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.