you're seeing pictures everywhere. This morning was like that, grey, dripping wet and dreary low light all around, and then I started to see photographically, and here is one of the pictures I then took. Alright, it's not Henri Cartier-Bresson, but it'll do. 

A few drops of rainwater on a kale leaf. Nature is beautiful if we just take the time to look. And that's the secret, isn't it? As W. H. Davies wrote,

"What is life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare?"

Every artist and photographer knows this, but we can all benefit from it. There's just too much hurry out of habit in today's world. Take it easy.

8th November 2013

I decided today to run two themes in this blogspot of mine, one a collection of memories, primarily for my children so that they know where their Dad came from culturally, and the other a record of my day to day thoughts. We'll see where this takes us, or maybe just me ...

Let's get started. Today we've been to Cheltenham on the bus. We love the bus. Our concessions mean we are delivered to the town centre free of charge. At least the general public have been spared we 'oldies' clogging up the road in our car and using a precious parking space. This is a relaxing day, so it's coffee, cake and a mooch around Waterstones, followed by lunch at La Tasca. It's consistently good, and we love choosing a selection of old favourites and  new interesting dishes. 

Another advantage of bus travel is that I'm free to have a glass wine with my tapas. 

I'm feeling good.

Luckily.

Not every day is a good day. Until a few weeks ago I was feeling good most days. By following medical and nutritional advice, I had made encouraging progress since my heart attack three years ago. I was walking up to three miles daily, enjoying two exercise sessions a week, expertly led by Denise and, frankly, feeling a bit smug about my progress.

Then one morning I woke up feeling awful. 

I found my daily walk to town was hard going, and had to get home by bus. I was devastated. Where had all my good progress gone? And I was no better as time went on.

I went back to my doctor for advice.

To avoid being even more boring, I was put on the highest dose of my drugs and await an appointment with a cardiac consultant later this month. To be continued ...

But I do have good days among all the bad ones, and today has been such a one. I've enjoyed it, despite the rain.

It rained in Cheltenham today.

Lunch at La Tasca: Salad, anchovies, pork belly, beans, chicken, patatas bravas ...

School

I hated school, from the first day to the last. 

It's not that I want to burden you with my problems, but you'll be doing me a favour if you let me iimagine you're going to read what follows. But I'll never know, will I? So if you'd rather go off and make a cup of tea or watch paint dry, please feel free. At the very least you'll have made an old man imagine he's happy having got it off his chest.

So now you know. I hated school.

Hate is a strong word and not one I use lightly. But the feeling was so strong in me that I still feel it strongly over sixty years later. The old saying, 'Best years of your life ...' were never so wrong as in my case.

Up until around the age of five my life was idyllic, free every day to roam the farm and do whatever I liked. I was, effectively, the only child in the hamlet. Babies started arriving as time went by, but I was so much older I took very little notice of them. I had total freedom within the life of the farm. 

Then one day my mother mentioned something about school. I was not sure what it was, but soon learned that I was going to it on Monday. Next I was taken to our local clothes outfitter in Lechlade, 'Tommy' Powells, to be dressed up in smart clothes, not something I liked or was used to wearing. Back home I was given my own red Oxo tin, with an elastic band to keep the lid on. And this was to be carried in my new leather satchel. I was not at all sure what was happening, and then suddenly it was Monday morning. 

I was dressed in all my new gear, given my satchel and Oxo tin containg an egg and lettuce sandwich and an apple, and put in the car. Off Mum and I went to Clanfield. All I could think about was what was what was going on, and when were we going home so that I could play boats and harbours in our brook?

We parked on the grreen in Clanfield and Mum led me along to this place called Clanfield Primary School. At the gate we were met by a formidable lady whom my mother called Miss Kinchin. Looking back, I think she was a really a kindly woman, but with her gruff voice and commanding tone she came across to me as terrrifying. 

"Now you run along with Miss Kninchin," said Mum, "and she will look afer you. I'll be back to collect you this afternoon."

"This afternoon?! Aren't I comiing back with you?" 

"No dear, not now. You go with Miss Kinchin. She will look after you and give you lots of interesting things to do. I'll be back for you at teatime.

The word 'Teatime' hit me like a sock full of cold wet sand.

Interesting things to do? I had a million intresting things to do on the farm, every day!

Mum turned and went, and as I gazed with horror at her retreating back Miss Kinchin's hand took mine very firmly and I was marched across the playground towards the door of doom. 

Inside, Miss Kinchin took me to a seat and desk, row three fourth back, and told me to sit there, stay there and be quiet. Other children slouched sullenly to take their seats in the other desks aound me. 

"What is all this?" I thought. "What's going on?'

The room was large, with high windows so that you could not see outside. It was filled with rows of desks facing forwards towards a high desk which, like a judge's bench in court, commanded the room from its raised position. Miss Kinchin was the judge. 

"Now," she pronounced, "We'll take the register." She opened a large book on her desk and, pen in hand, called out, "Atkins!'

"Here Miss"

"Albright!"

"Here Miss"

Thank goodness my name was Wise. By the time it came up I had learned the routine.

"Yes Miss"

"It's 'Here Miss', and you must learn to speak up louder. Now children, I want you to meet your new classmate. His name is Patrick Wise. He'll be with us from now on. Stand up Wise."

All eyes in the room turned to stare at me. Coming from a hamlet where I was effectively the only child, I was shocked at being stared at by so many. I shrivelled and wanted to die.

So started my school life.

(The sorry tale to be continued ... )

It Came From The Sky ~

Late, one clear Spring night in 1944 , when Patrick was almost three years old, something extraordinary happened on the farm. Something beyond his understanding, but really exciting.

He went to bed as usual. His mother warmed his bed with a warming pan, read him a favourite Hans Christian Anderson story, kissed him goodnight and blew out his bedside candle.
Good night.
Sleep tight.
Don't let the bugs bite.
As he lay there, listening to the sounds of the farm at night slipping in through the open window, the cry of a calf, the comforting muffled moo of its mother and the shoosh of the wind eddying through the high green crowns of the stately elms, his thoughts tumbled over tinder-boxes and fearsome dogs with eyes as big as saucers.

He didn't want to go to sleep, but he did eventually.

And so most nights slipped by until the cockerel crowed, but not this night. 

It was still dark when he was wakened by a loud crash. 

Dogs barked, footsteps crunched in the gravel yard below his open bedroom window. Low voices muttered tersely, but what woke the entire household was the fact that one voice suddenly shouted very loudly.

"Bloody hell! I've bust my bloody leg!"

Patrick's Dad was at his bedroom window shouting into the darkness,

"Who's there? What's going on! Who are you?!"

"Sorry Guv'. I've broken my bloody leg on your roof. Help me quick, please. I can't move and I'm in a soddin' rose bush!"

"Hang on! I'm coming down", shouted Patrick's dad, and stumbled downstairs in the darkness, trying to pull on his trousers on fumble for the stair door handle. We had no electricity in those days and unexpected night alerts, usually to tend to sick farm animals, were attended to with the aid of a hurricane oil lamp. No time for that now.

By the time his father he heard his dad opening the door into the front garden, more voices came from the darkness, and matches flickered.

Patrick was at his window by then, trying to follow the action.

He was an infant, with no knowledge or concept of war. He knew we had soldiers, and liked the ones he met. They were camped scattered, all along the lanes where he lived, in khaki and brown coloured tents covered in wavy designs. His mother sold them eggs now and then, or a culled chicken, and they tousled his hair or gave him spent metal bullet jackets and showed him how to whistle with them. He was quite good at it and usually had one or two in his pocket.

He could tell that these voices in the darkness belonged to soldiers, and one of them was badly hurt.

Considering what he later realised was waiting for them in their near future, he likes to think to this day that that soldier's broken leg may have saved his life.

By now, the whole front yard was alive with voices and activity. Small lights flickered here and there throughout the front paddocks. 

Patrick was excited, and after a while he crept downstairs. 

His mum was making tea by the bucketful in the kitchen as an officer directed a constant stream of soldiers from the kitchen table, s left, and Dad closed the outside door. All was quiet and we went back to bed, but I don't think anyone slept.

At first light. as soon as he heard his parents stirring, Patrick was up and looking out of his bedroom window at a fantastic scene. Several large army trucks had pulled into the normally quiet front paddocks, and soldiers were milling around them loading boxes and bags. In the farm yard more soldiers were forming into ranks and being bossed around by a sergeant. Busy, busy, busy everywhere, but that was not all. Nearly all the tall elms ash and sycamore trees visible from the farmhouse windows were festooned with parachutes, draped loosely over the branches like seaweed on rocks.

Patrick watched spell bound as men extended special folding ladders from lorries up, up, up into the trees, and soldiers climbed up and down, reaching to retrieve the parachutes. The whole scene was filled with fast but orderly action as, in what seemed no time at all, the last pack was heaved over a lorry tailgate and the last rank of men marched out of the yard to climb aboard the last truck. The officer called at the front door to say thank you to Patrick's Mum and Dad, then looked up at the small boy in the window to wink and wave goodbye as he climbed into the lorry cab with the driver.

And then they, their parachutes, bags and boxes, were gone, as though it had only happened in the imagination. Had it happened? The flattened paddock grass and the pile of cups in the kitchen sink said yes.
And so did the broken slates on the front lawn.

Years later, old Patrick looks back occasionally on this amazing and unexpected event. Now he knows what it was all about. We did not realise it at the time, but this was Spring 1944 and D-Day was approaching in June of that year. These men were practising being dropped over occupied France at low level in darkness, many to their deaths. Did the sergeant with the broken leg escape being in the first waves, due to his injury? Did he ever recover enough for active service? Who knows?

There is a post-script. Let's rejoin young Patrick.

The year had moved into late summer, and harvest time. War was raging on Europe's mainland, but the young lad knew nothing of this. He was more interested in the old Fordson tractor his father had bought for the farm, and grain harvest was in full swing. This day it was the wheat in 'Paulings', the field that stretched from behind the farmhouse to the border with Langford parish. The sun was shining, it was a good farming day. Suddenly Bill, the tractor driver, spotted something in the crop. Reaping stopped, and everyone went to look. It was a silk khaki parachute. It was obviously one that had been missed from the Springtime parachute drop.
By then, all the soldiers had gone. What to do?
It was months after the event so, rightly or wrongly, we kept it, and it was handed over to my mother. She was overjoyed. What a bonus! Out came her Singer sewing machine and,  rather like Betty Hutton's famous "Sewing Machine Song",  every night for weeks it was a 'sew and a sew and a stitch and a stitch' until we all had lovely silk pyjamas, nighties, pillow cases and goodness knows what else. Remember, this was wartime and clothes were in short supply. Luxury amidst austerity! Or at least a little taste of it.

Pondering the Universe

I am the old man.

I am the boy.

We are called Patrick.

Old Patrick has explored worlds and vast reaches of space shown to him by scientists and writers over the years, but still is left pondering the questions he thought about as young Patrick. How big is space? What was there before time?

One summer's evening, as purple twilight darkened to velvet night, man and boy walked out, out of the farmhouse where they lived in the flat bottom lands of the Thames Valley, and away from the pools of tungsten light falling from its windows. Out to the far end of the paddock. To the edge of darkness.

Gradually Patrick's young eyes grew accustomed to the night, revealing the vast diamond dome stretching from horizon to horizon. Slowly he turned through a complete circle, gazing up at the night sky in all its stunning beauty. 

A noise. A drone. A plane flies across the sparkling necklace of the Milky Way, flashing rubies and emeralds. 

Patrick's world was full of boundaries. Hedges, ditches, walls, rivers, hills and mountains. 

But above his head he saw none. 

He saw the Moon.

He saw the Sun.

He saw Saturn, Jupiter and Mars. And beyond them our Milky Way galaxy. 

He even, after studying astronomer Patrick Moore's books, could see further and make out the smudged thumbprint of Amdromeda, a sister galaxy speeding towards us. And the books talked about millions of galaxies past her which lay in the abyss beyond human imagination.

But where was the edge? The boundary?

Even if there was a wall around everything, what would there be on the other side of the wall?

Even the books couldn't help with that one.

They talked of Einstein, of curling dimensions folded in on themselves.

This is where Patrick turned to another of his sources, Carl Sagan, who said,

"Not only is the Universe stranger than we understand, it is stranger than we CAN understand."

In a way, this was comforting to Patrick. Out here on the edge of understanding, he found that even the great minds faltered. 

Patrick's life still lay before him. Great discoveries were being made, more and more as time went by. This amazing show would run and run. 

Would they ever discover Higg's boson?

Old Patrick smiled.

~~~~~~~~~~

Tales of a Charity Legacy Officer

Now and again, during my time working in the Legacy offices of two major charities, Oxfam and NSPCC, I came across lovely stories. This is one. I don't know how true the story is, but I like to think it is.

Walt Disney employed a woman, let's call her Ida, who worked as the cleaner in his personal apartment in Hollywood. She was very good at her job and kept the place spotless. He appreciated that a great deal. However, while she was pleased to have the job and to work in nice surroundings, she thought he was a mean old man. Her reason was this. 

Every Christmas Walt Disney would give his staff a bonus.

For most of them it came to several hundred dollars, but all he gave to Ida each year was a fancy looking document. 'Take good care of this', he would tell her. Later, at home, she would call her son John and complain, 'I suppose he thinks it would look good on my wall', she would say. 'Phuh! Mean old devil'.

Each year she stuffed these papers away in a drawer, thinking that at least Walt Disney's autograph on them might be worth something if she really needed a few dollars in an emergency. 

Years later Walt Disney died. And Ida's job died with him. Older now, and no job, her means were modest so John suggested she go to live near him. They found a small apartment that was suitable, and Ida prepared to move. John went over to help her clear her old house. They toiled away and were getting the job done well on schedule, when John came through from the back room waving a handful of the Walt Disney papers.

'Mother, are these the papers Mr Disney gave you that you complained about?'

'Yes, dear. I suppose I should sell them now. A few extra dollars would be useful.'

'Yes, mother. I think you might well,' replied John, 'these are Disney shares and at a rough estimate I think you are worth about three quarters of a million dollars!'

Much Wenlock and My Father

My father hated Much Wenlock. It brought him out in a cold sweat even to think about it.
Several times a year, in the late forties / early fifties, when I was a child, we would drive from our Oxfordshire farm to Anglesey to visit my grandfather (Taid in Welsh), a retired sea captain who told us gripping stories about his life at sea.

My mother always had to work hard to persuade Dad to take us as, being a farmer, he could never see a convenient time to go. Any time Mum suggested would swiftly countered with, "there's a cow about to calve them", or "I'm expecting the feed rep to call that week", and so it went. But Mum was no quitter. She would wear Dad's resistance down with more and more suggestions until he had to give in, and a date would be arranged.

When that day came Dad would fuel up the old four door Morris saloon, Mum would would put our well thumbed RAC atlas on the front seat, and my brother Mark, sister Sarah and I would pile on to the back seats and settle into the jumble of suitcases, cushions, I-Spy books, tartan rugs, old Farmers Weekly magazines, bottles of home made ginger beer, flasks of tea and Oxo tins filled with cucumber, cheese and tomato sandwiches. When all was ready, Dad usually had some last minute urgent discussion with the foreman about jobs that needed to be done while we were away, but finally came the moment when off we would go, our overloaded car chugging out of the yard in a cloud of gravel dust and chased by our yapping dogs, honking geese and my sister's over-excited pony.

Our custom was to stop for a picnic on Wenlock Edge, about halfway into our trip. The views over Shropshire are breath-taking, but back then we children were far more interested in our fresh cut sandwiches and ginger beer.

Dad always seemed pre-occupied on these occasions. He would sit and gaze at the road below, where it curved out of the Much Wenlock and dropped steeply into the valley below. We assumed he was weary from the driving, even though he knew every pre ring road short cut through Kidderminster and Bridgnorth in those days, so we left him in peace. Much later I realised that he must have been thinking about the return trip. Going down the hill was no problem, but the return trip was another matter.

A common feature on cars in the forties was a glass housing a thermometer on the radiator cap, a swinging needle warning the driver whenever the radiator was in danger of overheating. If it went into the red zone, the game was up and you had to stop.

On our way home, on leaving Wales, Wenlock Edge would loom ahead, closer and closer. Back then, to Dad, it must have looked like Mount Everest. As we passed the sign to Wig Wig and Homer, Dad would start to pile on the speed, ready for our attempt at the formidable face of Wenlock Edge. Th old Morris would be shuddering with effort as we passed the farmhouse near the base of the ascent, Dad's knuckles white as he leaned forwards and gripped the wheel. He wanted every ounce of momentum that the old car could muster, but it was never quite enough.

Up and up we would climb, willing the car forwards. No one dared barely breathe. We children would rock back and forth in our seats, as if willing a swing ever higher, but whatever we did the inevitable would happen ... just before the summit needle would go into the red.

Drawing into the side of the road, near the precipice, we were forced to stop. Irate drivers in more modern cars would, from the inevitable queue behind us, pass with ease and annoyed faces. Dad would deploy our red triangle, all the while avoiding eye contact with the other drivers. All we could do was sit there as steam billowed from the bonnet. Experience had taught us to carry a watering can in the boot, so Dad and I would wait until the last annoyed driver had passed and then set off down the hill to ask at the farmhouse for our watering can to be filled with cold water. Over time the farmer's wife had become a friend, and she always insisted we stay for a cup of tea and some fruit cake. And she wouldn't let us go until she'd not only filled our can, but also packed more cake for us to take back for Mark, Sarah and Mum.

Having trudged all the way back to the almost summit, we children were confined to the car while Mum and Dad carried out the next dangerous part of the operation, taking off the radiator cap. The Icelandic geyser effect might have subsided, but considerable danger of pressurised scalding steam still lurked beneath that cap. Out came a large beach towel which Dad would deploy in layers over the cap. Then, grasping it firmly through the towel, he would twist it off.

Steam would swish out of any loose fold of towel it could find, but if Dad had done it right, and he always did, no harm would be done. Now the waiting game really began. After an interminable quarter of an hour or so, Dad would carefully, and oh so slowly, pour cold water into the radiator. Eventually he would replace the cap, stow away the can and triangle, climb back into the driver's seat, watch the radiator needle sink slowly back into the green, and then lurch gingerly forward into Much Wenlock.

Mum would say, "Why don't we go to that lovely old tea-shop in the High Street?", meaning "Your father desperately needs a pick-me-up."

Dad never complained about these occasions, but every time he thought about it his heart must have sunk. Looking back I can only admire the stoic way he bore these times of trial, but oh how he must have hated Wenlock Edge.