Magic Moment 1

Back in 1982 I was working for Oxfam. My job was based in the charity's Summertown, Oxford HQ, and my responsibility was to run a small team called the Donor Response Unit. DRU, that was us, and merry little band we were. There was me, dazed by my switch from self-employed to employed at the age of forty, Trish, who was my rock in that she patiently guided me, a complete beginner, through the complexities and nuances of office culture, and Dharshini, a quiet young woman from Sri Lanka who I'm sure didn't know what to make of this strange man who suddenly become her immediate boss. 

He knows nothing, she must gave thought to herself as she kept a wary eye on me in those early days. Both Trish and Dharshini became wonderful friends and I treasure my time with them.

However, this is not the moment I shall try to describe in this piece.

I mention it only to emphasise that life circumstance had plucked me from deepest rural Oxfordshire and thrust me into this new, strange and forbidding environment.

Needs must. I had to earn a living somehow and this was the only avenue I had found open. I had barely been there two years and little did I know that Oxfam was about to thrust me, briefly, into a much more amazing, life-changing, environment. The Andes in Peru. (See 'Peru -This is where the story really starts')

I ran an office in Oxfam Fundraising Division and, asca fundraiser, and it was deemed that I should spend some time at the cutting edge of Oxfam's aid work. This would give me authenticity when talking to supporters about how we used their money. I could describe some of it through first-hand experience. Thus I found myself tramping up a spectacular path high in the Andes. We had left our battered Landrover way below in the guardianship of a local priest. 

We were now way beyond wheeled traffic. 

Our path varied between one and two metres wide. On one side a sheer drop gave us views of clouds far below. Occasionally they parted allowing glimpses of a gushing, dashing river. On the other side of the path a high cliff climbed high to a blue black sky. Oxygen levels at this altitude were rather less than I was used to and I was glad I had done a little training before coming on this venture. I wished I had done more. I was also glad that we stopped now and then to catch our breath. My heart was thumping.

A light cool breeze eddied around us. When it blew towards us we caught snatches of flute music. It was beautiful. Two stops later the music was clearer and louder, but we still couldn't see the melody maker.

"Who is that?" I asked Pocho, real name Teoboldo Pinzas, Oxfam Field Director and our leader.

"That's a scout, letting the villagers know that we'll soon be arriving", he told me.

As we rounded the next bend we saw him, across a gully which the path horseshoed around. A small boy, sitting in a boulder further up the mountain path, silhouetted against the late afternoon sky. He waved. We waved back, weary and relieved that we were nearly at our destination. 

But nothing had prepared me for what happened next.

As we rounded the corner by the boulder where the boy had been playing his flute, we longed to sit down, take off our packs and rest. But suddenly we were surrounded by laughing girls showering us in flower petals. they danced alongside us as we entered their village. Boys came up to us and presented us all with long staves. It was clear to us that we were to hold these high and take our position of honour on a wooden platform that stood in the middle of the village square. Alongside us stood important looking men who were obviously important village elders. The leader, or Mayor,  raised his arms and all the chatter and excitement suddenly stilled. Everyone looked at us.

The Mayor stepped forward centre stage and looked around at the villagers, whereupon he launched into a grand sounding speech liberally emphasised with arm flourishes, many directed towards us. It sounded very presidential, but he spoke in his mother tongue, Qechua, and we couldn't understand a word. No matter, one of our guides spoke Qechua and Spanish, and he translated for Pocho, our Peruvian Field Director. Pocho translated his translation into English for our benefit. The speech was wonderflly flowery, and we were required to reply in equally flourishing words. We did our best, each in turn, and our party pieces made their way back through the tortuous transaltion chain. Whether our replies bore any relation in Qechua to what the Mayor had said I have no idea. I seriously doubt they did, but it didn't matter. We received thunderous applause and were welcomed by one and all. 

And so began a night of serious home-made liquor drinking. We bowed out and climbed into our sleeping bags as soon as judged politely possible, but the party went on way into the inky blackness of the Andean night, as revellers drank their way from house to house under the stars.

The glittering beautiful skyfull of stars.

What's in a Name, Part II

My Welsh grandfather, Captain Albert Marsh, the man who called me Patrick.

(I will be adding to this post soon, but thought you might like this bit of background on his life in the meantime.)

((Photo and extracts above from "Holyhead to Ireland - Stena and it's Welsh Heritage" Amberley Publishing)

(Extract taken from "Prisoners of the Red Desert - the Adventures of the Crew of the Tara During the First World War" by R S Gwatkin-Williams, pub. by www.LEONAUR.com)

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 :-)