Archive for the ‘prose’ Category

Isle of Man Day 8

Monday, July 27th, 2009

Stop press. Day 8 and it’s a result. At long last our first basking shark sightings, just two or three hundred metres off the breakwater. I tried to get some photographs but some analysis on the laptop is required before I can confirm that I have the hard evidence. The photos just looked like lots of pictures of waves when I looked at them on the camera. The sharks were definately there though.

The rest of today is all planned out, for me at least. This afternoon it is golf with dad in one of the Peel Golf Week competitions followed by a team dinner out with the Shimmins, Kellys and Fletchers at Coasters in Douglas.

Isle of Man Day 7

Monday, July 27th, 2009

A wet and windy start to the day keeps the crowds at bay. No fishers at the end of the quay and indeed we conclude that they are right and elect to shark watch instead. Still no sharks to see though, despite the admission from a friendly tourist that they had seen fifteen from the Foillan Beg excursion boat yesterday.

In fact at this early stage of the day there are few people around although the presence of around ten cars is somewhat puzzling. The answer lies in the lifeboat house as the tractor trundles out to the end of the ramp and some lifeboatmen distribute rubber batons down to the water. The lifeboat is about to return!

Joe and I move to a vantage point atop the breakwater and keep lookout. There are no boats in sight. Anywhere!

Then I see a small dot on the horizon. Just a bow wave at first, but gradually growing to be discernible as a lifeboat. The boat rounds into the shelter of the harbour, drops four crew members off at the steps and then begins the process of being hauled out of the water. It is all exciting stuff for a landlubber and takes probably an hour or so, including the washing down and cleaning.

By this time the quay has become crowded and the sun has broken through. It is set up nicely for our afternoon of gorge climbing.

Ballaglass Glen is the scene for this. A beautiful walk down with a tree canopy above keeping the sun from ever penetrating to the water itself. The scene might be a tropical jungle as dripping mosses mix with tall ferns, fallen trees and the river roaring over the rocks below.

We climb down into the water and begin our upwards journey through the rockpools and raging torrents fuelled by last night’s rain. Two hours later, soaked, scratched and bruised but satisfied we emerge through the trees to the carpark.

Isle of Man Day 6

Sunday, July 26th, 2009

The annual Southern Agricultural Society show is held at Great Meadow near Castletown. A perfect sunny day set the ideal stage for a day out at the show. It’s a great family day out.

Horses, great brutes of bulls, cows, uncooperative sheep, yapping show dogs, poultry, rabbits, lawnmowers, fridges, picnic tables, cess pits, smoothie makers, cookery displays, vintages tractors and agricultural machinery (including baling machines), beehives, chairoplanes, bouncy castles, slides, Isle of Man Bank, Department of Agriculture and Fisheries, WI Refreshment tent, cars, Recruitment Consultants, ice cream vans, burger bars, milking machines, smoothies, potatoes, dahlias, onions, green beans, marrows, roses, apple pies, fence posts, quilting, rhubarb, radish, beetroot, raspberries, blackcurrant, gooseberries, cauliflower, strawberries, cabbages, lettuce, carrots, coconut shy, straw hat, picnic, brass band, car park queues.

Later, Great Union Camera Obscura followed by a spin to the breakwater in Peel. The Seacat is in on a day trip from Belfast. We enjoy a cold beer outside the Creek Inn followed by a meal outside in the garden back at the house.

Isle of Man day 5

Sunday, July 26th, 2009

A lovely summer’s day which considering that we were off on a trip on the Manx Electric Railway was somewhat of an anomaly. I have years of family photos taken in front of the MER station building in Laxey clad in waterproofs and huddling together for warmth.

Today was different. The sun shone benevolently, bringing satisfied smiles to our faces as we gazed up blindly, eyes closed, taking in the heat. It was only Joe and I, the others preferring retail therapy to trains.

The MER is somewhat of a pilgrimage for me. At the tender age of eighteen I found employment there for the summer holidays before fleeing the coop and heading off to university.

Every year I bring up the same old stories and point out the same old stagers who were there when I was a conductor. They wouldn’t remember me, if nothing else because time has changed my shape, but also as I was only there for the one season, a fleeting eight or ten weeks.

The money was great but at the end of the summer I had saved nothing and ended up finding a low paid labouring job on the Highway Board for a month to try and amass some cash.

Anyway we made our memory filled way to Laxey and alighted for a wander round. I bought an Isle of Man teatowel in the souvenir shop on the way to the big wheel. Then we had an early lunch at Browns Teashop on Ham and Egg Terrace. Browns has a very good reputation but now milks this with high prices. The original owners moved on some time ago.

We caught the 12.25 back to Douglas sitting on the outside carriage so that we could take photos en route. I always tell the story of how one day I was conducting on Number 1 with Gordon as driver. Number 1 is the oldest functioning electric tram in the word. On this occasion we only had a couple of passengers and we hatched a plan for lunch.

Gordon made the 30 minute journey to Douglas in only fifteen. We then stopped the tram about half a mile short of the terminus and just around the bend where we could not be seen. I then ran in to the Port Jack Chippy and bought a couple of fish and chips. The tram made it in exactly on time and we ate our lunch in the depot with the same element of excitement as under age drinkers. Beer never tasted the same after my eighteenth birthday. Happy days.

Isle of Man Day 4

Thursday, July 23rd, 2009

The classic British summer holiday starts to gain momentum as the weather improves, albeit probably temporarily. A good night’s sleep after yesterday’s coastal path walk, followed by a hearty bacon and egg for breakfast set us up for the day.

The weather was perfect for flying our new kite. It failed to get airborne. We need some professional advice on this subject and there is none to hand. Hmm.

The weather was also perfect for fishing of the end of the quay. We caught no fish, although we were not alone in this predicament. For some of us this is not as disappointing as it may sound. Catching a fish means getting hands cove red in fish bits. For me the pleasure is in standing in a pleasant place in the sunshine periodically casting the lure and reeling it in.

The rest of the family eventually joined us and Tom and John eventually set off to the other end of the prom to play tennis. In the meantime the bridge opened and we saw a steady stream of yachts sailing in and out of the harbour. This is such a relaxing sight. We waved, or at least I did, and had a reasonable response rate. As they got beyond the quay the boats raised their sails and started tacking into the South Westerly, whither bound I know not. Ireland or Wales.

Next we took the fishing net to the rock pools by the castle. There were tiddlers on show but we didn’t catch one. The point of the activity is to stand there looking into the pools to see what we could see. To say we had been “rock pooling”.

Round at the beach we got out the picnic and tucked in to our sandwiches. Paddling was obligatory though the weather was not quite right for lying on the beach all day with the occasional cooling swim. Actually the water is cold.

Setting off for part two we went to Onchan Park where the usual go-karting, motorboating, remote controlled boats, crazy golf, play park and ice creams filled the afternoon and gave us a healthy tan.

As we finished the boat set out from Douglas harbour bound for Heysham by all appearances.

Isle of Man Day 3

Wednesday, July 22nd, 2009

Intrepid, adventurous, brave. All words used to describe the Davies gang on holiday. Today we walked up Peel Hill and carried on along the coastal path to Glen Maye.

 

An element of subterfuge was involved here. We stopped frequently on the way to the top of the hill. Mainly for me to catch my breath but also ostensibly for the kids. Stops involved the frequent distribution of energy giving sugary sweets, a flashback to my own childhood where my father would find packets of fruit pastilles left by the fairies behind rocks to keep me going on my way up Cader Idris, the mountain that towered over our home in Dolgellau.

 

The weather deteriorated on the way up Peel Hill,  having lulled us into a false sense of security at lunchtime. We all had decent waterproofs so the rain, only persistent and not lashing, did not really trouble us and having reached the initial objective of Corrin’s folly,  we stopped to assess the situation.

 

There was an moment where the defeatist faction, naming no names, wanted to return to Peel but the rest galvanized Hannah who led the “let’s keep going” movement and we continued south, assisted by the fact that it was all downhill.

 

The walk was a lot longer than anyone had bargained for.  We traversed treacherous cliff-tops which, had the wind been stronger, would not have made sense, skirted a field with a bull in it, had our bare legs attacked by nettles, gorse and brambles, climbed stiles and were constantly on the lookout for basking sharks in the sea  below.

 

In the wilderness beyond Peel we met nobody.  The coastal path itself seemed hardly a regular route. Not a beaten path. On one occasion I heard a cacophony of seagulls. Looking up I saw a flock trying to scare off a kestrel which ignored them and dropped in on an unseen prey.

 

 The weather turned out to be near perfect. Typically, I had forgotten the map so our destination, Glen Maye, was always around the next bend. Finally we arrived at Glen Maye beach.  Luxuriously empty.

 

We skimmed flat stones across the waves, leapt from slippery stepping stone to slippery stepping stone and spread ourselves out to dry in the sun.  After an appropriate pause we set off for the pub at the top of the glen where we met Tadcu who had come to take our weary limbs home.

Isle of Man Day 2

Wednesday, July 22nd, 2009

It was a beautiful afternoon when we arrived at the Isle of Man.  Ice cream on the promenade weather. The following morning was a different story entirely.

 

Joe and I went to the quay immediately after breakfast to try our hand at fishing. The wind was far too strong and the couple of lads already there braving the elements did not stay long.  In fact our own expedition was a non starter because whilst I had packed the rods and the fishing box I had completely forgotten about the reels!

 

We retreated into Michael Street and found an all purpose outdoor activities shop that sold us a couple of cheap reels at £11.98 the pair. Just down the street a baker sold us a couple of sausage rolls that we had to protect from the rain as we ate them walking back to the car.

 

As the wet weather persisted the only recourse appeared to be a shopping trip into Douglas. This is somewhat of a recurring theme of our holidays in the Isle of Man. The sea on the front in Douglas was very violent and kept us entertained for five minutes or so, crashing onto the prom.  Good job we had arrived yesterday.

 

I survived the shopping trip and we retreated to Peel for the usual splendid lunch. The afternoon was a completely  different kettle of fish. We journeyed to Port Erin, ostensibly to find some amusements. In practice there were no amusements. As a breed of entertainment they are completely extinct in the Isle of Man which is a real shame because us kids used to love betting (5p) on the mechanical racehorses and dropping two pences into the “penny” falls. It’s no wonder really that they have all closed.

 

The afternoon weather in Port Erin was a complete contrast to the morning.  We had tea in our favourite end of the beach “Nook Café” and then player cricket on the sand. returning to Peel, Joe and Tadcu accompanied me for a bit of late afternoon fishing followed by a pint at “The Creek Inn”. Sitting outside the pub the sun was warming though the breeze was challenging. After dinner Anne and I enjoyed a walk down to the prom, over to Fenella Beach and back.  It is the same routine year after year – a winning recipe.

 

Isle of Man Day 1

Tuesday, July 21st, 2009

We arrived at Pier Head at almost exactly 10.30, the appointed hour for check in. Whilst not last to arrive we were near the back of the queue and seeing our trailer the attendant waved us into the “white van lane”. We weren’t sure if this was a good thing because being stuck behind a high sided white van we couldn’t see the queue ahead and in consequence had no idea whether the line ahead was moving.

Of course the line wasn’t moving and we stayed there for the usual interminable length of time, waiting. The waiting is a traditional part of getting on a ferry. It’s a bit of a lottery really. When you get into that queue there doesn’t seem to be any logic as to which lane moves first and therefore who gets on first.

Even if you do get on first that often means that you are parked in a dead end on the car deck that pretty much guarantees you are the last off. And nobody wants to get into that position. When the boat hits the jetty in the Isle of Man everyone is chomping at the bit to hit the road.

So this time we were in the white van queue and waiting…

When in the queue the dynamics in the car change. Suddenly everyone gets bored. The box of sandwiches, made by Anne at the crack of dawn for consumption on the boat, is breached and handed round. Anne wants to get out of the car. There is an interesting new building a hundred metres or so away. No no I say. They will all want to follow and what then happens when the lane starts moving?

Anne and Hannah settle for standing next to the car, stretching their legs after the 20 minute journey. Starlings break the boredom by looking for food on the wall next to the car. There is no food. Why don’t they go somewhere there is a bit of grass where there at least might be worms.

The man in the van behind us gets out and sits on the wall.  The cricket has not yet started on the radio. The kids start arguing.

At last we start moving, slowly, although when we get to the front we are waved through without the security checks that apply to white vans and we drive onboard.

The journey is smooth though not entirely uneventful because whilst we are at sea England beat the Aussies in the second test at Lords. The Niarbyl lounge is comfortable and almost empty. When we arrive in Douglas we are indeed one of the first off. Result!

After the storm

Monday, July 13th, 2009

The monsoon finally arrived to break the run of hot weather. Latterly the combination of heat and humidity had become difficult to tolerate. Nobody had wanted to stir. Instead everyone languished indoors in the shade, patio doors flung wide open in the hope of catching the faintest of breezes. We craved for ice in our drinks but had to settle instead for the cold tap, run as fast as it would go to maximize the cooling effect. The lawn had lost most of its colour and the streets were uncomfortable to walk. Ten paces and you broke into a sweat. Life slowed down to the slowest of slow. In the papers we read of the deaths of old people in apartment blocks. The fragile and the sick who’s bodies found it easier to give up rather than contend with the unaccustomed heat.

Then the rain came accompanied by spectacular thunderstorms. We watched the flashes of lightning and counted to see how far away they were. They came gradually closer bringing with them a torrential downpour that filled the gutters to overflowing and sent us outside to unblock the drainpipes that had filled during the dry period, the leaves prematurely shed from the trees that surrounded the house. We sat in the conservatory looking out at the vertical torrents that bounced off the roof, nature banging its drum. Occasionally we would have to venture out, clad in shorts, sandals and waterproofs. Although it was wet it was still pleasantly warm.

The rains finally left us. We set to unblocking the drain in front of the garage. The garage itself had flooded, as it does every time. I took Tom for a driving lesson, instructing him to avoid the large puddles that met us at every bend in the road. The sky was spectacularly grey and white, a steely contrast with the damp straw colour of the fields that we sped past in the car. We arrived home as it grew dark. The television could be seen lighting up the room with the curtains fully open. Leaving Tom to lock up I strode through the front door, opened up the laptop and started to type.

Breakfast before the tourists get there

Friday, June 19th, 2009

It’s early in the big city. I’m just off Oxford Street. The shop workers pour out of the underground and bustle to their counters criss-crossing the road in a seemingly random yet purposeful fashion.

I had left the hotel in search of a more economic and down to earth breakfast and settled on an Italian café down a side street. There are only two or three other customers. The Eastern European waitress serves me. She is pleasant enough but you get the impression she is not well versed in the Full English Breakfast.

Ordering one anyway I settle into my paper and survey the other customers. There is nothing really to report. The place was clearly designed to attract tourists and I was an anomaly. It was too early for the regular punters.

Elsewhere in the room a suited businessman drank a coffee and stared into his laptop. An early shopper drank a cup of something else and soon her friend arrived. They looked as if they were steeling themselves for the effort ahead. Retail therapy without the therapy.

My unsatisfactory breakfast arrived together with a cup of tea and an orange juice. Italian cooks don’t do justice to Full English. The giant mushroom was at least artistic. I didn’t finish the breakfast, paid leaving a tip earned solely on the personality of the waitress and left for the tube.

Disappearing into the underground I felt as if I was joining the rat race.

British summer

Sunday, June 7th, 2009

The strong summer breeze cracks the flags on the two flagpoles above the cricket pavilion. It is cold as we wait for the others to turn up. The building is locked and there are few people around. This is real summer weather as opposed to the artist’s impression.

Later the rain comes and the wind drops. A vertical soaking in prospect. A downpour of the sort that characterises the typical British summer. It is still cold but out and about and dressed in shorts and waterproof coats we stand underneath the large umbrella being fairly relaxed. We buy two bunches of asparagus fresh cut this morning before the weather hit.

At 4pm the boys arrive and we head for the Morning Star for a luxurious late afternoon beer. The pub is surprisingly full of refugees from the rain. One rare hour of liquid hedonism.

The noise on the conservatory roof is deafening and we have abandoned our ambitions to have a barbecue. We cook on the stove in the kitchen and move into the conservatory to eat. The children are a credit and impress our visitors. We should have dinner guests more often.

Later still the cacophony of birds in the back garden is loud enough to compete with any of the noises we have heard today. Mostly blackbirds I think and I wonder if I am hearing this year’s brood.

Finally, sometime towards the end of the day, the heavy, random drips of the water from the trees onto the glass roof. I recline on the sofa pondering the days climatics.

Sunday morning in spring

Sunday, May 10th, 2009

It’s one of those idyllic “why would anyone want to be anywhere else” days in May. The back garden is starting to bloom and the sound of birdsong is all around. The lawn has been mown and the hammock is up for the first time this season.

Upstairs the two older offspring are revising for forthcoming examinations, voluntarily and without parental pressure! The other two are in Sunday School with their mother making for a peaceful morning.

Cricket has unfortunately been cancelled as Bracebridge Heath Under 9s have failed to raise a side. It would have been a perfect day for it sat on the boundary sipping a coffee and reading the Sunday papers.

A small plane buzzes across the sky leaving no trail, the sound remaining for a short while after it has disappeared from sight. Leaves flutter in the gentle wind.

The jobs list has been quickly finished and the car retrieved from Burton Road where it was left after a quick post golf drink turned into several. I am now sat in the conservatory with the doors open with a cup of green tea sourced from the shop on Steep Hill. Outside in the garden it is too bright to type. All is well.

The bikers

Friday, April 3rd, 2009

I first notice the two motorcycles when they passed me on the M50 a little north of Newport, just after the Celtic Manor junction. I was on my way home from a few days in Cardiff with my sister Sue.

When they passed me I pulled to the left a little to let them by. The rearmost bike was weaving a little side to side, stretching his legs out and riding high on the saddle. It seemed as if he had had a long journey and was flexing his muscles.

They raced on ahead and I thought nothing more. Then a little further north I saw one of them on the hard shoulder of the motorway clearly in difficulty. Looked like some sort of engine trouble. I passed him quickly and again I thought nothing of it.

Then I came across the second bike. He had slowed down and was constantly looking in his rear view mirror for his chum. There was nothing I could do. He had not seen his companion pulling up and could not turn around to go back and look for him. On the motorway I had no way of telling him what had happened.

I quickly pulled ahead of the second bike and my life moved on. I imagine they found each other eventually. It felt to me as if the two bikes were a pair of ducks and one of them had been caught by a fox, the other one flapping around helplessly wondering what had happened to its mate.

3 Games To Go

Sunday, March 15th, 2009

Its three games to go and the situation is tight at the top of the table. We travel in convoy to Mablethorpe. It is a beautiful spring day and everyone is in buoyant spirits. What’s more the opposition only has 6 players. Huh, a walkover we think.

Disaster. They score first. No problem. We can recover. After all there are still 55 minutes to go.

Aargh. They score again. These are good little players. Their six are better than our seven who seem to have no idea what to do with the ball today. They just stand there looking at it. Hmm. This ain’t going to be so easy.

Three nil and it isn’t even half time yet! What is going on? This isn’t the team we recognize. We bring on a couple of subs to ring the changes.

Half time and the manager gives the lads a roasting in his team talk. More substitutions.

The second half starts and there seems to be little difference to the quality of our game. I start composing dramatic bits of poetry in my mind. “The season’s hopes dashed. Crashed on the rocks of Mablethorpe sea front. ” Not that there are any rocks in Mablethorpe. It is sand as far as the eye can see.

Fifteen minutes to go. We score. Hooray. A glimmer of hope, a chink of light. Come on lads, you can do it. Nerves are on edge.

Ten minutes to go. The game is picking up. We score number two. Hooray. Come on lads you can do it.

Five minutes to go. Number three. Sighs of relief all round. I begin to feel a little sorry for the opposition who have been by far the best side for most of the game despite being a man down.

Two minutes to go. Amazing. 4 – 3. Now an agonising couple of minutes whilst they pile on the pressure. The defence holds. The final whistle blows. We have all aged five years but the title hopes are still alive.

Well done boys.

The men in the pub

Friday, February 27th, 2009

I was stood at the bar of the Morning Star, not chatting to the barman. It’s one of the great things about popping into a local pub for a swift one. Sometimes you chat with the barman, sometimes with whoever else is standing there and sometimes you don’t.

I am very comfortable with just being there sipping a beer, saying nothing, watching, listening and quietly taking it all in. Saturday afternoons are especially good, before the ”early doors” rush. It isn’t very good for the pub trade I’m sure to not have many punters but as a form of relaxation it is nice to just stand there not talking.

This wasn’t a Saturday afternoon. It must have been a Wednesday because other than the weekend I really only get there before picking up from Cubs and then for a very swift one. I was at the bar in my usual place, near the door, when in walked some men.

There were six of them, aged in their thirties, forties and fifties. Three were British and three seemed to be Eastern European. The locals were clearly entertaining the visitors. One of them asked for a tab at the bar.

The hosts began recommending specific beers. The visitors didn’t understand the concept of a bitter or an ale and certainly did not recognize much of what was on offer. The conversation seemed fairly stunted as the vocabulary of the guests sounded limited. They wandered off into a corner of the pub to conduct the business of their evening. I thought it was likely to be a strange sort of night out due to the problem of communication.

I finished my pint and left to go to and pick up the kids. I hope their business went well.