The Story of Piglet and Kanga

During my three years at the University of Warwick there were many happy milestones to mark that particular journey, but by far the most memorable for me was the night I read a bedtime story. Two attractive and nubile young ladies, all of nineteen years of age, (I was 45) were tucked up in their beds in their shared on campus accommodation. Both clutched their favourite teddies. One I recall named ‘Gorgeous’.

I was there by invitation and sat on one of the beds. I began reading the story of Piglet & Kanga from Winnie the Pooh. I haven’t had a more attentive audience since I read stories to my own children. As I turned the last page it came to my attention that I had ‘lost’ my audience – they were both fast asleep. I closed the book, crept out softly, closed the door and revelled in the sheer magic of a moment I was privileged to share and have never forgotten.

Mountain Men

A large greystone barn tucked away in a glen beneath Ben Nevis. A muddy, swollen river swirls silently alongside. Beneath the hayloft of the barn a long, narrow stable, the walls glistening with damp and condensation. A pressurised paraffin cooker roars like a jet engine on test, but emits a penetrating warmth and pleasant vapours that seduces the mind into a cosy, nostalgic mood. A rheumy-eyed carthorse watches sleepily from his manger at the end of the stable, grateful perhaps for the pleasant warmth on such a cold night. The talk is muted, broken occasionally by bursts of laughter. Now and then a figure will fetch another bottle of beer, or fry a tasty omelette sandwich, filling the stable with delicious smells of eggs, bacon, onion and cheese.

The talk rarely varied, always of tricky arêtes, corries, abseiling, glissading, taking shufti's on 'The Ben', dangerous climbs, beautiful climbs, names like Johnny Lees, John Brown, Hamish McInnis, of equipment, grampons, pitons, tragsitz, vibrams, nails, duvets and cagoules, of haufing, belaying, traversing and, just occasionally in a lighter vein, the 'birds' in the 'Fort' (girls in Fort William). Thus I sat, a privileged interloper, in an entirely new world where even the language was foreign, The world of mountain men, specifically the world of the RAF Kinloss mountain rescue team. There were nine RAF teams in all, six in Britain based at Kinloss, Morayshire; Leuchars, Fife; Leeming, Yorkshire; Valley, Anglesey; Stafford, Staffordshire; St Athen, Glamorganshire. Abroad there are three teams based at Aden, Hong Kong and Cyprus. Every man is a volunteer and performs his rescue duties apart from his normal job on the station. Although being a team member carries certain privileges and prestige the applicants are few and those who stay the course even fewer. A special breed of man is required to survive as a member. There is no pay for this job, the training courses are the toughest and most rigorous that could be devised and the members are expected to surrender every moment of their leave and spare time. Add to that the fact that the team is required to work in the filthiest weathers and that danger and death are constant companions one appreciates the smallness of the rewards. For two weeks over the Christmas period when the men would normally be on leave and home with their families the teams are on standby duty at their respective base camps, like Cameron's barn in Glen Nevis. Here they live as they do every weekend, training, eating, sleeping and ever ready for the almost inevitable call-out. The Christmas period seems to have a priority on accidents and fatalities. Due, it seems, mainly to two direct circumstances: University students are on holiday and are particularly prone to adopting the wildest climbing schemes. Linked with their lack of experience and lack of equipment the result is inevitably fatal. Secondly, every climb is graded from moderate to hard-severe and serious climbers must - to achieve experience and fulfillment - make those climbs in both summer and winter conditions. Despite their experience and preparedness all too frequently they are not conversant with the special hazards of the weather on the Scottish mountains weather that can change from gentle sunshine to raging blizzard within minutes, where exposure can kill in a matter of hours if a single false step doesn't kill you first. In bad weather on a mountain the choice is not a happy one - if you stay still you will die from exposure yet frequently you cannot see the next step in front of you and death is only a step away. Finally there is the utterly stupid climber who, like all good mountain men, leaves a note in the specially positioned boxes of exactly where he is going and his starting time and date, then halfway up change his mind and goes somewhere else. Injured or lost it may take the rescue teams as long as three weeks to find his body, simply because of his own misleading directions. In the main these are the general reasons for accidents on the mountains, but there are always the odd cases like the two drunks rescued from the top of Ben Nevis by the Kinlos team on New Years Eve. Both were very happy and singing loudly unknowing and uncaring that by morning they would have been dead from exposure. The Kinloss team, not to detract from the hazards faced by other teams, covers a particularly dangerous area reaching across the Scottish highlands from the Moray Firth to Skye and Strathy point to the North Western Cairngorms. The area includes some of the most hazardous climbs anywhere in the world, including Britain's highest peak, Ben Nevis and the snow covered slopes of the Cairngorms. The qualifications needed to enjoy these masochistic pleasures are few but stringent. A level head, a strong physique and above all a constant gnawing need to climb. 'Because it was there' is not a joke, it is deadly serious. Although the teams were formed as recently as 1942 they already have their legendary figures, like Sqd/Ldr Dave Dattner who led the Kinloss team. A man of tremendous charm, personality and courage. A man who insisted that every team member should be able to stitch open wounds and took a masochistic pleasure in slashing himself with a knife and making the members sew him up. Sqd/Ldr. Dattner, Sgt. Johnny Lees, C/T John Hines, it is men like these that have made the R.A.F. MRTs the smooth, efficient and tough units they are today. On a rescue when life is at stake the safety margin that allows for error is pushed to its very limits and the team must work as one man, their lives as well as the victims depend on their sped and skill. It is to their credit that despite the fantastic numbers of rescues that they have carried out they have only ever lost one man. Some would say that that was one too many, but they are usually the ones who have never been out with a mountain rescue team. The men themselves are curious in the odd mixture of intellects and temperaments, ranging across the full academic and social scene, frequently they meet on only one common ground, climbing, sufficient however to depend on each other for their lives. Their clothes and gear are always a mixture of RAF issue and any expensive personal items like duvets (quilted jackets) not issued by the RAF. The RAF equipment is sufficient - just. But when their comfort and lives depend on their equipment they prefer the best available, dipping deep into their own pockets to provide it. Hats are prized possessions; old, dirty, battered, ranging from Andy Cap's to deerstalkers. Local dances at Fort William or Kinlochleven are no longer surprised by the entrance of a couple of dozen men wearing heavy climbing boots, brightly coloured duvets, seaboot socks, scruffy sweaters and the hilarious hats. Local reaction is mixed with respect and gratitude from the middle and elder aged groups and resentment by the young males who too often lose girlfriends to team members. Very rarely is the resentment placed on a physical basis - on or off the hill the team is still a team, sufficient deterrent to anyone who has seen this tough, roughly shod, unit in action. Even as each man is different to his team mate thy are different within themselves. They work hard and with death as a constant reminder their play is that much more intense. These same men who would fight at the drop of a hat (probably for it) will tear their guts out to reach an injured man on the mountain. Conversely they will be as gentle as a lamb with a new member on the hill for the first time. Always keeping the pace down to that of the slowest without the slightest show of irritation or impatience, yet stupidity or irresponsibility on the mountain can earn you a ducking in the Loch or expulsion from the team. Expulsion is determined by the team, they simply refuse to go out with anyone they consider a liability. One eccentricity of the teams infrequent leisure is trophy hunting, this constitutes a major pastime. If it isn't embedded in concrete the team will remove it. The prize example is a rather grand, but tatty elephant's skull outside the natural history museum at Forres. This has disappeared so frequently that a rather bored curator now simply telephones RAF Kinloss and asks "Please may we have our head back." whereupon it is duly returned until the following weekend. The Daily Mail once ran a publicity stunt by having a man photographed selling their newspaper on top of Ben Nevis with a large Daily Mail banner in the background. They lost the banner, it adorns a wall in the Kinloss briefing hut. Their play is exuberant but harmless, their work dangerous but lifesaving. Every February the teams gather from all over the world to meet on Ben Nevis for the annual winter training courses in snow and ice climbing. Dedicated men gaining every ounce of skill and experience to make them more efficient at saving lives. Sitting in the warmth of Cameron's barn on Christmas night I asked the team why they preferred being here to being with their relatives and friends. The reply was unanimous - 'This is living, not sitting around sipping drinks with relatives I hardly know and playing musical chairs, besides – my mates are here.' Frederick Covins (1964)

The Long Walk

The wet, garishly lit streets held a warmth and friendliness that, momentarily, relieved his sense of impending doom. Mordan, he knew, would be waiting for him, lurking in mortal guise, ready to pounce and sink his deadly talons into his soft flesh. He watched the pale faces of the hurrying crowds, listened to their inconsequential chatter and the hiss of car tyres on the wet road; warm comforting sounds that helped to quell his rising fear. The crowds were beginning to thin out it was time to go. Hunching his wiry shoulders beneath the thin raincoat and narrowing his eyes into sharp, alert slits he set out on the long walk to his headquarters.

Where, he wondered, would Mordan strike? Here, in the crowded street? Or would he wait until he, the tightly wound agent, passed into the lonely darkness of Potters Road? The crowds, he noted, had entirely disappeared now; all safely behind their bolted doors he thought bitterly. With unfaltering step he sauntered into the deserted suburban street. Behind the sharp eyes and deceptively casual movements his heart hammered like a bass drum. A cat, black, sleek and shiny-eyed, leapt from the shadow of a privet hedge; his heart did a peculiar little flip and nearly stopped. Despite his outward calm, the fear grew and his pace quickened. It took a conscious effort to slow himself down; he must not let that evil monster see that he was afraid. He tried to whistle a casual tune, but his lips were dry and all he could manage was a nervous, tuneless, blowing of air. Deliberately, he veered outwards until he was walking in the centre of the road and as far as he could get from the dark, menacing shadows of the pavements. Here at least he would have some warning of Mordan’s attack. Only a few more yards to go. A dog growled softly and the hair prickled on the back of his neck. Like a blinding flash the thought exploded in his mind! The dog! Mordan’s devilish hound! Despite himself his legs broke into a run, with practiced ease he vaulted the low wall and dashed up the narrow pathway. His back slammed against the panelled door as he turned to face the darkness and his vile enemy. His fist rapped out the signal with frantic urgency. The measured footsteps beyond the door seemed to take an eternity. Suddenly the door gave against his pressure and light, warm, safe, light flooded across his swiftly composed features. “Hello,” said his mother, “Good film was it?”

Poetry 11

A Poem? Brain, brain, Gone away, Please come back Another day. Sometime next week Would be nice. In time to write Of men and mice An opus bright All readers to delight... (And other things – sigh - whatever).

Only People White candles, The Lord’s Prayer, Communion wafers Signify God. Black candles, The Lord’s Prayer backwards, Broken communion wafers Signify Satan But conjured up only in the mind Of a people needing The assurance and security To empower them In a ritualistic way. The brain is a dynamo, Producing energy in Measurable quantities. Many brains concentrated On the same thought Can magnify that power To influence external Dynamics and create A miracle! Or a corporate will, A National cohesiveness For good or evil. It could be called prayer, But in the end it is Only people. Good people, Evil people, Confused people.

The Wind And then I saw the wind, Rolling and rollicking it came. Billowing cheeks and pur-sed lips Blowing cobwebs from the brain. Trees in humble obeisance bowed. Grass and flowers lay flat. Sighing and soughing it came. Playing tricks with this and that. "I'll huff and I'll puff," said the wind, "And I'll blow your house down." But the isobars moved away slowly And the wind passed by with a frown. "I'll be back!" the wind whistled, As over its shoulder it glared, But the High that followed the Low Left the wind empty and unprepared.

Urban Pastoral Sightless. Sooty windows high In the people battery farms. Look down with empty eye At all the trees with open wounds, Set in concrete tombs, Pointing broken fingers to the sky. In the drizzle of the dawn Coughs asthmatically forlorn A rusty, patched-up car That lurches out to meet The rain swept tarmac street, Where the road to nowhere goes. And in the shadow of an alley A rusty banger lurks, Its battered shell defiled. Abandoned sans its works, But with half a tank of petrol To incinerate a child.

This Island This green and pleasant land Prescotted with traveller’s camps, Green belt estates to meet mythical targets, Landfill sites of buried toxic waste, Polluted streams and rivers with Industrial effluent. With global warming even The Thames Barrier is obsolete. Wither now this vanishing land?

Say When say is said And said is done, What’s left to say? Except well done.

Insects Two hundred million insects To each one of us! And we’re in charge? There’s a spider watching me From the top of my PC. SPLAT! 199,999,999 to go. We’re winning!

Me & Hitler
In 1943 I was at a school in Small Heath, Birmingham, sandwiched between two great factories; the BSA and Singer, both then given over to munitions and normally a twenty-minute trolley-bus ride from my home in Sheldon. On this one day the buses were not running, gossip was there had been a big raid during the night with the BSA as the target. It was with a light heart that I set out to walk to a school that could not possibly be there anymore (childish glee can sometimes be very cruel and unthinking). A vast vista of summer months without school made the long walk seem like a stroll down a lane.
Stepping over hosepipes, past fire-engines and the smouldering ruins of the Singer factory only endorsed my dreams of freedom from the restrictions of school. In the distance beyond the Singer works could be seen the smoke columns from the BSA. Arriving at what I fondly imagined to be the ruins of my school I was dismayed beyond belief to find it not only intact, but not even one pane of glass so much as cracked! This suddenly became personal between the Luftwaffe and me; I was convinced that Hitler himself had ordered his bombers to avoid hitting the school just to spite me. I have never forgiven him for that. Years later, when I started work in the advertising department of the BSA at the age of 14, I learnt the true extent of that raid. Later still, with a little time adjustment, I penned the following poem:
	In the plating shop at the BSA, Where men were feared to tread. The turbanned, rollered women worked Who filled us all with dread. Such tales we'd heard, of mystic rites, Of balls being blacked and awful sights Of peni into bottles fed. Then hosepipes littered the Coventry Road, From last night's German Raid. The BSA laid starkly low by death's sour scyth'ed blade. Five hundred souls lie buried there to this very day, And in the silent reach of night, Or so the watchmen say, You can hear the clank of a capstan crank And the shrilling drills at play. And if you listen very hard you'll hear the peal Of a young man's squeal As the women have him away.

Requiem for a Dying World

"The Earth and Nature will obey its own laws, let us learn what those laws are and learn to live with them instead of arrogantly trying to control them." Is this the end of living... or the beginning of survival? Download "Requiem for a Dying World" in Adobe Acrobat PDF format

Mr Brock

13 April 2000... 7.35am If nothing else happens today I've still had a fantastic experience: Being a creature of habit I drove to fetch the morning paper at 6.30am. Turning into the drive on my return I caught sight of something humping out of Coral & Des's garden (at the top of the drive). At first I thought it was a large cat or small dog, but when it stopped and turned to look at me I was stunned to find it was a very large Badger!

It turned and humped down the drive at a fast rate of knots and I followed in the car slowly. At that point I realised that it must be terrified at being pursued by this glowing eyed monster and promptly switched off the lights. Amazingly it slowed down. It crossed the grass at the entrance to our drive and disappeared through the hedge into our orchard. Hell! I thought, it's got its sett in our orchard! I drove past the orchard and couldn't see it. I figured it had gone to ground. I parked the car and walked towards the house. Then I saw it again trying to get through the gate. I stopped and so did the Badger. He then climbed onto the metal cellar doors and peered at me over the low ivy-clad wall. I talked to it in what I hoped was a low, soothing voice. Having peered into the stair-well of the cellar and decided it was too risky he obviously considered me the lesser threat and emerged slowly. Now seemingly reassured he ambled across the path and into the border alongside the wall. He followed the wall to the bottom of the garden, crossed the lawn and re-entered the orchard. Last I saw was Mr. Brock humping along the hedge on the field side and not being in too much of a hurry. Believe me, it made my day.

Additional Information: If you are interested in the the conservation and welfare of badgers and the protection of their setts and habitats then please visit The Badger Trust.

Dun-sur-Meuse

Just across the field that we’re parked in there’s a huge tent which holds, apart from the fattest lady I’ve ever seen, several other people, three magnificent alsatians, an obscure sort of black and white dog and a litter of alsatian pups. Judging from their condition and obedience (the dogs... idiot!) they are show dogs and the people breeders. I’m telling you this 'cos a fluffy little thing that passes for a dog, from another tent, went bouncing across the field towards the alsatian’s tent full of confidence and curiosity. The three alsatians simply stood up and barked. You’ve never seen a dog lose its curiosity so fast in all your life - it was going into reverse almost before it could turn around. It went into it’s own tent so fast it must have gone clean through the other side or straight up the tent pole - anyway, it hasn’t been seen since.

The motorhome is parked under two enormous willow trees in a lovely, shady spot. On the trees are some birds I’ve never seen before, some sort of tree-creeper 'cos they zip up and down the bark as if they were on elastic, sometimes travelling upside down on the branches to feed off something in the bark itself. They look a little like sparrows, but with more flecks of white. Just tuned in to the world service to find out what’s happening on the ferry front... what could be more English than sitting in a field, under a willow tree, listening to John Arlot! It’s a little difficult to equate with the eglise St.Marianne directly in my line of vision. What my sketch doesn’t show and should really if I wasn’t so lazy, is that this church is on top of a hill, the highest point around.

Apropos absolutely nothing at all, the bridge in the town was built by the American Fifth Division as a memorial to those who lost their lives establishing a bridgehead across the Meuse in WW11. Just as in WW1, Dun-sur-Meuse got hammered again in WW11 and the fact that the church of St.Marianne still stands is a tribute to absolutely no one at all. The fact that anything still stands in this part of the world is perhaps a tribute to man’s tenacity rather more than his common sense.

The church of St.Marianne at Dun-sur-Meuse

Met the fat lady with the alsation puppies, they’re great (the pups... fools!) She really is gianormous, if she fell on you there’d only be a strawberry jam stain to mark the spot. They all come from Dijon and they do breed alsations - see, told’y so.

Gosh, but it’s a burden being so clever. Whoops! a wasp. You know fag packets carry the warning ‘smoking can damage your health’? Well, in the wasp’s case it’s positively fatal co’s Maggie’s killed ‘undreds wiv ‘er little fag packet; she’s just about the deadliest killing machine around with her Gallagher’s Silk Cut patent wasp crusher. A bit worrying actually co’s she does it with such evident enjoyment - must remember not to hang around the windows.

To re-cap a moment; I’ve just worked out why, probably, I didn’t like the cathedral at Lausanne as much as I might have expected to...I think it was because it was so clean.

Architecturally it’s magnificent, but in their obsession with cleanliness they have sand-blasted the surfaces and removed not only the patina of age, but also the 800 years of worship that was imprinted into the stone. I believe, you see, that everything that happens is absorbed into the fabric of our surroundings, the stones, the walls etc. Which could explain why some houses are warm, friendly and welcoming, because they have absorbed only largely happy experiences, just as others are cold, hostile and unfriendly for the opposite reasons. Ultimately a church has an atmosphere of sanctity and peace because of the centuries of worship that is imprinted into its walls. And this despite the peccadilloes and transgressions of the clergy and their particular hypocrisy - it’s the worship of the people that has been taken in and which, in turn, is given out. In Lausanne they have scoured this out of the stone and the building is left just that, a building, its aura sand-blasted away.

You’re never going to believe this, but the people in the tent next door have brought their hens with them! I’ve heard of liking fresh eggs, but this is ridiculous. Alright, so the people with the alsations have got a bale of straw, that’s no reason to bring the whole bloody farmyard!

The bridge ("Le pont de Jambes") and castle at Namur

Homeward bound... Ever had that feeling ‘it’s Thursday so, it must have been Belgium’? Yesterday was a WOW! of a day: left Dun-sur-Meuse (about forty kilometres from the Belgium border) at 8am, crossed into Belgium at 9am, had a look around Buollion - beautiful town with a magnificent castle, cashed some money and then hit the road again. Dinat (fabulous place), Namur (even more so), skirted Brussels, Ghent and into Ostend at 4.15pm. Drove on to ferry at 5.15pm, arrived in England 9.30pm. Back home, after fish & chips, via what felt like 200 miles of the South Circular Road, at 3.15 am! Three countries and the English Channel in nineteen hours... bloody ‘ell!

Poetry – 9

Puddles On the shores of a puddle A small boy played. A matchbox and sticks Were an enemy raid. A dam wall of mud Kept the sea all inside And the ripples of wind Were the waves and the tide. Brave soldiers of plastic And tanks stuck with glue, Lined the mud banks All steadfast and true. The little boy’s mind Saw no mud nor a puddle, Just vast seas and an army, Locked in a struggle. The game will be played Until mother does call, Then with god-like delight He will break the dam wall.

Love Frank? Mmmmm? Love me? Mmmm? Oh, yes. Really love me? What? Yes, of course. Really and truly love me? No. What! No. You don’t mean that? I do. But, but you just said... That I love you. So? I do. But... I do love you. Really and truly? Oh... shit!

Gentle Jack (a black Labrador) At least once in their lives Everyone should know a ‘gentle Jack’. Coal black, shiny hair and dark eyes Full of knowing,, even understanding. Fiercely protective of those he loved, But ever gentle with the smallest child. A gentle, gentleman who walked, ran and swam Whenever he could, but treated with disdain Those kin who misbehaved. Dear Jack, knowing you has been A life enhancing experience. We thank you for enriching our lives.

Confrontations Confrontations are useless, They merely aggravate the open wound, Rip asunder the healing stitches of time, Open new wounds and serve no purpose Other than salving the wounded ego, Establishing the ‘rightness’ of intention. (The do-gooder’s raison d’etre) But confrontations resolve problems, Expose difficulties, clean wounds And prevent emotional gangrene. Isn’t that better?

The Senses A hawk stoops against a clear, blue sky. But the man with the binoculars Sees only the girl in the bikini. The sun emblazons the horizon in molten gold. But the man feels only the sweaty flesh Of his own desiring. A nightingale swells the evening air with song. But the man is plugged into his Battery operated Sony-Walkman. Wild dog rose and golden vetch perfume the night air. But the man smells only the vinegar Of his fish and chips.

Pariahs Spartan youth camps Hitler youth camps Al Qaeda training camps Jesuit missionaries “Give me a child of 7 and he’s mine for life.” Indoctrination, Indoctrination. Indoctrination. Makes a nation Of children Trained to kill Without discrimination.

The Prisoner The prisoner hides within himself, His eyes alone stare out, Anxious, sharp, Alert and dark. Flinching from every verbal knout. Everything at double pace, A constant, nervous, scurry. Rattled mugs, Clattering studs, A sobbing, breathless, hurry. Oh God! Let the bastard trip and break his neck! Four ounce of bread at every meal, A grey anonymous lump, A fag, Quick drag. A silent, crowded, loneliness. Escape into a darkened womb, Enfolded in the night. A sneer, A tear. Rough blanket embrace tight.

The Plant I cursed the plant in the window, Merely to see it wilt. A tall old plant with dank, lank leaves And timid blue blossom a-tilt. It leaned to the sun and it yearned To be bigger and better one day, But its fleshy pale stalks and wishy green leaves Made it ugly and smell of decay. I am tall and I’m fleshy and pale And when I am old, like that plant, Perhaps I’ll yearn to be better And weep when I find that I can’t.

My Holiday (2000) - By Fred Covins aged 68¾

Friday
We stocked the motorhome (hereinafter called the Womb) with all the essentials: whisky, wine, smoked salmon etc. Maggie insisted on a few non-essential elements like food and a change of underwear and we set out on yet another 'adventure'.

Easy ride down the M5 and A30 despite a couple of twitchy moments when the gear stick kept popping out of 5th gear, probably due to the level of oil in the gear box, but all was well that ended well and we turned into the drive of our friend's new home near Cheriton Bishop in Devon for an overnight stay.

I should explain, Janie and Geoff go back a long way in our history. A lovely, welcoming couple who are probably the most disorganized people we have the pleasure to know. Geoff is one of those extraordinary people who pops around the world doing things like chopping half a mountain down and dropping it in the sea to form Hong Kong's new airport. Janie, on the other hand, is an extremely talented artist and photographer who is too modest for her own good.

Their new home is set in 14 beautiful acres of Devon countryside and is a fairly modern very large bungalow. As their previous home was a 17th century Devon longhouse on a site featured in the Domesday Book it is quite a change. Except for the features common to both: cats everywhere and two dogs, an Irish Wolfhound called Seamus the size of a small pony and a small doe-eyed whippet called Brandon.

Maggie and Janie prattled happily away, as only women can, whilst Geoff and I set about the serious business of putting a litre of whisky into the past tense. I should add that the last time I got into a drinking session with this gentleman I threw myself at the bed… and missed!

We ate and talked well into the night and finally fell into the arms of Morpheus in the womb. (No, I didn't miss the bed).

Saturday
We took our leave and proceeded towards Luxulyan and our goal of The Eden Project (more of that later).

There was a bit of low cloud, so low in places it actually met the road. We eventually found our caravan site very near to the Eden Project and settled into a beautiful wooded site and prepared to pig-out for the rest of the day. Fate however had other plans. Last night's whisky-fest finally caught up with me in the form of cold sweats and extreme exhaustion. I slept for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, awakening when Maggie went to the site shop. Feeling a little more human I started to get my writing materials out of the cupboard when Maggie returned, crashed through the door and screamed! She had missed her footing on the free-standing step and crashed heavily into the metal base sill of the door gashing her leg just below the knee. She said, "Oh, dear. Look what I've done." Or words to that effect, some I'd never heard before! However, several applications of TLC, Ibuprofen and Savlon later she felt well enough to talk rationally about that f…..g step!

We have just heard, via the radio, that the farmers and hauliers are emulating their French counterparts and blockading the refineries, thus preventing deliveries to the petrol stations. As a consequence there is a rapidly escalating fuel shortage. As we are about 200 miles from home this is a little problematical. Fortunately we have a full tank of diesel that should just about get us home provided we don't use the womb in the meantime - or we can carry on and hope it all blows over before we are due back. The radio is actually playing 'The Ride of the Valkeries'. How very appropriate.

Pig-out was right, we've just scoffed a mound of fresh tagliatelle with an onion sauce and 1" thick home-made turkey burgers…phew! I, rather circumspectly I thought, drank Dandelion & Burdock.

Then we played Gin Rummy (we call it 'read 'em and weep') and every time I caught her cheating she said, "But I've got a poorly leg." "What's that got to do with it?" "Ah, poor Maggie." Sometimes you just can' win.

Sunday
Bad night, only managed twelve hours sleep. After bacon sarnies and coffee we moved the womb to a sunnier position. Now sitting outside in bright sunshine, reading the newspaper and drinking Murphy's stout. God, but it's tough on the road.

When we arrived there were four caravans opposite, today they left. Do you think they know something we don't?

Very relaxed day, read 'Tropic of Ruislip' by Leslie Thomas from cover to cover. Good read. Very acutely observed middle-class suburbia – a million miles from this place. Ventured into the Scotch territory again with no untoward consequences. Good books, food, sleep, what else could anyone want?

Monday
D.Day. Set out for The Eden Project – this is what we came for so what the hell. We were the first to arrive at 9.30am. Not open until 10am so was held up by one of the workmen on the new approach road. Within minutes the queue of traffic stretched out of sight behind us!

With only the vaguest idea of what we were about to witness it is fair to say that we, along with everyone else, were stunned! All we knew was it was £3 to visit a building site. But what a site! All the superlatives like Wow! Stupendous! Fabulous! Bloody 'ell! Proved totally inadequate.

The creator of the project, Tim Smits, says over a taped welcome, "'They' say it's the 8th Wonder of the World." I don't know who 'they' are but for my money they're too damned right, it is a wonder of the world.

'A set worthy of a living theatre mounting the planet's greatest drama'

Biodomes of geodesic design, the largest to house a rain forest that includes a forty foot waterfall. 'It has a script to die for: discovery, passion, intrigue, glamour, tragedy, comedy. It is the story of mankind's dependency on the plant world'.

There are several biodomes, in a clay quarry 500' deep and the size of about 35 football pitches, ranging from warm temperature regions to tropical humidity involving 40,000 plants and trees.

The landscaping of the approaches is done in scimitar-like curves decorated with thin, vertical banners that flutter and echo the sounds of the sea.

Such is the pull of this place that it already has more visitors than the Dome, and it doesn't open until next Easter! The scope and concept is just breathtaking.

One of the measures of this project is that many people, from high fliers in the city to truck drivers, have given up well paid jobs, sold their homes and moved to Cornwall just to be part of this project.

We have become 'Friends of Eden', i.e., fee paying members of the Eden Project because we both believe it to be the greatest thing this country has produced in decades.

The Dome has made us the laughing stock of the world and will, hopefully, break this foolish government and those responsible for such a colossal waste of 'our' money. Had they backed The Eden Project they might have won world acclaim. Now I doubt the Eden Project would even want their support or their money.

You can check it out for yourself at: www.edenproject.com

Naturally Maggie just had to buy some exotic plants and we are now driving around with our own 'project'. Do you think I could charge for home? Even as a building site? I could leave the lawnmower and a spade out.

What struck me most about the Eden Project were the people, still pouring in as we left. Nearly all of them were late middle age or elderly, people who could still remember when Britain was Great Britain. Although there was wonderment and excitement in their faces there was also pride and hope, hope perhaps that what was once could be again.

Tuesday
The fuel crisis deepens. The economists say 8p a litre could be knocked off without damaging the economy in any way, the government squeals in fear at the thought of losing any income that might deplete its war chest for the next election and bleats ' we will never give in to force'. In the meantime the economy grinds to a halt and the police who were warned off the Notting Hill Festival for fear of creating a racial backlash are now invoked to arrest men and women who are simply protesting against a 33% hike in fuel prices since this government came to power.

Today, The Lost Gardens of Heligan (tomorrow, the world! Fuel permitting). We decided to hell with the crisis, this is what we came to do and this is what we're damned well going to do.

Heligan, meaning 'The Willows' in Cornish, was first mentioned in the 12th century as part of an estate owned by the Arundell family. The house was built in 1603 and passed through many hands, largely the Tremayne family. It remained a Cornish idyll until it was taken over by the War Department at the start of the 1914-1918 war as a convalescent home. The decay of the gardens began almost immediately, descending very quickly into a complete wilderness until 1991 when Tim Smits (remember that name - the Eden Project) and John Sheldon hacked their way through the undergrowth and discovered a remnant of gardens of Heligan, including two virtually dried up lakes. They put together a team to restore the entire 'sleeping beauty' to its former glory. For them it began as 'the rest of your life starts here'.

Judging from what we have seen both here and at the Eden Project that's exactly what it has been and continues to be.

During a metal detector sweep of the area they found hundreds of zinc/lead plant labels which when cleaned were as clear as the day they were made. From these they were able to replant much of what had existed in the preceding centuries.

The gardens are beautiful, from the Flower Garden, the Vegetable Garden, the Italian Garden, the New Zealand Garden to the Crystal Grotto and the Melon Yard. It really is like bringing the 17th century back to life.

We didn't venture down to the Jungle and the lakes 'cos neither of us has the knees for the steep climb back, but if the pictures are anything to go by it is just as bewitching.

We left there, hearts uplifted despite the deepening fuel crisis and the mile long queues we passed at any garage with fuel left. We drove directly to Penzance and Tescos, where we adopted a siege mentality and shopped accordingly. We are now safely ensconced on our favourite site at Relubbus and prepared to sit out the crisis.

Wednesday
A pilgrimage. We have been coming to Cornwall for nearly forty years, 12 or more with our children and nearly always to this one place, Praa Sands.

In those early days it was an 8/9 hour journey even in the 3.8 Jaguar that we bought BC (before children). Each year the kids would make a beeline for the beach and begin damming the little stream that flowed past our rented bungalow overlooking the beach and across the beach itself.

So experienced did they become that within a very short time they had created a vast swimming pool in the middle of the beach. This proved to be an irresistible attraction for every other child on the beach and they were soon all excitedly digging away and stemming the inevitable breaks in the dam wall.

The entire holiday seemed to pass in this way and the excitement never seemed to pall. It is also true to say that when in later years we revisited the place these two now 6' 6” louts they did exactly the same again!

Nice? Energetic day. So energetic that I began to look forward to returning to work! I'm not built for walking in/on soft sand and Maggie wanted to indulge in a little retail therapy up in the village.

The cold Murphys was a great restorative, as was the toast and patè. We then sat on the cliff top and got wind burned.

Now back on site with an even greater restorative Scotch and sitting in a far more sheltered spot.

Praa is much the same as it always was, pretty, unspoiled, despite attempts by some entrepreneurs to turn it into a Cornish Blackpool with theme pubs and flashy markets. But the beach is clean with a shallow shelf that makes it an ideal place for kids. And it was delightful to see that the stream had lost none of its challenges or excitements.

Thursday
It's pouring with rain! But the fuel crisis is crumbling and tomorrow we might make a run for home. We should make Devon at least before we're running on fumes. Oh no we're not! Maggie says we're booked here until Saturday and here we're going to stay. Adding, "You've got a large writing pad there, so write a book." Like I've said somewhere in this account before - sometimes you just can't win.

Having munched my way through a box of shortbread biscuits, washed down with a cup of coffee I'm now looking around like a bored child to see what other mischief I can get up to. It's hell being grown-up and expected to behave sensibly!

Drank whisky defiantly all day.

Friday
It rained last night, which is a bit like saying the sun shone in the Sahara. It sounded like thunder on the roof of the womb.

One of the other campers asked me if I'd heard it. He seemed surprised I'd heard anything considering the amount of Scotch he'd seen me put away! Cheeky sod.

Out of bad comes good. The higher authority has decided we might as well go home.

With less than half a tank of fuel we headed northwards. The Devil looks after his own, we came across a petrol station with only a small queue. Ten minutes later, with a full tank, we completed our journey. As holidays go it was a wee bit different, but enormously rewarding.

Rat Wars!

In an old farmhouse like ours the problem of mice is endemic, like the poor they're always with us and every autumn, when the weather begins to bite, they're inside like a shot toasting their paws in front of the fire. There follows the annual battle for supremacy with cheese and chocolate (we like them to die happy) traps - the traps give them a terminal headache. Only once before have we had a problem with rats and that was fought tooth and nail with Mole Smokes, Slaymor and serious traps (what's more serious than fatal?) what I mean is cage traps and drowning.

Now we have the problem again it would seem, judging by the gnawed hard plastic garbage containers! Once again Super Exterminator II put his underpants on over his trousers and sprang into action with a devilishly cunning plan. With a 6x6x4 inch cardboard box with a rat sized hole cut in one end and half filled with Slaymor (an anticoagulant poison) the box was placed in the coal shed just where the garbage containers await collection. On two consecutive mornings the 'trap' has been inspected, only to find the box stuffed with dead leaves, bits of debris and lumps of anthracite! Now either something funny is going on or the rats are taking the piss! It would seem that every time we displace his barriers in the bait box he builds the next one even greater, but last night he exceeded all expectations. When we lifted the lid we found the bait, or what was left of it, shoved up to one end and the rest of the box packed tight with anthracite, a wooden plug shoved into the hole and a flat piece of plank placed across the entrance! This rat is going to die of a heart attack from moving all this stuff before the poison gets him! I said it would take a devious mind to work out what he is up to and sure enough Maggie came up with the answer. This rat thinks he's hit the jackpot, he's found a food mine. And like all prospectors he's staked his claim and is damned if anyone else is going to find it. Can't wait to see what he comes up with tonight! He didn’t come up with anything, in fact he didn’t come up! I didn’t know whether to cheer or feel disappointed.

Poetry – 10

The Rut The rut is very deep and very narrow. There are many people in the rut and it is very noisy. Now and then they are given a glimpse Of those who have crawled out of the rut. The sun seems to shine on them all the time. They are free to run in any direction they choose, They have space. That is why they do not like too many people Climbing out of the rut. They stamp on the fingers and heads of those who try. Some call it democracy, Some call it socialism, Some call it communism, Some call it fascism, We, in the rut, call it politics.

A Little God? Two butterflies fluttering past, Two ants scurrying past, A very young boy. Rat-a-tat-tat! Went the Little boy’s hands As they dived and attacked The fluttering things BAM! Went the hands And a flutterby fell. POW! Went the hands And the other fell too. The little boy whistled A falling bomb. BAM! Went his foot. POW! Went the other. “Mummy!” he screamed, “Mummy! Look at me, I’m playing God.” Sometimes our gods Should be sent to bed Without their supper.

On the Hills Today She walked alone on the hills today And she called his name aloud, The wind soughed low and carried it Wrapped in a soft white cloud. When she called his name on the hills today It carried she knew not where, But should he feel a breeze on his lips His name and her lips are there. The air was soft on the hills today, As soft as the touch of his skin. She closed her eyes and she touched him Waking that magic within. Did he see her there on the hills today? Stretching her arms out in space. She was reaching out across the world Simply to touch his face. She was alive on the hills today, High on the love she gave, Awake from a strange, lonely despond, Returned from a dark inner cave. In her heart on the hills today, She talked to a God she’d denied, For only in Him the love could she find, The love that she felt inside. She was afraid on the hills today, And she asked this new God why? A voice rumbled softly in sorrow And tears fell from a darkening sky. She was old on the hills today, Older than all her years, And she was afraid on the hills today For her heart was a vale of tears. She walked in pain on the hills today, And the pain was a lonely thing. For this love, the saddest of loves, Was the love of autumn for spring.

40 Forty! Oh hell, where did the time all go? Kafka had lived and died by now, So had Edgar Alan Poe. But hang about, it’s not too late, Samuel Becket hadn’t started, Stendahl had only just begun. Richard Adams was still with H.M.O. And Gaugin had just departed For the sunny isles And friendly smiles Of the sway-hipped hinano. No, it’s not too late If you know the magic words, The secret incantation, The quiet voice that speaks determination. Words are birds That soar or flee, And the ones that soar are “I want to be…” A simple act of mental prestidigitation.

Time Time, Tic-tock. Tic-tock. One minute, two minutes, One hour, two hours, One month, two months, One year, two years. One lifetime. No time. Tic-tock. Tic-tock.

Death of a Farm The wind is wet with tears And its sobbing cadence grieves Around the stiff, dead fingers Of all the dead elm trees. It soughs and chatters in the slats Of a creaking, sway-backed barn, As it wraps a damp caress Around the desolate farm. It scrabbles at the windows, Stammers unlocked gates, Twists the flailing creeper and Clatters red roof slates. Wreaking howls of desolation With a Greek Aeolian moan, That with a callous finger Probes the corners of a home.

Have You Seen What I've Seen? Have you seen what I’ve seen? A face at the window, my granddad appears, Though he’s been dead for fifteen years. “Have you come for me?” A shake of the head, Making answers tho’ nothing is said. “How are you?” I ask this man from the grave. He smiles and nods, words without sound And leaves as he came with mist all around. Have you seen what I’ve seen? In the dark of the night, like a thief in the night The black dog came to lie on the bed and allow a small cuddle And then he was gone. But the memory remained. That morning we’d learned that the dog had been pained And during the night his life had been taken, But somehow he found me, my soul to awaken. Have you seen what I’ve seen? I see a boy full grown and a black dog Standing in the orchard, reborn. Just a wave, a smile, a nod of the head Making words that never were said. Tells me everything’s fine tho’ nothing was heard. Just the breeze and bitter-sweet song of a bird. Have you seen what I’ve seen? A picture that, impossibly, stares right back. Footprints in the sand that follow your tack. Words without sounds that open a door almost wide, To comfort and assure us that he walks alongside. Though nothing was said.

Grandad

One Man's Story of the Boer War by William 'Bill' Oakey

May 31st 1900, it was. Me and Ernie Marks walked into the Foregate Street recruiting office together. Living out Shrawley way we was then. Old Kruger and the Boers had been giving our lads a rough time. Me and Ernie decided we'd give 'em a hand. Straight away they sent us down to Pitchcroft to see if we could ride a horse. Bit of alright that was. Me and Ernie had been brought up with horses. Still they put us through the hoop. Over the jumps, parading, turning, mounting and dismounting. We managed that bit so they sent us out to Malvern to see if we could use a gun. That was a laugh. When your daily meal may depend on how good you are at potting rabbits you sort of develop a keen eye.

Stalwarts of the Worcestershire Yeomanry in barracks at Aldershot prior to going to South Africa to take part in the Boer War. Bill Oakey is in the back row, extreme right, and Ernie Marks centre row, third from right

FULLY ENLISTED Next thing you knew, me and Ernie were fully enlisted in the Worcestershire Yeomanry and on our way to Aldershot. 'Mounted Infantry' we were called. Three weeks from the day we enlisted we were on our way to South Africa aboard the SS Orotava. Even on board ship our training continued. Every day they had us lying on the deck shooting at tin cans in the sea. We were supposed to land at Capetown, but when we arrived a plague was raging and we had to go on round the Cape to Durban. From Durban we moved directly to Johannesburg. Lord Roberts had captured Johannesburg on the very day we enlisted. The major war against the Boers was ending, but though we didn't know it , a new kind of war was just beginning. Under General Christian de Wet the Boers adopted a commando style of fighting. From nowhere they would attack and then vanish. Never retreating as a group but in ten different directions, which made chasing them blooming hopeless. FLYING COLUMNS Lord Roberts and General Sir Redvers Buller started what were called 'Flying Columns'. A company of soldiers, mounted and lightly equipped, ready to travel and strike anywhere at a moment's notice. Me and Ernie fell for that lot. Crikey! Did we regret it. Start in the early morning with three biscuits, hard as leather. One tin of 'bully' beef between four of us, and a swig from our canteens. From then on we rode all day, walking occasionally to rest the horses. At night same meal. Then scrape a hole in the ground, called a 'redoubt', fall in and go to sleep. Six months at a ruddy stretch we had this lark. And many a night we'd have no sleep because some blinking fool thought he heard the Boers. Mind you, occasionally the Boers really were there. Then you'd roll over and shoot at anything that moved. Six months of this game and we really were fed up. Fed up? Crikey! That's nothing to what we were when we joined up with Lord Methuen. Three thousand strong we were when we met the Boers led by the famous Christian de Wet. They ran like hell and we chased. For three long weeks we chased de Wet across the African veldt.

READY TO DROP Our horses were near dead. Our boots worn right through. Scarce rations, and every man jack of us ready to drop in his tracks. Nobody was ruddy happier than I was when de Wet made for a place called Oliphants Nek, a pass over the Magaliesburg Mountains. I knew, as did everyone else, that Lieutenant Ian Hamilton, commanding a regiment of Infantry, Cavalry and artillery was guarding the only exit to Oliphants Nek. You may imagine how we felt when we saw de Wet and the Boers ride straight through the pass untouched! We discovered later that Hamilton had tired of waiting and gone home. Lieutenant Hamilton was a brave and gallant officer, but not to us on that particular day.

Two days rest and then back to the 'flying columns'. In those days when a column fought a rearguard action three men would dismount, dig in, and hold off the pursuers. The column would continue for a mile then three more would dismount and dig in. The man chosen as 'number four' would take three horses and gallop back to the first three, get them mounted and rejoin the column. The process was then repeated. I got caught for that 'number four' routine once. The first and last time it was. Galloping back to the three men a Boer sniper shot my horse from under me. We rode double back to the column. Once back with the column riding double was forbidden. If you lost your horse that was your fault. 'Flying Columns' never carried remounts. If you wanted to stay with the column you hoofed it. Twenty-five miles I walked/jogged that day. "Oakey" I thought, "This won't do mate. You got to get a horse." That night we camped near a company of the 17th Lancers. I wandered over. When I got back my company commander glanced at my new mount, "Stray, Oakey?" "Yes, sir." "Good man." With the barest trace of a smile he rode on. In those days officers weren't only gentlemen, they were ruddy fine soldiers as well. No languid lilies but strong fighting men. I always remember one day on patrol when a Boer sniper opened up. Two of my mates he killed and one he shot through both cheeks. Funny that was because this bloke had his mouth open at the time and the bullet passed straight through without touching his teeth! There is something cowardly and gutless about sniping. Our officer at the time got damned annoyed with this sniper so he slid off his mount and ran into the rocks around us. A few minutes later the sniper stood up shaking with fear with his hands upraised and screaming "Kamerad!" He couldn't take his own medicine. Without hesitation our officer shot him and returned to the column. I must have been staring because the officer glared at me, "You got something to say, Oakey?" I shook my head. It wasn't an atrocity, just an economic answer to the simple problem of a man who hadn't the guts to fight in the open. PARADISE Me and Ernie Marks saw a lot of Africa. A beautiful, rich and inspiring country. Rolling scrub land called the veldt, rich in wildlife. River beds called 'spruits' that one minute were dry and the next torrential. Snow capped mountains and fertile valleys. To us Worcestershire lads from the countryside it was paradise. We met Zulus and the mighty Impala. Basutos and the Swazis. We saw the tin shanty towns of Ladysmith and Mafeking. Looking at the meagre tin huts we wondered what all the fuss had been about. For two years we fought the Boers and feasted our eyes and hearts on the beauty of South Africa. Many are the tales that I could tell of the Boers of South Africa and of the Worcestershire Yeomanry. But, for me, after the savage splendour of a continent the rich peacefulness of Worcestershire was like simply 'coming home'.

Additional Information: 1) Please visit the Worcester City Museums for information on the history of the Worcestershire Yeomanry 1794 - 1899 and the Worcestershire Yeomanry Cavalry during the Boer War 2) The following information about Bill Oakey's participation in the Boer War was kindly provided by Gary Whitley: His number was 20935 and he served as a Private in the 16th Squadron (Worcestershire) 5th Regiment, Imperial Yeomanry. He went to South Africa with the second contingent and served there for 1 year 196 days. Although the strange thing is "Bill" says he went to South Africa in June 1900 whereas the 2nd contingent of the Worcestershire Yeomanry did not go out until February 1901. However, I feel sure that it is the same man as the address he gave on enlistment was Church Cottage, Shrawley. His pal "Ernie" J. Marks, who's number was 20932, later became a Lance-Sergeant in the same unit. For details of the campaign see the book "The Yeomanry Cavalry of Worcestershire 1794-1913" by Q.L. privately printed in 1914. (Bill gets a mention on page 161) 3) Further information kindly provided byGary Whitley, taken from WO 128 55 Public Records Office (His Short Attestation Papers): 20935 William Oakey Imperial Yeomanry Born 1879 in the Parish of Shrawley, near the Town of Stourport in the County of Worcestershire. He was the son of Samuel Oakey of Church Cottage, Shrawley, Stourport. On the 26th January 1901 at Worcester he enlisted into the Imperial Yeomanry for one years service with the Colours. (I think the date he gave, May 31st 1900, was the date he offered his services and they said go home we will send for you when we want you). On enlistment he gave his age as 21 years, 5 months and his calling as Baker. He was 5ft 10ins tall, weighed 155lbs, had a fair complexion, grey eyes, light brown hair and a chest measurement of 35ins. He gave his father Samuel as his next-of-kin and his religion as C of E. He served as follows: Home 26th January 1901 to 24th February 1901 30 days South Africa 25th February 1901 to 8th September 1902 1 year 196 days Home 9th September 1902 to 15th September 1902 7 days Total 1 year 233 days He was discharged at Aldershot on the 15th September 1902, his conduct was described as very good and his intended place of residence as Church Cottage, Shrawley. He served in South Africa with the 16th Company 5th Regiment I.Y. (Worcestershire Yeomanry, second contingent). For his services in South Africa he was awarded the Queens South Africa Medal (the Boer War Medal) with 5 clasps - Cape Colony, Orange Free State, Transvaal, South Africa 1901 & South Africa 1902. His papers for World War One like many others are missing, they were probably destroyed during the Blitz. However, his M.I.C. (Medal Index Card) shows that he served with the Military Mounted Police (this is the only unit shown) with the number P/8135 and the rank of Lance Corporal. He was entitled to the British War Medal and the Victory Medal which means that he did not serve in a theatre of war until at the earliest 1916, otherwise he would have been entitled to either a 1914 Star or a 1914/15 Star.

Worcestershire Constabulary - 'Life was a Lusty, Brawling Wench…' by William 'Bill' Oakey

July 4th 1904, and I joined the Worcestershire Constabulary. Three months training on the beat in Worcester then a posting to Moseley. In those days Moseley was a semi-rural area on the outskirts of Birmingham, but still in Worcestershire.

Bill Oakey is in the back row, third from right

I remember my first sight of the old steam trams that puffed and clanked through Birmingham. I soon discovered that if you sat on the top you came off like a nigger minstrel. Being on the outskirts of Birmingham gave me a chance to get acquainted with the rough, tough industrial worker of those days. The times were hard and so were the men. To command their respect you had to earn it the hard way, with your fists.

Many of today's districts of Birmingham were once part of Worcestershire. Moseley, being semi-rural, was regarded as a sort of training school for the tougher areas of Birmingham. Believe me, I was glad of that training. In 1906 they moved me to Hay Mills. Hay Mills was a part of Worcestershire until 1911, when it was annexed by Birmingham. It was a growing industrial area which had many of the qualities of a gold rush mining town.

Hay Mills Police Station

Every night the gas lamps flickered and hissed as the pubs spewed their nightly quota of belligerence and raucousness on to the streets. HANDY WITH FISTS Being handy with your fists was a necessity. If you went on duty and didn't have a scrap you were darned lucky. One of the first rules my station sergeant taught me was, if you had any difficulty with any man, make sure you got the first punch in, you might never have another chance. Sergeants Fidler and Muller were my superiors and two straighter or tougher men I've yet to meet. I remember one local troublemaker coming into the station one morning. "I want to make a complaint," he said. Sergeant Fidler nodded. "I was assaulted by a copper last night in Deakin Road." Sergeant Fidler's eyes narrowed. One ham-like hand reached out and grasped the man by the coat. The poor bloke was yanked forward and found himself staring into the sergeant's eyes. Sergeant Fidler's voice growled, "So?" We never saw the man again. The tolerance of our tough attitude didn't stop at sergeants, it went right to the top. One day, about a week after I'd jailed a bloke, his brother stopped me in the street. "If you didn't have that uniform on I'd knock your bloody head off." I nodded, "Right," I said. "Meet me in Fordruff's Timber Yard at 6.30 and we'll see about that." We met. He didn't knock my head off and we were the best of pals. But coming out of the timber yard, still pulling my jacket on, I walked smack into Inspector Millson. The Inspector glanced at my battered face and grinned. "One of these days Oakey you're going to pick a wrong 'un and get your ruddy nose bent." Without another word he left. TOUGH MEASURES Inspector Millson went on to become a Deputy Chief Constable of Worcestershire. Typical of many in my day, he saw the justice of tough measures for tough customers. Nobody held a grudge. If you beat a man in fair fight, you not only knocked some sense into his head, but you earned his respect as well. I remember being held down by three blokes, while a fourth put his boot into my ribs. I never forgot his face. A few weeks later I saw him walking along the Coventry Road. I crossed over and deliberately jogged him with my elbow. I pinched him for assaulting a police officer. He got two months. That was justice. Rough but straight. Mind you, life certainly had its lighter moments. I'll never forget the day we went on an outing to Stratford-on-Avon Mop. There were no cars so we went by charabanc. Four horses and an open carriage with benches on either side. Bitter cold it was and ice on the roads. If we hadn't stopped at every other pub we'd have frozen to death. Old Fred Paynter drove. The reins in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other. We had a marvelous day. What with the pubs open all day and Inspector Fred Amphlett and me knowing all the showfolk we hardly spent a penny. Round Hay Mills the showfolk had permanent fairgrounds from which they travelled to places like Stratford. Mr. T. Clark, known always as Old Man Clark, ran the fairgrounds in those days: a young lad called Dick Chipperfield worked for him then. We knew them all. As always the fairground showmen were warm-hearted and generous. For the kids nothing was too much trouble. If ever a child was shortchanged on a side show, and complained, Old Man Clark would be round like a shot. No argument. The man responsible would be sacked on the spot with no pay. If he felt disposed to argue, a quick belt around the ear from the old man would change his mind. The kids were never cheated. The journey home from the Mop was a rather hazy affair. I do know that the cold seemed to have lost its snap, or perhaps it was just the warm glow that came from inside. It was fortunate that the horses knew their way back home! One day in 1911 we were dispatched post haste to Droitwich. Apparently a local election had been held and the Conservative candidate elected. In the Liberal stronghold of Droitwich this election sparked off a riot. For the first time in my life I heard the 'Riot Act' being read. A Mr. Jackson Gabb read the Act, his voice booming out over the noise of the rioters. As soon as the Act had been read and the rioters warned of the consequences, we moved in, truncheons swinging. Within minutes the riot was over. Apart from a few broken bones and sore heads casualties were slight. Except for a short break between 1914-18 when we put the Kaiser straight on a few points (again in the Worcestershire Yeomanry). I spent most of my life in the police force. A career eventful, and exciting enough for any man. GENERAL STRIKE Round about 1926 of course we had the 'General Strike'. That was a rough time for thousands of people. But, like all things, it had its lighter side. Young students drove all the trams and lorries. If a pretty girl got on a tram the fare was invariably a kiss or nothing. The occasional oddly bent and twisted gas lamp testified to the enthusiastic but unskilled aim of the young drivers. During the strike I was on night duty at the railway goods yard of Tyseley. I remember one night a train driver trying to get to work through a picket line of about six men. They beat him up and threw him out. He came to me. Together we went back . Between us we wiped the floor with all six. The driver went to work every night from then on. We had our share of parades and demonstrations much the same as the police do today. Only difference is we weren't so gentle and we cleared 'em a lot quicker. SIT DOWNS We had our 'sitters' even in those days. The suffragette movement had a strong following in Birmingham. They frequently staged 'sit downs' in public places. We were gentle with them. We just picked them up and sat them down again… in the nearest puddle. It's funny looking back. The times were rough and turbulent, but never without humour. Life was simple and uncomplicated. You loved and laughed, drank and fought just for the sheer exhilaration of living. As long as you were honest and never afraid to stand up for what you believed in, then life was good.

William 'Bill' Oakey: 1879-1967
		One small detail he neglected to mention is that his idea of entertainment was to be found in the Hay Mills fairground boxing booth where, having beaten the resident champion several times, Old man Clarke took him on to face all-comers and his reputation was legendary; villains who thought they could legally give a copper a good hiding quickly discovered the cost was too high! In those days boxers wore what were no more than kid gloves and the injuries, whilst not fatal, were extremely painful. Only two anecdotes survived from WW1: They were camped close to a Scots Guard battalion who had a much prized goat as a mascot.

The Brits had fed on little but hardtack and bully-beef until Grandad and a couple of friends provided them with a delicious stew that left everyone happy and replete. When, the next morning several Scots Guards came around asking if they’d seen a goat, it was to their eternal credit that no one smiled or burped. On the Somme, Grandad was attached to the mounted Military Police to keep one access from the frontline open at all times. There were three tracks into and out of the Somme frontline, the two outside for ferrying troops and artillery in and the middle one to bring out the dead and the wounded. On this occasion an officer was driven down the middle track and granddad simply rode his horse into the middle causing the driver to brake sharply. The officer immediately leapt to his feet and demanded to be let through. Grandad, quite reasonably explained that this was an exit lane only and the gentleman would simply have to go back. The officer turned purple with rage and shouted, “Don’t you know who I am, I’ll have you court-martialed for this. Let me through immediately.” Grandad drew his revolver, pointed it at the Captain, cocked the trigger and said, quietly, “This lane is for the wounded and the dead, would you care to join them because it’s the only way you’re going to use this lane.” With the officer still protesting vigorously, the driver, who didn’t like the look in Grandad’s eye, carefully backed the staff car back the way he’d come. Needless to say Grandad heard nothing further about the incident. When asked later if he would have shot the officer he calmly answered “Yes.” Also see the poem "A Tribute to My Grandfather"

The Thirteenth Disciple - Roman Centurion Gaius Cassius

Centurio Deputatus Gaius Cassius (Longinus - The Spear Carrier)

"Jesus raised his head to the dark sky and cried, "Father, why hast thou forsaken me?" At that moment Gaius knew that this man wanted to die and without hesitation he hefted the pilum and drove it deep into Jesus' side." The amazing true story of Centurion Gaius Cassius, also known as "Longinus - The Spear Carrier", who pierced the side of Christ on the Cross with his spear. Download "The Thirteenth Disciple" in Adobe Acrobat PDF format

Please note that "Longinus & the Spear of Christ" is provided for your personal enjoyment. The content and illustrations of "Longinus & the Spear of Christ" cannot be reproduced or distributed in any form or medium without the express written permission of Frederick Covins.

Additional Information: If you are interested in Gaius Longinus and the Spear of Christ then please take a look at the (as yet!) unpublished Satan's Fuehrer - a full length novel about the resurgence of Nazism when the Lance of Longinus is stolen.

Poetry - 8

Black/White Black is the darkness of ending, The sum of the spectrum, A negative plectrum That plucks at the nerve ends of fear. But white is the promise of colour, The beginning of light That voids the dark night, The veil of redemption drawn near.

The Sheldon Cinema Art-deco palace gone, Wherein a thousand dreams took shape And were, for a moment, More real than any modern neutron bomb. They smashed a hole in your side My river Lethe celluloid. In you lived knightly deeds of derring-do, Embracing in a darkened womb A world beyond the world we all presume To be the real world of me and you. They smashed a hole in your side My river Lethe celluloid. Today they tore your silver screen Spilling out a million screams Of laughter, tears and fears, Now, like the lights, just a dream. They smashed a hole in your side My river Lethe celluloid. You taught me how to drop The nonchalant bon-mot, tie a dickey-bow How to smoke a cigarette like Herbert Lom, And all the strange delights of your back row. They smashed a hole in your side My river Lethe celluloid. Demotic men in metal hats swing metal balls At all the treasured memories Held within your walls. Red plush seats tilt awry, Ripping deep red carpets. And when I, in anguish, cry, “Why?” They answer back “A Supermarket”. They smashed a hole in your side My river Lethe celluloid. But, there’s one across the road, I saw it yesterday. Another by the Wheatsheaf, And one across the way. Is everybody shopping mad or is it only me Who remembers all the joy you gave, For only one and three? Pence that is, not these stupid pee.

Happiness The fragility of happiness is As beautiful and as delicate As a butterfly’s wing, That a thoughtless word or a rough touch Can shatter in an instance.

Friends Everywhere I walk My friends, Corporeal or invisible, Walk with me. I am never alone, Even in loneliness. My grandfather, My mother, My son and My son’s dog, Jack. They are gone, but Still with me, They comfort me. When I am gone, Who, I wonder, Will I walk beside? Who will I comfort? Loved ones certainly, A stranger in need? None of us is Entirely alone. None of us need fear The loneliness of spirit That withers up the soul. We are never alone.

The umbilical cord is a piece of elastic I’ve fallen out with... I’ve got this weekend free so... I’ve got to meet... Can you have the dogs? Can you have the kids? Can you look after...? Can you lend...? Can you spend...? Can I borrow...? Can I use...? It’s only for a day, A week, A month, The rest of my life. Who else can I ask? Why not? Why shouldn’t I? Me? Mow the lawn!

I am I am today, Yesterday was someone else, Tomorrow is a stranger.

Wondrous creature I am the most wondrous creature, For I can destroy all others. I can destroy environments, I can destroy myself. Clever, huh?

Memories of a Ruby Wedding Celebration with Friends and Family

This is a proxy story by proxy, i.e., Maggie telling me what happened at our Saturday bash, probably Sunday too, it’s all a bit hazy and confused. The beer man arrived with the obligatory barrel of ‘Autumn Gold’ real ale on Thursday (he was playing cricket on Friday so he left me to tap it on Friday) and the tent men arrived late Friday afternoon. Putting up a marquee that stretched the length of our lawn was a joy to behold – it was a long way from my cub-scout days! The three bay marquee in red and green panels sprang up as if on springs, complete with internal lighting! Long tables went up to take the consumables and round tables plus chairs for the anticipated one hundred and fifty guests! It was magic. But what followed on Saturday morning was even more fantastic when Maggie, ably supported by daughter-in-law Jane, produced a Chicken Korma and Vegetable curry of Gargantuan proportions, plus, in true Ratty from Wind in the Willows style, hamrollsapplesbananaspearspotatocrispstortillacrispspringlesnutsbreadrolls baguettescheesessausagerollskiwifruitspineapplemelonsstrawberriescherries. Got the picture? Geoffrey arrived with two large steaming cauldrons of beef curry (his own beef cattle) and Frank Dandy (a local entrepreneur) arrived with a beautiful set of garden table and chairs that turned out to be a present from Maggie’s rather extensive family. Suddenly we were ready for the off and I took the opportunity to take my first drink of the day, not, I hasten to add, my last… What I think made the day was that everyone seemed to be in a mood to celebrate: three couples celebrating new additions to their families, Greg celebrating the sale of his software company, Geoffrey (a QC) celebrating the course of his current case against Saddam Hussein, Peter celebrating the success of his resolution of Lesotho’s problems, Neal (a sculptor) celebrating the success of a new exhibition, Tony was celebrating all his ambitions coming together in one building housing Squash Courts (he was a Squash champion) an auction room, an antique centre and a bar, Maggie was justifiably celebrating the huge success of her catering, and so it went on. Me? I was just celebrating! The huge diversity of people was as fascinating in itself as the way in which they all intermingled. I, as you might have gathered by now, was well in my cups and unintentionally provided at least one of the highlights of the day when my chair collapsed and left me on my back with my arms and legs in the air like a stranded Turtle. Geoffrey, with wicked glee, proposed a cricket match in the orchard and quickly rounded up half a dozen players too inebriated to realise what was going on – myself included. As standing upright was an achievement in itself bowling was a ludicrous idea. I found myself bowling to a young Asian boy (the son of a consultant neurosurgeon) eager to show off his athleticism and cricketing skills. I bowled, hit a damson tree, an apple tree and three fielders before they took me off! Geoffrey maintained that his team won, but I pointed out that it was my party and we won…period. Christopher, aided and abetted by Guy, made a speech and I have to admit it we, Maggie and I, were very close to tears, nor were we the only ones. The wine and beer continued to flow into the darkness and people drifted in and out of my consciousness. When it all ended I have no idea, only that it was a happy, happy day to be surrounded by so many friends and relatives. As surely as day follows night the clearing up of the debris arrived along with the Paracetamol and very strong coffee. Fortunately friends and relatives arrived to lighten the burden and our neighbour MP arrived and invited us to lunch in the House of Commons! Once again Maggie whipped up a superb lunch and we sat in the hot sun and feasted quietly and contentedly. One day we might even go back to work… but not just yet.

Florence

Finally made it into Firenze at about 7.30pm, just in time to find the one and only camp-site full up. Which, in the circumstances, was just as well co’s we wouldn’t then have experienced the phenomenon of the Piazzale Michelangelo. We were on a road above Firenze, just past the camp-site, when we came across this large car-park with a monument to Michelangelo’s ‘David’ in the centre and a semi-circular balustrade that looked out across the city, across the river Arno and the Ponte Vecchio. A breathtaking view and very moving, 'cos here was the city of Petrarch and Dante - of Giotto, Uccello, Botticelli, Leonardo da Vinci, Donatello, Vasari, Galileo and Michelangelo, etc., etc., ad gloria.

There were one or two caravans and motorhomes about that looked as though they’d come to rest for the night so we promptly rolled into a space and settled in. It was fairly crowded, lot of people about, but not uncomfortable. However, remember the Spanish habit of going ‘paseo’? Well, here they do it en-mass! By about 9pm the car-park was packed to the seams, the spaces in-between and everywhere else was packed with people; a vast imbroglio of light and shade and noise, a veritable tower of Babel with every language under the sun to be heard. A meeting place for street artists, street musicians, peddlers, teenagers and tourists. Coaches poured in and disgorged docile crocodiles of tourists whilst the local buses emptied noisy crowds in a seemingly unending stream - incredibly this went on until at least four am. When I finally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

At 6am everyone was woken up by a forceful shower from a sanitation wagon that liberally sprayed the road and anything in the way with a fierce jet of water. Then the sweepers and road polishers moved in and the Piazzale was soon as devoid of dirt and litter as a newly polished floor. The whole place is just astonishing. Called on friends, Peter and Rosemary Diamond, my OU tutor and Chris and Guy’s Eng.Lit. tutor, only to discover they’d left four days ago! Must have heard we were coming - they’ve been here since bloody January.

Absolutely exhausted! Have walked and walked around Firenze. Have drunk in cafes, eaten enormous pizzas whilst walking the streets. Have seen the ‘David’ - I’m not ashamed to say that I stood in front of the David and the tears rolled down my cheeks - it was the highlight of the whole holiday for me. And Botticelli’s ‘Venus’ and bloody near everything else, except that it would take weeks to see everything. One had to be selective, so Maggie chose the galleries and I chose the cafes! Guess who’s pished?

The camp-site, that we finally got on to this morning, is reminiscent of Spanish camp-sites at their worst; I won’t say it’s crowded, but when we leave we’ll take at least three tents with us, two of them have hammered their pegs practically into my tyres! Florence is incredibly beautiful, despite the turistos, and it is still possible to imagine the artistic patronage and political divisions that made the renaissance movement not only possible, but inevitable. There will be a renaissance again soon and, I believe, it will again come from the artists and writers.

God! but this is serious stuff on only two bottles of ‘cheap’ Italian vino, which is a myth 'cos the cheapest I’ve seen so far I’m drinking and that was about 70 pence a litre - 1400 Lira, bloody monopoly money here. Well, I mean, with 100 lira equal to 5 pence and 22,250 lira for 6 gallons of petrol what else is one supposed to think?

Michelangelo's 'Fred'

Florence is a student city, a ‘hippy’ city, outdated as that word might be. It is full of young people, mostly bumming fags, food and money off the turistos. Like Spain, Italy has its quota of beggars and there is nothing more incongruous or pathetic than a beggar outside a Gucci shop; wealth and poverty side by side and each ignoring the other, each so close and yet so far apart as to be in different worlds. I don’t know what’s the matter with me, I keep getting bloody serious and beginning to sound like one of those airy-fairy sociologists; I had a very emotional moment around the ‘David’, I think that must be it. Despite my flippancy the ‘David’ is for me sheer magic, created by a human-being whose power and insight has been unequalled by any, except perhaps his own contemporary, Leonardo da Vinci.