ManServant

Let it Rain

A Glasgow morning had been heavy with warm fog and darkening skys. At breaktime in year one Neil & I kicked a ball between us and from gate to post. If the ball was angled just right it would result in a perfect rebound to your playing partner who would attempt the same shot. The more of these you got in a row, the more satisfying the game was. We counted each pass, hoping to reach twenty. Neil played for Motherwell and I played for the Pars!

Although it was mid February, the rain began heavily, like a tropical storm; not gently with tiny wind blown drops first felt on the face, but with dark shapes that appeared on the ground. One after the other landed about us. Very quickly they became more frequent and in only a second or two, the heavens opened. My uniform cap was drummed by the falling rain and instinctively we stopped our game and looked up.

The whistle sounded signalling the end of playtime but for some reason we remained rooted to the spot at the far and of the concrete enclosure. Still looking skywards I removed my cap and opened my mouth to taste. We stood in a gushing shower. I'm concsious now that its taste was not tropical however. Instead I recognised the faint metalic and familiar coal fires at the back of my throat. Neil struck a familiar pose and as the other children ran off back to class he continued to look skywards, squinting from the rain in his eyes.

As if welcoming the torrent's arrival he outstretched both arms and waggled his fingers. We looked across to each other, ignoring the ball as it rolled far away from us, and smiled. 'Jeeessuuuss', said Neil, thats proper rain. Our maroon blazers were now soaked and the puddles now forming at our feet were deep enough to splash in. Sandles and socks had been relatively dry but we soon fixed that by splashing each other! You might think we looked like we were playing at the local baths or imagining a day trip at the seaside. Instead of passing the ball we gleefully traded splashes. By now we seemed to have forgotten we were at school.      

Let it Rain      

   

Raasay Day Trip ....

 

We took the boat from Skye on a balmy Summer's day. Walking on the small roll-on, roll-off ferry as foot passangers with bikes. Jessie was on the tag-a-long trailer bike with its one wheel and bright orange flag displayed high above her seat. Just able to reach the pedals she had the sensation of the freedom of cycling without any of the effort required! Her cousins were old enough to have their own bikes and so at a young age she could join in and be part of it all. Smiling and holding tight as we bumped onto the ferry doors now lying flat on the rough concrete jetty, her red hair rippled in the cool sea breeze.

Parking the bikes in their alloted space on the ferry I lifted her off from under both armpits and looked into her beaming face. The same smile had been there all day and I never wanted it to leave. How light she was. With arms still chubby and with dimpled knuckles she grabbed my cheeks and squeeled with joy. We took our seats on the boat and waited for the off.

Not content to sit as only adults can the kids were eager to explore the boat and so off they went while we raided the picnic everyone knew was really for later on in the day. Not susprisingly the snacks and variety filled rolls got their attention back and we were soon out of all the cheese and marmite options! Moving out slowly past the anchored mast tapping yachts, she was now on my knee, her heel rythmically prodding my shins as she sung a song to herself. With one hand she inspected the insides of one of our last rolls and with her other, the brittle texture of quavers. My nose rested on the top of her head and the smell of sunshine, beach, and cradlecap merged together. A distinctive and recognisable smell of sunshine kid, your own.     

From the shelter of harbour banks to bow chopping ripples, our ferry swing round to point directly at Raasay. Not a big island but one we already could see was of a different character to Skye. We had left a rather barron easterly edge whose backdrop was the dark and dramatic Cullin mountains. Raasay now filled the frames of cameras and we appeared to be approaching lush grass and tall trees. It was a welcome contrast. The shudder from reverse gears signalled our arrival and as if about to enter a new world, we eagerly ready ourselves and our bikes. Jess on the tag behind me smiled and let out a 'Daddy, lets go'.  ....     

Well deserved praise ...

 

Blurred vision made it all the more necessary to begin to explore surroundings through touch, sense and smell. The slight pressure on knees and ankles grew stronger with each attempt to raise body weight stretching out toward dark shapes above.

 

The lighter coloured object between the shapes behaved as if connected to thought, moving from left to right, near and far. Touching the darker objects high above fused new wires in the brain. Imperfect varnished surfaces could be mapped as fingers became receptors to smooth plateaus, rough peaks and irregular knolls. The contrast between this and the warm fabric under the knees was registered. Finally digits could be wrapped around the firm dark shape and as if triggering an automatic response, pulling of hands and pushing from below resulted in a standing position.

 

In the background muffled sounds of quiet voices rose and fell away again. The head moved round to look at the voices but their muffled tones were not there anymore. Instead steps of adult feet could be heard softly becoming more distant. At that critical time, smiling to itself and calling out, a whole being transmitted its joy. With head popping from left to right where the voices were last heard, and knees bending and stretching, a need for the reflection of felt joy, recognition and praise built from nothing to a strong desire in a very short space of time. Infant calls were soon to become screams as a hole in the once perfect being opened up inside.

 

The wound would continue to grow from this very moment, often becoming infected throughout an entire lifetime. She was not there to mirror the joy of a now standing infant with wide eyes and smiling face. Instead the child slumped back to the floor, rolled on its back and cried. This was no ordinary call for attention due to hunger pains.                             

Fishing ....

 

 

The simple facts are that fishing is life; Its about being in the great outdoors, sharing time with friends, learning to live with ones own company, having time to reflect, experiencing the peace and timelessness of a flowing river, the entomology of living creatures, the weather, plants and trees, the sounds and smell of nature, learning about our own character and that of others, natural rhythms of the day, seasons, purity of rain, hot tea and toddy from a warm flask, shirts off to sun’s rays, freedom to explore and time out from personal troubles. Oh and of course there is the actual fishing! At least for me the fact that there might be a fish is a bonus. I can accept that this is not true for everyone because at different points in a lifetime, fishing will and does mean many different things to many different people. Another plus! Particularly with the fly however, I defy anyone not to cast over water, feel and observe the result they seek, and not experience a deep level of satisfaction. Nice cast!

 

I’m very lucky to have gone from catching minnows as a boy in wellies with bread in cold Yorkshire river eddys, to trout on the fly in Chalkstream Downs, and half decent game in the Pacific Ocean. None seamed boring to me! The variety is endless and only leads to ambition for the next encounter. Memories will become etched on the brain. Like the morning at sunrise in late Autumn when a Kingfisher landed on the tip of a hand held rod silhouetted against the bright orange sky. Later, a bar of gold Barbel held in two hands and knees wobbly with excitement, was safely returned to the river Wharfe. The take on this beautiful fish took the rod clean off from its parallel rests. The initial play was accompanied by loud expletives, a flying coffee mug, and then encouraging and loving words.                  

http://www.barbelsociety.co.uk/

The friend who caught a large wild brown trout weighing in at more than 8lbs did'nt make me jealous! Watching the stalk was like observing a true hunting experience. You don't always have to visit the Amazon or the African jungle! The fish had been tempted from the shadows of a far bank several times before taking the smallest nymph impression from the surface. I remember the fight, water splashing and exploding and it took some time to land. It was the power and beauty of this specimen  which cannot be erased. Its colours were a mixture of pure white, creams, tigers eye browns, with black and dappled spots from the same pallet. 

http://www.wildtrout.org/  

Heather mixture ..

And then of course there are the ashes. Whether a cermony to be devised by your own endevour, or because you have been invited to one, we are compelled to weigh up what we might perform on the day by way of another gesture or last goodbye. 

Flowers, a personal keepsake, something significant of a serious or lighter intention can take a great deal of time to mull over. I settled on a theme from months earlier. The one which recognised a proud but not political Scot; a rich source of sentimental living ornaments; the wild flowers of a native land. Without realising it at the time, I had decided to find things I would begin to see brighter and bolder than as never before perhaps for the rest of my life.

I knew I had white heather in the garden but wanted also to take some purple heather knowing it to be more 'classic'. I also recalled all the songs my mother would sing about the 'bright hills', the heather, and 'roamin in the glomin'. Sometimes she would sing these songs as we drove through the very same hills.

The night before the ashes ceremony, I decided to make a dash for my local Homebase! not expecting to find any purple heather in W13. But parking up and walking to the back of the long warehouse like store where there is a tiny garden centre at the rear, I knew I had made the right decision and felt much happier about the events that were to take place the next day.

It was a windy and wet evening and the automatic doors crashed themselves open as if they had been commanded. Normally there are only three or four areas for potted plants and flowers. The first I set my eyes upon as I looked to my left took me by surprise. My eyes were met by one complete thirty yard long row of purple heather pots. Scarcely believing it, I started to smile, shook my head, and whispered, 'I only wanted one bit Mum'. Then I became slightly numb as I surveyed my options for the best looking plant. The Homebase purple heather would be delivered I decided along with the white sprigs that grew in my garden.  

 

This Summer, in her native land, the heather seemed more bright and colourful than I had ever seen it in my whole life. It wasnt just me who commented on its beauty. A girl from New Zealand asked me when out for her walk, 'how long does it last'?, 'this amazing colourful display'. 'I think from late July until the end of August", I said. But in your head it can last for a lifetime .....   

 

          

Strange but true ...

My mother passed away last year. In the depths of despair at my loss, I asked one night for a sign from her or the greater good that there might be some communication between us. An event in our lives as earth shattering as this requires some balance. I felt that without a significant life experience or direct connection with the Cosmos, none of it made any sense anymore. It wasn't a case of one day at a time. It was more one hour, one minute, one second.

Events during the week leading up to her funeral were all enormously heavy and the weight of them I am told creates a stress on your person that is greater than from any other life experience. Yet it seems my prayer was answered. And it also seems that communication still goes on more than a year later.

By documenting this fact, by typing it out, I wanted to maintain it as a record. Firstly I need to mention conversations and activity from the days just before my prayer in order to illustrate what happened. When I first met the minister from my mother's church we had an almost matter of fact conversation about the weather, my job, and the fact that I played golf. 'It takes you to some wonderful places', I said. 'To some beautiful parts of the world'.

Some days later I emailed him during the night, when I could not sleep, to thank him for the kind and considerate way he was helping my family. 'But it feels like my path is broken', I said. 'and I dont know how to re join it. There is no guidebook for what we are facing''. Amongst my immediate family we spoke often about my mother's favourite Psalm 'Be still in the presence of ....'. We also spoke about what we felt about an afterlife and to my surprise, the more regular church goers had the most questions. You can also read about the fact the 'spirit' of the departed remains very close for the days and weeks immediately after their departure.

So I took myself off to a beautiful spot in the country and sat in the sunshine to be still in the presence of.... This was the day after I had asked for help. Gradually, after about twenty minutes or so, my mood became a bit lighter. I could see that to take a step back, and to appreciate that my mother lived her own independant life, until the day she died, and that she had many hundreds of different relationships with people she knew, and that mine was just one of these, as her son, one of three children, seemed to help me in my despair. Grief, I felt, is a purely selfish emotion. And you don't get more self centered than your average human being. I lost the bit of person I knew, and each who knew her aswell were also grieving in their very own way for the loss of the unique relationship they had with her. And now she is gone from us.

Feeling a little lighter I got up from my grassy surroundings and observed the quiet rush of the summer breeze over long grass and through the trees. I know of no other more peaceful sounds. And said a thank you outloud for my lighter mood and to my mother. Because I was feeling better, I began to walk back to my car. From a short distance I noticed a woman rambler reading her map and standing by my car. She was in her mid to late fifties I guess. As I approached, without thinking I asked her, 'excuse me madam, but are you lost'?!

She raised her head from her map and motioned towards me with her book. Opening the pages for me she said. 'No, I have a really good guide book with me. There used to be a golf course here?' On her map was clearly marked the recognisable triangular flag that marks the position of a golf course. 'Well we are on top of Ranmore', I said. 'I don't know of any course around here'.'There is one on Dorking I know of but..' 'Oh, 'its ok' said the woman, 'I am on the Pilgrims Way', and 'the path is broken here'. She was German I think and in her pigeon English 'broken' meant she was on a metalled road. 'I have left the path over there', she said. 'and I rejoin it over there'. She pointed from right to left as she spoke and then added, 'and it's beautiful over there'.....  I agreed with her but without registering the significance of our conversation and the words we were using. 'And where are you heading today?' I asked ? '

I'm going to Westhumble',she said. 'Ah',I said 'my mother used to live there'. I remarked that I thought she had chosen a fine day for her walking and wished her good day before jumping back into my car. I do wish now that as I drove off in the opposite direction to the woman, that I had looked back or in my review mirror to see if she real ! or at least that she was moving off to rejoin the well marked path on the Pilgrims Way.....

  

    

          

Winds from a Northerly source...

I remember being in our back garden. We proudly referred to it all the time as being "a third of an acre".! There was plenty of tree and hedges... a big crab apple.... In late Summer / early autumn... and the wind was up. I was dressed in my school uniform. Still in short trousers with knees that were bruised and shoes that were scuffed and scratched. The grey sweater had a gold and black edging to the V neck matching the blazer badge colours. But I didn't have the blazer on ..it was either the duffle or nothing! The wind came in gusts and stood me ridged for all but a few seconds as I braced myself against its push. I had been running about a few moments earlier on my own. Now I stood still and breathed in the air. A deep breath filled my lungs and energised my body. I closed my eyes and heard the leaves rustle. In waves the gusts pushed the hedge to my right. The sound made me open my eyes again to see the ripples of force from right to left along the length of the hedge wall.

I liked what saw. Although it was late in the afternoon and the light was fading and the sky was threatening with heavy cloud and darkness, I relished again the rush of the wind on my face this time, forceing its way into me so that breathing seemed effortless. Listening again I made a conscious decision to stay where I was for a few moments more watching the wind in the leaves and the ripples in the grass, leaves bouncing & tumbling. The sheer energy of the experience made me smile a happy smile and I was off again running about daft.

This memory keeps coming back to me... its the wind and the leaves mainlythe hedgerow, the smell of the damp earth, clean air with the smell of winter. Perhaps the first hint of snow and ice from some northerly source.

This was the first time in my life that I had stopped. My surroundings had taken me by surprise and I had stopped to look around and take it all in. I had enjoyed the experience. It made me feel good. I didn't know it at the time because at a young age I had relatively little perspective. But I know now how good it felt. This has been a recurring dream.. comprehending I think for the first time as I did the absolute joy  of being alive ...

The Grove ...

The Grove was a place to go just before and during early to mid teens. A time and a place to take risks, to taste freedom, sense danger, explore wild places and disconnect from close ties at home - a right of passage for every boy.

The acres of trees could be accessed from different angles and areas of the town. Each approach offered its own network of paths, bridleways, hedgerows and war time pillboxes before entering a canopy of broadleaves and in the summer it was a cooler option from the direct sunlight or road reflected heat.

One angle we took on a very hot day. The intention was that Chris and Tim would join me on a journey to a pill box where with a little excavation it was possible to find machine gun shell cases and old plastic boxes. Previous finds had served to wet our appetites for what else might be found. Imagine, crouching in anticipation of the enemy, keeping watch at night, protecting your town from invasion....

The half mile stretch of hedgerow was a distraction however. Alive with nesting birds, butterfly, burnet moth and ladybird. Tim was keen to show us the thrush nest he found on an earlier trip to the Grove.  Rounding  a corner we kept low and quiet while he squinted in the sunlight to locate the pattern of branches or a round shadow  within the hedge. Finding the nest we were able to look in and on tiptoes just make out emerald blue pearls of the song thrush. Eggs that were dappled with brown speckles as if the result of an art project by some beautiful unobtainable sixth form girl. Respecting the wonders of her creation we did'nt stay long, ducking out of the hedge and smiling at each other as we quietly moved on. Looking back, we observed the thrush arrive back to where she belonged.

In the pill box we took our positions as point, rear gunner and supply officer. As always there was the faint unpleasantly damp smell indicating many other post war visitors, but this did not distract us from the job in hand - saving the country from the advancing hoards. The shells we found could well have been practice rounds - we thought - or perhaps a much later visitor had left them there for some reason. But to pocket one for inspection at home later was a real thrill.

We decided to return home for one of Tim's bikes and run it out through the other side of the Grove. Tim had his passion for motorbikes and given that most were assembled from spare parts in his father's garage you could easily take a risk by going solo on one! The lambretta was one such experience for me.....

Perfect end to a day on the beach.....

We shuffled along the pathway back from the beach one Summer afternoon. Me, my sister and brother each carried the beach stuff; towels, buckets, spades, inflatables and our dry clothes. The shingle was now being pushed back by the waves of the persistent tide and the Sun cast our long shadows over long dry grass and hard cracked earth. 

We were happy and tired walking through the cool air of that magical time where afternoon becomes evening. The light illuminates from new angles. A brief period of new clarity.   Instinctively somehow we sensed the peaceful opportunity of the next few moments together.

At times like these no one need speak. Invitingly you reach out to brush the grass through the palm of your hand and breathe more deeply as if to have the air become locked into your bones. To keep hold of this place and time would be a revelation but of course could never make it more than it already was. A happy time, a peaceful time and a moment from which all else would spring forward.

Mum was with us. She shared it too. Staying on our level as an adult, knowing when to share in our experiences. This was  not a time for direction or instruction. It was all we needed or wanted in the whole world, just to be together in this beautiful place at an amazing time in our lives together.....

Remember when you were a kid and the Sun came out ..

It wasn't called a global warming episode back then. You were just happy to run about outdoors without any negative thoughts or concerns for your environment. I appreciate that some would say we lived in blissful ignorance. I'm not so sure it was that. Instead I think there were just issues,like now, that only concerned our parents; real things like the future of British Leyland, where to buy the next tin of ambrosia creamed rice, the new flavour of cremola foam  - orange was the best I think - the cold war - even though the sun was out, and will Dad keep his promise about the free football coins from the petrol garage or will he take the easy option and go for the green shield stampsto keep Mum happy about the possibility of a new ice cube container ? Whatever he came back with we were always comfortable in the Cortina. He was also relaxed because the new one had a black vinyl roof!

Global warming back then would have been interpreted to be something to do with raljex Vicks  vapour rub, or  and its possible effect on the whole body should a small amount be applied by your Mum to the chest just before bedtime. This is really a nostalgia entry now and it started off as a Riposte to the idea  of global warming !

Currently I do wonder where my priorities are re the big warm up. I mean, next time you scrape a bit of fish finger or potato peel into the green slop box supplied by your council, take a look up the sky and all the vapour trails from those big buses with wings and ask yourself, am I making any difference? I know, I'm being flippant but I do sense a revolt brewing about the CO2, the methane and all related tax incentives coming our way. Who watched Newsnight last night? There is plenty more argument where that came from.

Kids today are exactly the same as they always were. They don't give two hoots about much when they are occupied by outside play. Unfortunately in increasing numbers, parents just don't let them.  We have too much information about what can happen to them I suppose and the pessimists keep ramming it down our throats. We think the world has changed a great deal but how can we be sure. Perhaps it would help to stop blaming the fact that we miss our youth on factors that are beyond our control.... When the Sun comes out today, its the same old great orb in the sky, its not global warming because its warm, its just warm. The bar code for our home planet has a  number for 'varying temperatures'....