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Introduction.
I wrote my first proper short story (Soldier's Farewell) in 2004 but it was not until 2006 that I wrote several more in quick succession. I wrote 'Soldier's Farewell with the possibility in mind that it might, somehow, be found suitable for inclusion on my favourite Radio programme Sunday Miscellany, which I have been listening to most of my life. Not knowing how to go about it I rang RTE and was put through to Lawrence Foster himself (a bit like ringing Buckingham Palace and being put throught to the Queen). It was rejected by the great man as "not being suitable in tone, presentation or content". However, two years later, when I presented the very same story, to the very same programme, all-be-it to a different presenter, but without changing a word it was accepted. I recorded it a couple of weeks later in Letterkenny and it was broadcast by RTE Radio on 16 July 2006. . . . The Commer Truck 15 Sept ‘98 (This is the first story I have written since school)
. . . Soldier’s Farewell (2006)
In 1980, while a Captain in the Irish Army, I was transferred to Custume Barracks, Athlone, for disciplinary reasons. I was placed under the watchful eye of a very strict Commanding Officer, Comdt (now, Colonel (retd)), Eiver O’Hanluain.
. . .
On my first sailing trip around Ireland I arrived at Tory Island in the autumn of 1988. Tory was no safe place to be at anchor with the wind rising from the South West and a gale forecast for the afternoon. I quickly made for the only reachable shelter mentioned in the sailing directions. With the wind almost on the nose, the passage to Inis Bo Finne, close-hauled in mounting seas, was exhausting. Toberglassan Bay is open to the North East, and protected by a mere 50ft hill to the Southwest. None-the- less, I was very relieved to drop the hook in that beautiful, clear-watered, sandy- bottomed bay and settle down to a warm feed of fresh mackerel, organic vegetables, and potatoes boiled in seawater.
distance, and I poked my head out the hatch for a look. I was alarmed to find that my boat had dragged anchor and was being swept onto the rocky shore of Inis Dooey Island. I very quickly started the engine and motoring towards the relative shelter of the bay again, collected the anchor and chain as I went, and then made ready the second anchor. As I approached the selected spot I noticed a man with a dog standing on the headland at the eastern side of the bay. This time, secured to two anchors, and closer to the beach and hill, I was safe and snug from the raging gale and foaming sea outside the bay.
eventually had to return to Dunmore East via Malin Head, Rathlin Island and the East coast. The following year I tried again. This time when I arrived in Toberglassan Bay the weather was settled. The beautiful bay looked like it was on one of those deserted island in the south pacific, except for the absence of palm trees, and I had time to go ashore. As I landed my dingy on the sandy beach I noticed a man with a dog on the same headland as last year. I walked towards him with my empty water-can in hand. He remembered my yacht, and seeing my predicament on that occasion, had called out to me, but eventually realised that I couldn’t hear him in the strong wind. In a quiet and un-assuming way, he said that he then set his dog barking, which I did hear. I thanked him sincerely for his quick thinking.
I spoke at my usual quick pace, but it seemed as if he was reading my words,… considering them carefully,….. formulating his reply, ….and speaking it back to me in slow, peaceful measure. The experience slowed me right down to his pace. He took me back the island to the house he shared in winter with his friend, Mary. She was blond haired, shy and retiring, a native-Irish speaker who may even have been more uncomfortable with English than she was with strangers. She filled my water-can with sweet, clear spring water, and handed it back to me without a word. As we walked back to the boat again I asked Neil if he had ever sailed, or if he would like to. He said that he hadn’t, but he would, if I could let him have about three days notice. I told him that my plans were to sail south along the west coast, around Kerry and Cork, and back to Dunmore East, so it seemed that this would not suit.
he had lectured at a University in the UK before trying to escape the masses by moving to Letterkenny where he lectured at the Regional College. Letterkenny was too busy for him so he moved to Falcarragh. Falcarragh was still too big so he moved to the relatively quiet Inis Bo Finne. However, even the thin line of scattered, white- washed houses on the South side of the island were too busy for him from Spring to Autumn, so he built two little stone huts on the edge of the rock overlooking Toberglassan Bay. One housed his hens and his ducks. The other, his home, was built with such a low felt roof, it is not possible to stand up in. It has a small, narrow door to the north, a tiny window to the east and a candle for light at night. He slept on an old army safari bed. In this remote spot he wrote a diary about his thoughts, the people he spoke with and things he saw. He made beautiful jewellery. He painted. He made a wooden clock and even a small currach. He had a great love of wildlife,especially the birds. I never did get back to take him sailing. I failed yet again, due to consistent South Westerly gales, to get further South than Glencolmcille. I returned to Dunmore East once more, but then, in a late run of good weather I continued on around the South coast, so as to winter in the Shannon. The following summer I made my way, up the West coast. I left the boat at Aranmore Island and took the bus to Falcarragh, so as to give Neil the three days notice he requested. I arrived in the Shamrock Bar only to be met by the people who had just attended his funeral dinner. His friend Mary approached me, put her hand on my arm and said, “Neil was not a Catholic, you know, but he was a very holy man”. I have no idea why she said this to me. She had never spoken to me before that, and ever after, if I met her on the street, she would acknowledge my salute, but move quickly and shyly on her way. . Many a moonlit night since then, I have visited Neil’s grave at Killult churchyard, near Falcarragh, where it overlooks Inis Bo Finne. The gravestone bears the simple inscription Neil McGregor, Master Craftsman, and the grave is adorned by a single red rosebush, which Mary planted for him. She moved off the island after that and tended the grave regularly until she herself died a couple of years ago. She is buried two miles away in the Catholic graveyard at Gortahork. No one lives on the island in winter any more. Neil Mc Gregor’s hut is becoming derelict now, but inside there are two beautiful carvings, cut into rocks in the walls, a testament to his patience and skill, and to his love of wild things and special places. His hens and ducks are long gone, but in the winter the skeins of wild geese come in from Spitsbergen, Greenland and Canada and they inhabit his huts and headland. Perhaps they come to honour the memory of someone who loved and understood them, someone who knew the true measure of time, and the purpose of life.
. . .
loved all flowers, but Dad loved a particular variety well known in Ireland as the Easter Lily. Mum used to bring Lilies to the church and I noticed that these flowers always seemed to be present around statues of Saint Anthony. She believed that a piece of the creamy white petal, blessed at Saint Anthony’s shrine, had the cure for many illnesses. My Dad so loved this flower that he even wore a little flat paper one, pinned to the lapel of his jacket, at Easter every year. This always seemed to coincide with him getting drunk and singing Republican songs, and if I remember correctly, I was about 6 when I learned the words of the first song that was more than just a nursery rhyme. It was called “Sean South of Garryowen” and it was on a green-white- and-orange-coloured leaflet, which glorified Sean South and Fergal O’Hanlon’s sacrifice for Irish Freedom. This was my first lesson in political propaganda.
Republican, had joined the RAF during World War 11. Perhaps he planned on being some sort of spy. After all, there was a history of that sort of thing in our family. Dad told me the story about his Grandfather Michael, who was a Sergeant in the Dublin Metropolitan Police, during the War of Independence. His house was raided by the notorious Black and Tans, because they knew that his brother was a member of the IRA, and they found a cache of arms hidden under his cooker. He was so badly beaten by the “Tans” that he died of his injuries, and they then attempted to cover up the murder by discharging him from the force on the same day that he died. I brought my Dad, and my son, Louis, to visit his grave in Glasnevin on the day that I also brought
first time I saw what I believed to be a balanced portrayal of the War of Independence and the Civil War. Dad admitted that it was a very good movie, but would say no more than that. Although my Dad was proud for me that I became an Officer in the Irish Army, I think he would have been happier if I had joined the IRA. He never tried to influence my loyalty to the “Free State”, as he called it, but he couldn’t hide his enthusiasm if an opportunity arose to recall the glorious deeds of the IRA and the atrocities and reprisals of the “Staters”, during the Civil War. I remember as a child, being brought by him to see the massive memorial to the IRA-men killed at Ballyseedy, in Kerry. I couldn’t understand what this Civil War was all about, because at school, history ended in 1921. It was almost as if the Civil War had never happened. There was very little reference to it, and in any case, we were assured that there would be no exam questions on it when the time came, so it wasn’t relevant.
Hostel, which I had started on the north west coast of Donegal. This dyed-in-the-wool Kerry man couldn’t believe that there was a county in Ireland that was at least as beautiful as his home county, and he loved being here. He also loved to entertain the young tourists with his particular slant on Irish history, and they loved his humour and his rebellious spirit. They probably didn’t mind if a lot of his stories were rarely short, while others must have sounded distinctly tall. He endeared himself to them with accounts of his escapades poaching and smuggling in the 50s and 60s, and I was aware that he had received many cards and photos from grateful guests. In 2002 while visiting my Dad’s only sister in London, she told me some interesting and revealing facts about my Dad’s unhappy relationship with his Dad, who died around the time of my birth. Then she asked me what story my Dad had told me about my Great Grandfather. When I told her about how he died, she told me that it wasn’t true. She said that he died defending his Police Station at Clontarf during an IRA attack. She said that my Dad had made up that story because he was embarrassed by his Grandfather’s un-patriotic role in the War of Independence. She gave me a photo of my Great Grandfather, resplendent with several medals, in his Dublin Metropolitan Police uniform. His physical bearing and facial features are very similar to my own. My Dad died on 11th January 2004. We had a typical Donegal wake to welcome him to his adopted home and chosen resting place, far from the beloved Kerry of his childhood. I pinned an Easter Lily to the lapel of his jacket for the wake and funeral. He would have liked that. Some of his friends made personal tributes in songs and poems and a piper in a Saffron kilt led us to the graveyard. One friend, an Irish Army Officer in full uniform, who also sang a tribute at the funeral service, gave us all the out-breath of laugher that we needed at the burial. Just before the coffin was lowered into the ground he stepped forward and announced that he was from the Magharees, that same beautiful part of Kerry that my ancestors come from, and where they are buried. He said he wanted to share with us a special tradition from that place. He unscrewed each of the cross-mounted coach-bolts on the coffin lid, a few turns, explaining that, “the idea is to give the Kerryman a head start”. I recall now that Mum gave me a leaf of Blessed Lily to keep me safe, on the last occasion I saw her alive. She died suddenly 10 days later. That was 12 years ago, and I still have it in my wallet. When Dad died 3 years ago I asked a friend to get me lilies for his funeral at the flower market in Dublin. She got me the first five lilies to arrive in the country. This Easter I brought a lily for each of them, to their graves in Dunfanaghy, to honour their memory with the flower they loved. As I write this tribute, I am aware that behind me on one side of the mantelpiece sits that photo of my Great Grandfather in his DMP uniform. On the other side is a photo of Dad, aged about 18, in his RAF uniform. His hat is cocked at that same jaunty angle that he used to wear his caps at. I have attached one of those little paper, Republican Easter Lilies to the frame, to remind me that I can respect that which I don’t understand, or may not entirely agree with. . . . .
. . . . .
“Search for the hero inside yourself. Search for the hero you hide. Search for the hero inside yourself. Until you find the key to your life”. Some of the towns I visited in Germany were Wuerzburg, where Saint Killian, from Bangor, Co Down, founded his monastery, and where a large town subsequently grew up. I visited the crypt where his body is supposed to be perfectly preserved. This phenomenon is attributed to the fact that his long lost grave was found after several centuries, under the stables, where it benefited from a constant stream of horse piss. I also visited Fulda, which grew around the monastery of Saint Boniface from Clonmacnoise. His statue outside the cathedral shows him holding a bible with a dagger embedded in it. This recalls the story that he shielded himself with the Good Book, the nearest thing to hand, and in this way saved his life in a murder attempt. You could say that he put his trust in the Word of God for his defence. Leaving Milan I was advised to change my route from the planned one, and take the scenic route via Bobbio. The name Bobbio rang a bell, but I couldn’t remember why. When I got there, I parked my bike by a church and walked across the very striking medieval bridge, now only open to pedestrians. At the far side of the bridge I came face to face with the statue of Saint Columbanus. It was then that I remembered back to Primary School, rhyming off the saint’s names and their associated monasteries; Saint Kevin, Glendalough; Saint Columbanus, Bobbio; etc.
. . . . . Green Peace, Part One.
. . . . . Green Peace, Part Two.
. . . Memory (revised, 25 Oct 2006)It never ceases to amaze me how often I can convince myself that I remember exactly what happened in the past. Later I find that I have been mistaken. Can I ever rely absolutely on the accuracy of what I recall in any situation, without any consideration of what I may sub-consciously choose to forget? One memory I have goes back to when I was about 5 or 6, - from the days of my Dad’s heavy drinking binges. On this particular night, Mum woke my brother and me, saying that we that were going to stay at her brother’s house, just up the road. Mum was choosing for us not to be there when my Dad arrived home, drunk. When we got to my uncle’s house, because of a shortage of beds, I was put in a room where one of my Uncle’s cattle-truck drivers was sleeping. I was woken again in the middle of the night to find that this man was in my bed, behind me, and that he was touching me. I was frozen with fear and confusion and didn’t know what to do. Then, the strangest thing happened, but I’ll get to that later. Any time I have told this story I have always said that I could not really be sure that it happened at all. My recollection was vague, somehow. However, most people who hear it seem to think it is true, for some reason. Whenever I was asked how I felt about the driver, I always said that I bear him no ill will. Anyway, I point out that it is not so much what happens to us that matters, but our response to it. In recent years, some new light has been shed on my dilemma, which has created even more uncertainty. One friend, a psychologist, suggested that I should ask my Dad what he remembers, rather than leaving it too late, and then I will never know. It occurred to me that there was always the risk that he would not remember in any case, especially if he had been drunk at the time. I rang him and told him only, that I remember Mum taking my brother and I to my uncle’s house one night that he, Dad, was away drinking. I told him that I remember being woken by him calling my name at my bedroom window, and that he took me home. His reply was that it couldn’t have happened because he would never go to my uncle’s house with drink taken (my uncle was a non-drinker, non-smoker, and he disapproved of Dad’s drinking). Only then did it occur to me that he wouldn’t have known where we were, and even if he had guessed, he wouldn’t have known which room I was in. In any case, why only take me home, and not my brother as well? A more subtle change happened in relation to my reaction to what the driver had done. That is, if in fact he had done anything, and if any of this had happened at all. I was staying for dinner one evening with two poet friends when I was asked to read something after dinner. A strange feeling came over me, and I said quietly, that I didn’t want to read anything, but that I wanted to write something. The two ladies got up from the table immediately, got me a pen and a brand new book to write in, and left the room. A poem fell onto the page, complete in its entirety. I was as surprised by its conclusion as I was by reading my description of the driver. Midnight Rescue (12 Sept 1998) A man tapped at the window, Called my name. I rose and left the bed, And left my shame. I saw it was my father standing there, With outstretched arms To rescue me, Save me from harm. I never, ever, told him how that man, Played well, a strange new touching game, With musky smell. I hear he’s dead, And rotting in some grave, Too good for him, Who made my life a slave, To faltering, jagged memory, All my life. I know my Dad was there, Though rumour’s rife, That we invent salvation, Just because …….., But I know my Dad was there. He was! ………. He was!!!! Another Memory A startling revelation in my memory loss occurred in late ‘98, or early ‘99. I was stuck in traffic en-route to the RTE television studios at Donnybrook in I related that when I had been training to become a commissioned officer in the army, I was informed, one day, by my Training Officer that my father had been arrested and sent to prison on a firearms offence. My first thought was to go to see him. The second thought, however, was how this might impact on my career. For 28 years after that, I carried the guilt that my father was in prison for a year, but I didn’t go to see him. Tonight I would bare my soul on national TV in an attempt to atone for my cowardice. Noel, asked if my Dad knew that I was going to do this. When I said no, he insisted that I must ask him if it was OK to do so. I told him that my Dad was happy that he had done the right thing in the circumstances and that he was proud, both of the act, and of the consequences he had suffered. Noel insisted that I should at least let him know, so I agreed to do so. I rang Dad, telling him about the programme, of what I proposed, and of the guilt I had carried in silence all these years. He was shocked. He said, “Are you mad, or what? I was in prison for one week-end, and you did come to see me”. “No Dad”, I insisted, “I didn’t”. “You did” he said, “and don’t you remember, you brought me a box of King Edward cigars, which I shared with the other prisoners, joking at the irony of a soon-to-be Commissioned Army Officer, bringing cigars to his ‘jail-bird’ Dad”. At that moment I remembered the small wicket-gate in the huge green doors of Limerick Prison being opened to allow me in to visit. I clearly remembered then, stepping over the bottom rung of the doorframe and entering through the gate-well into the outer courtyard. Now I am left with the possibility that the explanation for my general memory loss is what came out in the poem. Even so, I must consider that the memory of visiting my Dad in prison may have been obliterated by guilt, because I entertained, even for a split second, the selfish notion of the effect of his actions on my future career. Will I ever know the truth of all this, and if so, will I remember what I have discovered, and will it really matter?
The AGM ("Weekend") of the Independent Holiday Hostels of Ireland was held here on Fri/Sat/Sun 12/13/14th Oct. All the delegates agreed that it was an Ulster experience they will never forget. I wrote the following reflection immediately afterwards. AGM with a difference. It was never meant to be all about big business. It was never meant to be all about big city hotels. It was never meant to be all about big organizations. It was never meant to be all about mobile phones, the internet, buzz words, the Celtic Tiger………., and yet that’s where it all ended up, until it very nearly all ended. “One last chance”, was the hope of those who had not yet finally given up, and yet the outcome of that last chance brought the writer face to face with a totally unexpected gift. That gift was not just all the appreciation, it was not just all the fun, it was not just all the net-working, it was not just meeting old friends and making new ones, but most remarkably, most un-expectedly, it was also about a young Derry man, whom I will call ‘Sean’ to protect his identity. The Independent Holiday Hostels of Ireland was founded in 1994. It came into being when an amalgamation of the then Budget Hostels, mostly bigger city hostels, and a very independent group of individualistic and smaller-hostel owners from around Ireland agreed to also come under the Bord Failte umbrella. What had started in the 80s as a cottage industry of six far-flung hostel-owners with their very different hostels was fast getting itself organised and talking about networking and marketing, whatever that meant. The stated aim of the IHH, an association of over 100 hostels nationwide, is to provide friendly, reasonably priced accommodation, and to make the guests stay as pleasant as possible. It is, in fact a Co-operative Society and all member hostels must have full Planning Permission, Fire Officers approval and comply with Failte Ireland regulations. I’ll never forget the day the Bord-Failte-man called to inspect my hostel at Corcreggan Mill near Dunfanaghy. After satisfying himself that it was quite a unique hostel, and that it seemed to comply in almost every respect, he needed to ensure that I had a TV for the guests. Well, I tried to assure him that my clientele would not want a TV, as it would completely detract from the quiet and social atmosphere they like to enjoy. He was stuck, confined by his book of rules, but wanting to approve the hostel. I suggested a compromise. I would get an old TV set, take out the tube, and insert a large goldfish bowl, so that people could watch Goldfish TV all day. In exasperation, but smiling, he approved the hostel. In compliance with the spirit of that man’s Book of Rules I had that wonderful Derry artist, Brian O’Doherty, paint a picture of a TV set, which hangs on the common-room wall. It depicts a fuzzy screen, and is titled “Un-plugged”. Our Hostels come in many shapes and sizes; each is unique and reflects the individuality of its owner and the diversity of Ireland, from a Georgian house in Dublin to an old Mill in Donegal and the isolation of an island off the west coast, the same warmth and friendliness can be experienced. The communal ethos of a shared experience over a cup of tea means that there is always the feeling of being among friends, there is always someone to mark your map, always some one to direct you to the best view, the best music, the best pub. What does the IHHI contribute to the country? The 100+ hostels have over 6,000 beds across Ireland, and record approx 1.2 million ‘bed-nights’ per year, yielding a conservatively estimated, total contribution of €83 million to both economies on this little island. Not bad for a” budget-spend” market!!! As our Chairman, Robin Hickey, said, in the Youth Submission in 2003, “If the Youth and Budget Tourism sector is the Cinderella of Irish Tourism, it is also the nursery for the tourist of the future. Most of the overseas visitors to Irish hostels are in the top 3 socio-economic groups and will, in years to come, be 5 star tourists if they have a good experience on their initial visit. If business is improving, why have the number of hostels decreased in the past few years?” One factor of course is the high value of buildings in Ireland, compared to the relatively small income from this market segment, making it difficult to refuse a good purchase offer. Another is that in order to keep up with a rapidly changing market it has proven costly and difficult for hostels to maintain their ethos while improving facilities and answering customer expectations. The more you modernise, the more you risk losing the atmosphere, if you are not very careful. “A terrible beauty is born.” (WB Yeats) The Ulster AGM-weekend Experience begins I had set myself three objectives; 1. Bring hostel-owners to Ulster so that they would then be in a position to recommend our scenery, our culture and our better-than-the-grim-forecast weather to their guests. 2. Allow a better opportunity for networking than the 2-hour, busy, whistle-stop, city-centred AGMs had been able to. 3. Make the programme interesting enough for our own members to enjoy quality time together, with fun, food and craic. Friday saw the arrival of the Committee for their usual pre-AGM meeting. When they came down to supper they were amazed to find the congenial gatherings huddled around tables, engrossed in conversation. Five Dublin hostel managers around one such table were delighted to have the first ever opportunity to put a face to the name they were only used to on the phone or email, and it should be said, they were among the first to book the weekend! It was a long night, and there was no need to arrange any extra-curricular entertainment. Some other members availed of the hospitality of other hostels and the magnificent Ulster scenery en-route. D-Day dawneth 1. The Trade Show The usual trade show preceded the AGM proper, but with a Green flavour this year. Al Gore’s “An Inconvenient Truth” was on show continually. Renew It Energy Solutions had a fine display of alternative energy systems. The Corcreggan Mill Hostel’s recently installed Solar Panel heating system was available for verification. The Green Box System was also on display advocating the way ahead for a cleaner, greener Ireland. Orbit Security’s array of services included a CCTV system featuring live footage of the key aspects of the property. One camera caught the French Chef stealing herbs from the owner’s Organic Garden. Even our Free Range chickens felt much safer than usual. 2.The AGM The setting was the large and airy ‘Upper Room’ which we had specially adorned with interesting paraphernalia, not least of which was the Committee’s table, which, instead of the usual table-cloth, was bedecked with an array of international flags. One Northern Ireland delegate was impressed that the British flag was shown right-way-up, but then some of the more southern delegates insisted on the inclusion of an Irish flag to balance the scene. The routine was punctuated by short presentations from three guest speakers. Karina Kelly informed us about the various alternative energy systems now on the market, their usefulness, their cost, and the grant aid available. Ian Wasson from the Green Box, advised us how we can go about reducing our Carbon Footprint. This was followed by a detailed, informative, and hostel-appropriate presentation on tourism-body objectives, our own contributions, market trends and visitor expectations, and, key issues to look out for and capitalise on, by Maire-Aine Gardiner, Failte Ireland’s North West Regional Tourism Development Officer. The normal, predictable, routine-business-matters were quickly dispensed with, and followed by a lively debate on the future, or otherwise, of the association. Suddenly a new energy was evident in the room and instead of the usual hesitation when it came to Committee service there was raft of volunteers for specific and even non-specific appointments. The new Marketing Officer, Aileen Galvin, an independent professional who had opted to sleep in a bunk-bed rather than the luxury Hotel suite she might have normally been accustomed to, lit a fire under us, saying she would be in hot pursuit of all of us to guide, or, force us, if necessary, into positive marketing objectives and results. Then came the real cruncher, …, the test of the success of the initiative, and the whole event, and the venue. The Chairman announced that the next item would be to decide if there was to be another AGM, and if so, where it would be. There was an un-nerving silence for a couple of seconds but when I turned around one brave man, Sean O’Roideain from Co Louth, had his hand up. His proposal, “The Foy Centre in Carlingford will host next years AGM”, was met with a long round of applause from all the delegates, and a jubilant sense of relief and triumph from yours truly. The meeting ended with the host’s encouragement of a new, homely, connected organization of mutually supporting owners and managers, which would value our own quality of life as highly as any business success. Final instructions and timings were then given for the Dinner. 3.Preamble to the Dinner Great effort was made to dress for Dinner and I led the assembly into the Dining Room at 8pm sharp. People unfamiliar with my interests and ethos were at first surprised by the traditional Irish Saffron Kilt topped by a green tweed short jacket and Saffron ‘brat’. The guest speaker was adorned in a “Roman collar”, as one young man described it. One guest was heard to comment that there was a confusion of colour, flags and pictures that just didn’t add up. Over the mantle-piece, in pride of place, was a large, framed, official photo of a very regal Mary Mc Aleese. Her Excellency had penned a suitable inscription above her signature on the photo to mark the occasion, which read, “To the IHHI. Best wishes for a successful AGM, in beautiful Donegal. Beautiful Ulster”. Either side of the chimneybreast hung the National and Ulster flags, while the Donegal flag also hung in one corner. On the wall opposite the fireplace there were two, seemingly odd bedfellows that had partnered each other since the beginning of this unusual hostel in 1991. One I always describe as one-of-the-greatest, should-have-been-the-Nationalist-hero, characters, who, supported by the Pope and many Irishmen, beat the English King right here in Ireland, King ‘Billy’. The other is of that gallant band of (predominately) Presbyterians, the United Irishmen, the ‘fathers of Irish Republicanism’. Both subjects deserve to be re-examined, as does our historical instruction and our ’hand-me-down’ values. The diners were treated to a medley of tunes reflecting each of the 32 counties, by Colm O’Donnell on the 1910 baby grand piano. On the wall behind Colm’s head was a copy of the Proclamation of the Irish Republic, and beside it, a teenager’s reflection on the merits and madness of the 1916 leader’s initiative that fateful Easter Sunday. It is the most honest, balanced and generous appraisal of that event that I have read, and it was written by a young Irish Army Cadet called Pol O’Donnell, who is also the son of our pianist for the evening. 4. The Dinner The diners then sat down to a fish starter prepared by French-born, Aranmore-based, “Eric the Chef”, followed by a choice of local Venison, personally procured for the occasion by myself, local wild Rabbit from the dunes near the Mill, vegetables of all sorts from the Corcreggan Mill Organic Garden. Even the fruit gracing the table, and the apple-pie dessert, came courtesy of the same garden. The spring-well table water was brought ashore, specially for the occasion, from nearby Inis Bo Finne, on my old wooden sailing yacht. A few places were reserved on the H-shaped table layout, which had ‘banners’ of Black, Red and Green ribbon, to represent the I.H.H.I of the association’s name. One seat, nearest the door was reserved for a mother with a monitor whose young baby was asleep in a nearby bedroom; one was for the after-dinner speaker who needed to be able to step back out of the H to address his audience; and one was for the host who needed to have a clear view of the door, and be close to the Port selection, which was kindly donated for the event by Margaret Doohan from the Shamrock Lodge Bar and Hostel in Falcarragh. ‘Sean’, who had had to return urgently to Derry during the after-AGM break had no option but to occupy the only available seat, at the centre table, right beside the host. Proceedings began when I called the assembly to order. I first read from a gift given to me when I began the hostel at Corcreggan Mill on the 1st of June 1991, and which has been a constant inspiration. It is called the Rune of Hospitality. This was followed by Grace-before-meals, which, unlike the usual rushed prayer, was a reminder to the guests from this former vegetarian, of the spirit of the animals and vegetables whose flesh would now nourish our bodies, and I asked for an acknowledgement of the connectivity of the whole of Creation. ‘Sean’ nudged me to ask if the guy sitting opposite was really a Priest. He seemed to think there was something odd about him. He was right! He was also confused that the “Priest”, who spoke with a refined English accent, proclaimed himself to be Irish, showing also that he had a very detailed knowledge of both Donegal and Derry. The piano music was barely audible over the buzz of conversation and hearty laughs filling the room. The tinkling of a bell called the guests to order again. I explained the meaning of the Irish words, ‘An t-Uachtarán’, and the tradition behind the toast, and then called on everyone to charge their glasses, stand, and join with me in a toast to her Excellency, The President of Ireland. The room resounded with the full-voiced reply, “An t-Uachtarán”. This little Northern Ireland lady’s unique contribution to the event, and to “bridge-building” among the people of the whole island of Ireland, was not lost on this assembly. 5. The After Dinner Speech My short introduction of the “Priest” consisted only of the fact that the little I knew about Niall was all based on whispered hearsay, but that I did believe that his Passport read like an index to a world atlas. After an un-remarkable introduction he removed his jacket to reveal a multi-coloured polka-dot shirt whose black front with ‘Roman’ collar belied the comical ensemble behind it. ‘Sean’ nudged me again saying, “I knew he wasn’t a Priest. He’s a fucking stripper, isn’t he”? Niall remarked that he wore the black, red and green colours to compliment the table-banner decoration, which he recognised as recalling my former Irish Army Cavalry Corps service on the Border during the 1970s. He went on to recall his own service as a British Army Officer in Northern Ireland during the same period, remembering a particular shooting incident on the border, where he and his men, and members of the Irish Army, and the IRA were all involved. I noticed ‘Sean’s’ face tighten, not believing his ears. I couldn’t help wondering if he was speaking of a similar incident I was involved in, only to discover weeks later that the IRA commander was my cousin. He had his audience in raptures of laughter with accounts of time spent accompanying the Queen Mother, and some of the funny incidents he experienced in that household. The mood changed to absolute stunned silence as he told of his experiences as a Church of England clergyman and aid worker in strife-torn Africa, where he said that the atrocities he experienced first hand, and described in graphic detail, made the Northern Ireland situation almost pale into insignificance by comparison. He rounded off his engaging speech very nicely by comparing the function and hospitality with which the hostel owners, managers and staff perform their role, to be as good as that of any peace-keeper he had met. When Niall regained his seat it was the turn of the Downings-based, internationally renowned tweed designer, John Mc Nutt, who is now better known as an accomplished composer, singer and musician. John had his audience spellbound with his Donegal ‘blas’ and rich storytelling manner. I hadn’t realised until then what a marvellous storyteller he is. His spectacular guitar playing, his rich voice, and his very engaging and meaningful lyrics held us all speechless. 6. “The Show” (Desmond Donnellan) I then rose to remark that, although most of us present were familiar with the traditional Irish tunes and songs we had been entertained by throughout the meal, that there was another tradition in Ulster. I asked, “How many of you have ever seen an Orange Parade? How many of have marched behind a Lambeg Drum? Well, now is your chance”!! With that, the door opened and an ‘Orange’ fife-player, backed by a massive Lambeg Drum, whose equally massive drummer with his typically clean-shaven square head, entered the room playing The Sash. I rose from the table and vigorously encouraged the guests to quickly rise, and follow that “Different Drum”. Un-noticed by anyone but Niall, ‘Sean’ was frozen to the spot, unable or unwilling to stand for that spectacle, which, despite his respect for the host, the President, and the Reverend Niall, was just too big a challenge to his up-bringing and beliefs. Quite definitely, ‘a bridge too far’! Somehow, Niall persuaded him to follow on. The long line of revellers were led out the front door, the long way around, to the rear of the Mill House, in through the first floor reception room, and up to the large performance space in the ‘Upper Room’. The ear splitting, hair-raising, music continued as the room filled with IHH guests, and locals alike. As the last of the audience took their seats the drumming quietened to the sound of a heartbeat. Then there was heard a different but more familiar beat from somewhere towards the rear of the room, perhaps on the landing, outside the still-open entrance door. Each time the Lambeg answered the call of the Bodhran, the Bodhran got louder. Then each got louder and louder until the two merged in a rare orgy of prohibited union that brought tears to several eyes in the room, where many never thought that such a spectacle was either appropriate or even possible on this island. The first line of Army Cadet Pol O’Donnell’s letter began, “Times change. Opinions change”, and perhaps a new era in our troubled history is beginning to dawn. After the Bodhran player, Roy Arbuckle from Derry, had advanced up the centre aisle between the rows of chairs, and joined his Londonderry and “Different Drum” colleague in centre-stage, the two drumbeats merged as one and played side by side. When the sound finally died away I reminded the assembly of an old saying that goes, “When the Lambeg and Bodhran play together we will finally have peace in Ireland” The drummers then retreated to the fireplace and the room was filled with a lively dance tune. Eight young girls in black costumes with silver mini skirts paraded up the aisle in heavy ‘hard-shoe’ brogues. As the music stopped they separated left and right in front of the first row of chairs, turned dramatically into line to face the audience, and stopped, frozen in dance-ready pose, prepared to begin their first number. After a couple of seconds the silence was broken when Michael from Jamaica Inn, Limerick, with a deep husky voice was heard to utter, “H E L L O G I R L S !!!”. Well, the place erupted into laughter and the young girls took some time to get over their embarrassment and recover their composure. Robin Hickey said afterwards, “that will be the quote that this whole weekend will be remembered for”. As the music came on, the dance began as a nice, quiet step dance, but very quickly erupted into a deafening crescendo of energy, and hair-on-the-back-of-the-neck-raising primal rhythm that was even more powerful than the effect of the kitchen dance scene from Brian Friel’s “Dancing at Lughnasa”. The wooden sprung floor was tested to the limit and the varnish was completely destroyed, but boy, was it worth it!!! The drummers and a very accomplished, international fiddle player from Canada entertained us for another two numbers. Then, the now-10-girl troupe, in different costumes, danced on and gave another tingling performance to a standing, participating audience’s hand-clapping accompaniment, and ovation. John Mc Nutt, very appropriately, played and sang his recent composition, “The Planter and the Gael” which received a tremendous appreciation from a grateful gathering. As if we weren’t already sufficiently enthralled, the young, shy, very talented and recently prize-winning Uillinn piper, Martin Crossan, wooed the guests with his startling ability. After all that wonderful performance of music, song and dance, a session began, and all sorts of un-rehearsed combinations of talented musicians entertained us into the small hours in various rooms in the Mill House. Bright and early next morning the hardworking Mill House volunteers, without whose help the whole extravaganza could not have operated so professionally, if at all, were at their posts again. Gabi, (who tirelessly worked unpaid, very long hours, in just about every job that came up), Noreen (who is supposed to be relaxing in her holiday home, but helped decorate the tables, wash dishes, and much more), Conrad, the German, Brad Pitt look-alike (who had only planned to camp for one night, but stayed for a week of un-paid, hard work, and who kept us all going with his cheerful efficiency), so too Olivia, (a young, girly, Oriental Australian, and one-night-only guest, stayed to help with waiteressing). It was she who hand-painted the 50 Donegal beach stones with the IHH logo, “one for everyone in the audience”, to remind the delegates of their extraordinary, Corcreggan Mill, Dunfanaghy, AGM-Weekend, and Ulster experience. I wish to express my sincere gratitude to the Northern Region Hostels whose moral and physical support gave me the confidence to carry it off. Their following up with phone calls to remind members made all the difference. In particular I want to thank Arnie from Belfast who came two days early to paint and cut grass and do taxi runs and much more, and then stayed for the clean up. Finally, I must point out that, without the moral support and guidance I received from Robin Hickey and Claire de Jong it would not have turned out as beautifully as it did. How can I ever thank those wonderful friends who turned up to WOW the delegates and lay on a night to remember, and an unrivalled” Ulster Experience”? They are Colm O’Donnell, John Mc Nutt, Rev Niall Johnston, Roy Arbuckle, Richard Campbell, Fionnuala Shields and her Damhsoiri Clann Lir, and Martin Crossan. I would like to express my sincere thanks to the IHH, Failte Ireland and the Ulster Bank for sponsoring various aspects of a very successful AGM, which included the musicians and dancers travelling expenses, the official opening reception, and the After Dinner Speakers expenses, respectively. Conclusion Everyone I have met agrees that my three objectives were achieved, that the overall experience was a resounding success and that it sets the scene for a revival of the IHH and future AGMs. I am pleased with all of that, but the real gift for me personally, was when ‘Sean’ came to me on the steps of the Mill House next morning, saying “You know, I had a chat last night with the Lambeg Drummer. He used to be afraid to come to Donegal because of all the Teagues, but now he’s not afraid any more. He loves it here. He’s not such a bad chap after all. In fact, he seems quite normal, ….. nice, even!” Sailing to the moon. 13 Jan ‘08. (Written at Sea ... mostly!) Introduction It was a beautiful moon-lit night; the boat was sailing along nicely in the gentle south-easterly breeze. Heinrich and I were having a discussion about night-sailing but the moon’s reflection on the water brought to mind a discussion I had had with a sailing friend in I suggested that it appeared to be coming straight to me, and asked if it didn’t also seem to be coming straight to him, who was on the other side of the cockpit of his 10ft 5in-wide sailing boat. Smiling his usual boyish smile, he agreed. I pushed the idea a little further by suggesting that if there was a fleet of yachts all around us on the It was well into my watch and as I continued to steer the boat, Heinrich went below for a few hours rest. The moon, being directly ahead, lighted just one giant watery roadway before us. It seemed that we were sailing to the Moon. Old dreams One year previously I decided, for many reasons (not least was my new wife’s refusal to come sailing with me, even though she really tried everything), to give up my dream of 24 years, to sail around the world. It was time for me to face it. It just wasn’t going to happen. I began the normal maintenance and repair work on my beautiful old, 32ft, mahogany, sailing sloop to prepare her, not for sail, this time, but for sale. Officially she is called The Spinner, but many years ago I painted a red line across the “p” of her name on the stern and sides. I felt that the amended name was more appropriate. She had served me well, and taught me many valuable lessons, about the sea, and about myself. She had introduced me to many very special people. Such is the way of boats. In the course of the maintenance and repair work, “Kiwi”, a wooden-boat-builder at the Kilrush Creek boatyard suggested I look at an American yacht which was also being prepared for sale. I assured Kiwi that not only had I no interest in buying a boat, but that I certainly had no interest in ‘Tupperware’ (the derogatory term that wooden boat elitists use to describe GRP, or fibreglass, boats)! However, when I gave her a second glance, I knew her lines were good, so I asked Angelique to come and see her, and to my complete surprise she said, “It’s exactly what you have always dreamed of, you should buy it”. With that vote of confidence, and an immediate bank loan for the full amount, I bought The American registered Sailing Yacht, “Carramore”. Just for now I owned two boats! When I returned home I was given free ( how and why is a lovely story, but for another day), a lovely old 29ft, two-masted, open, sailing yawl, which, until fifty years ago was one of the many traditional, sailing-fishing boats of the North West coast of Ireland, and which have now all but disappeared. All of this stands as further testimony to my sincere belief that God is the greatest practical joker of all time. I usually try to escape the worst of the Irish winter, and my break away from Ireland often involves some sailing. In 2007 I spend almost six weeks crewing in the Seychelles. The year before, I visited my 25-year-old son, Louis, in Freemantle, Australia. At the beginning of this trip I thought we could have a father-son male-bonding adventure, so I hired a camper van. We both had enough of that after 10 days. I also did some flying, and of course, some sailing. This year, 2008, I planned to do a small reconnaissance of a couple of the Canary Islands, with a view to checking out the various harbour facilities and sailing conditions I might encounter in those beautiful Islands, if I got to bring my new boat there this year. The plan was to fly into Tenerife, take a ferry to La Gomera, where I would spend a couple of days, then go to El Hierro where I planned to spend 5 weeks chilling out, reading, writing, meditating, doing some Yoga, walking, and, I might even learn some basic diving skills which could be very useful on a sailing boat, even though I am afraid of water and cannot swim. I had already discovered that a fellow, ex-Irish Army Commandant called Shane Grey had a diving school there. He replied with a quick email about the glories of the island and, in particular, of a small fishing village on the extreme south-west coast called La Restinga. However, by the time I would get there, he would be in Egypt for six weeks, diving, of course. New dreams I flew into Tenerife South on the morning of 3rd of January, unsure until the last minute whether to take the ferry to La Gomera immediately, or spend one day on On the morning of the second day I drove to Heinrich and Lisa enjoy one of those rare but ideal relationships where harmony with each other and good will to all mankind are bright, burning lights that guide all who are fortunate to meet them. Now in their mid-sixties, they have known each other since age six, have two grown-up and married children, and retain their own childlike charm and joy. They are on a world voyage together, with two principle aims. The first is to visit the countries they have not yet seen but would like to, and the second, to keep sailing until they are no longer able. Heinrich never ceases to be amused by their friends who enquire when they are coming back home. He insists that they are at home, even if they have a second home, a house, which they may well visit at some future date. As a consequence, their boat is called Salzberg 7, which is also the house address of their other home in Celle, northern Germany. I asked Heinrich where they were bound for next. He said that they had planned to leave earlier that morning for La Gomera and then on to El Hierro before crossing the Atlantic to We quickly set plans in motion to, get my gear aboard, buy some last minute provisions, mostly additional beer for Heinrich although he never touched a drop while under way, and to return the hire-car to the airport a day early. All of that worked a treat and I settled down for my first night on this very well found yacht. My sleeping berth was, to say the least, snug! I could not stand to my full height, and there is just barely enough room to turn around. The height of the exit was less than four feet. Heinrich apologised that there was no special place for my clothes as every drawer and locker was packed full of either food or spares, and he asked if I could live out of my bag. After all, they were not expecting guests, but in any case, after my Ranger training experiences, this is the Hilton. My bunk is called the quarter-berth. I wondered if it is so called because it has quarter the amount of space normally required by an average Human Being. On the other hand I found the bunk itself remarkably comfortable, and plenty long. One evening, I made the mistake of leaving the porthole above my bunk ajar, to help bring in some fresh cool air, as I was sleeping beside the warm engine-room. As well as bringing in some fresh cool air, I ended up bringing in some fresh cool Atlantic sea-water when the boat heeled to starboard. Dream interrupted To fulfil a lifetime dream, Heinrich spent 18 years, due to interruptions because of Lisa’s illness and operations, building the 47ft, Van de Stadt-design, himself, in the back yard of their house. She is built in steel, but a very special kind of steel. Salzberg 7 was launched in 2002, after the finished product, all 23 tons of her, were lifted by a large mobile crane, from their back yard, over the roof of their house. The crane’s alarm was constantly buzzing due to it being stretched to the limit of its lifting capacity. I have seen many production and home-built yachts in the past 25 years, but none, bar none, as well constructed and finished as this one. Unbelievable care was taken in the research, construction and fitting of every feature and piece of equipment. Salzberg 7 is everything one could desire in terms of safety, comfort and sailing efficiency, as well as being a beautiful home. The interior is light and airy, built to a very high standard, and all in Canadian Maple. The engine, is from a very old, 124 horse-power, Mercedes truck which Heinrich bought cheaply and totally rebuilt for the boat. He added a lot of Unimog spares, such as a deep sump for oil, a sea-water cooling system and exhaust, and a few other special features, in order to prepare it for its new life at sea. Sailing down the coast of I hired a car next morning and we spent three days doing the grand tour of La Gomera. We visited all the lovely sights and eating places which Angelique and I had enjoyed on our visit there in 2006. Heinrich fulfilled his main purpose in visiting San Sebastian, which was to take delivery there of his new Genoa, a second one, so that he could fly both Genoas, ‘goose-winged’, when sailing downwind. I confirmed a new purpose for myself, which was to bring my motorbike to La Gomera one day, and drive those beautiful sweeping roads through high mountain passes, the Garjonay National Park, and down multiple hairpin bends to secluded valleys and spectacular black-sand beaches and rocky headlands. Reality intrudes At 0730 on the morning of Wednesday, 9th January, we set off for El Hierro and reached La Restinga Harbour about 5pm. On the way there, we saw a pod of Pilot Whales, as we cruised along nicely in the light Easterly breeze. I began to suspect that Heinrich and Lisa might ask me to cross the Atlantic with them, and sure enough they did, just before we reached El Hierro. Crossing the Atlantic was not remotely attractive for me, and anyway, my intention was to spend several weeks chilling out on El Hierro, which I felt I really needed. I would certainly have to run it past Angelique as there were many considerations on which I required her input. Firstly, due to the un-predictability of voyaging on the ocean, it would be difficult to be sure when we would arrive in Trinidad. Secondly, and as a consequence, there was no way of knowing when it might be possible for Angelique, either, to join me there for a week, or back on El Hierro, if I could, somehow, get back there. Her response was immediate and surprising. Of course I should go! What a great opportunity! In any case she would consider flying out to Trinidad if I could let her know of my expected arrival date, later in the voyage. Likewise, she dismissed my concern about booking my return flight, saying that I could better do that after I arrived there. All other attachments to plan A began to fade. All the work (writing stories, re-writing “Chance Encounter” for a possible TV drama documentary, re-writing the Dunfanaghy Walk Guide), meditation, etc I could probably do on the boat. It seemed that I was going to sail the Atlantic after all. La Restinga, El Hierro My original plan; to experience a little of El Hierro, or at least La Restinga, was made easier, and very special, because of Heinrich and Lisa’s knowledge of that village, having spend many diving holidays there. In fact, Heinrich had felt such a connection with La Restinga that he chose to have his yacht registered there, even before he launched her. However, their last visit there was 20 years ago, and it set Heinrich back a little when I asked him to guess how many of the people he had known might be still alive. As it turned out, they were all hale and hearty; remembered them both very well, and, they were delighted to meet them again. Severo and Ana happened to be at the pier when we arrived and they invited us to join them for a drink or a coffee after our dinner. Severo recalled with fondness the day Lisa, still quite ill after an operation, went swimming, and encountered a giant Manta. Severo was concerned for her life as the much-feared Manta swam lazily near the surface while Lisa gently stroked his back for ages. Our dinner that evening at the Las Calmas cafe became a huge feast. We had a small communications difficulty with the waiter, who brought us far too much of the beautiful squid (Polpo), octopus, swordfish and a very sweet fillet of Choco. Stuffed after our meal, we rambled up to Severo and Ana’s house. Garage Gourmet There had been some problem with the water supply in Severo’s house, so we were invited to join them at their rather large garage just down the road. Apparently, when other locals built normal garages for their cars, Severo built one big enough for a large truck. In that garage, besides the service pit covered with planks, and all the usual mechanical tools on the walls, there were two very large cold-storage rooms at the back. One was for fish, and the other meat. According to Heinrich, Severo had been the village’s most progressive fisherman twenty years ago, working very long hours. He had the village’s first ever hydraulic hauler for his home-made Morray Eel pots (some of which were constructed from discarded, stainless steel washing-machine drums which he modified for the purpose). His fellow fisherman and farmer, rental apartment operator, and life partner was his wife Ana. That garage had other treasures, such as a large stainless steel cylinder from which he dispensed jars of the darkest, sweetest honey I have ever tasted. Severo has many bees on his Finca (farm) which he would show us next day. The bees are not fed sugar but gather pollen from the very wide range of natural flowers and plants around his Finca. While repairs were being carried out at their home, Severo had set up a temporary kitchen at the back of the garage and a wooden table was covered with a simple gingham tablecloth. In one corner of the garage I noticed cheese rounds suspended on old fridge trays, so as to cure. This cheese was also home-made, from Severo’s goat and sheep milk. We settled down to table to be served, first, his own white wine, then a goat stew (one of his own kid goats, of course), and home-made bread. After that we were served a most delicious yogurt which, again, was made from the goat’s milk, and then cheese. It was a little late when I noticed that Severo had topped up my glass every time the level went below half. What was most remarkable about the whole scenario was that our hosts were not in the slightest bit embarrassed that they fed us in the garage. It seemed the most natural venue in the world, full of the most natural food products, and the most natural hospitality, and it was! The man who missed his own funeral The following day we met Manola, another fisherman from the old days. Manola gave up fishing after his funeral! Once, he was bringing a boat he had bought, from Tenerife to La Restinga, on his own, when both the engine and the radio failed. He drifted for weeks on the Atlantic with no food and very little water, towards Next night we went to dinner at the only other fish restaurant in the village, La Vieja Pandorga, with more old friends of Heinrich and Lisa, where we shared and enjoyed a wonderful Paella dish. I wore my kilt, of course, so that the locals could see what traditional Irish dress looks like, and also, so that they might then ask Shane Grey where his kilt is. One of these friends, Brigitta, is a potter, originally from Germany, but who lives on the island. The other, a long term friend, called Irene, works as a very busy publisher in Germany. Irene has been coming to La Restinga for years and even bought an apartment here many years ago, which has a fantastic, un-impeded view of the harbour, the Atlantic, and the sunsets. She very kindly offered her apartment to Angelique and me if we ever come to visit. Severo’s Finca Next morning we went to visit Severo’s finca. He took us into the countryside by jeep. We turned off the tarred road onto a dirt road which led to several small farms. The view over the unspoilt landscape, leading out to an even more expansive view of the Severo’s Nurse Besides his love of animal farming, vegetable and fruit growing, Severo loved his bees, but not just for their honey. Earlier, at the harbour, he had been talking about his long-term back injury. With the help of Heinrich and Lisa translating, I mentioned that I too had a back injury, and I described the relief I get from just lying on my back on the floor, with knees bent and my head on a three-inch-thick book, and then relaxing the muscles and lengthening the spine for about ten minutes. He described someone he goes to, I thought a local nurse, who gives him injections. Injections, and his love of this nurse were mentioned so many times I asked how long this had been going on. I was surprised to hear it was fifteen years. Aw but he loved this nurse. She was his best friend. I had completely misunderstood the treatment until, cautioning us to stay well back he put his hand into one of the hives and brought out a bee, held between his index finger and thumb. Pulling up his t-shirt and gripping it in his teeth, he turned around, and placed the bee on his exposed lower back. We watched in amazement as the bee stung him, whereupon he removed the bee and threw her away. We could see the small white sting protruding from his back, and watched as the area around it got red. He returned to the hive several times to repeat the treatment. This is what he does when he has back pain. He administers ten ‘bee injections’ to the lower back, and as the area gets hot the back-pain eases and then disappears altogether. He insisted that we feel the heat, and sure enough, even holding our hands a couple of inches away we could feel the warmth from the area where the bees had stung him. “Cast Off” Next morning, Sabine, whom we had met briefly the previous evening, came down to the boat to join us for breakfast and to say goodbye. She was returning to
Day One, (Saturday, 12th Jan). Downwind all the way. That first evening there was only about 5-6 knots of wind, in a light breeze from the south-east. The large Heinrich announced that he always does the night shift and that he and Lisa share the daylight hours. However, with Lisa still recovering from her bike accident on Point of no return It was strange heading directly away from the land in almost total darkness, as the light from the famous Faro de Orchilla lighthouse, which point of land used to be known as “the most westerly edge of the known world”, receded gradually into oblivion. The display of stars was truly magnificent. Ursa Major (The Plough) was clearly visible, but looked different when viewed from this part of the world. It was lower in the eastern sky and the ‘pot handle’ was on its end. Orion (The Hunter) was very clear, but almost directly overhead and on its side instead of being upright in the southern sky when seen from Day Two, Sunday, 13th Jan. It was getting bright around 6am. I got up to find the lonely figure of Heinrich hunched over the compass pedestal as he sat on his perch behind the wheel. Heinrich loves night sailing. He enjoys the solitude to consider the day’s events, the multitude of stars, and his special friend, the Moon, who would light our way for most of the voyage. By 0800 it was time to put the engine on as there was no wind worth talking about. I took over steering again as Heinrich prepared for bed and Lisa prepared breakfast. Breakfast was at 0900, and Lisa loves to cook as much as Heinrich loves night sailing. Every day we were constantly supplied with drinks of tea, water and juice, between the normal daily meals. Each day we had dinner about 1400, just after Heinrich got up, which normally consisted of a one-pot stew. That day it was made with pumpkin and goat from Severo’s farm. Heinrich asked me after dinner if I had considered the effect of being confined to such a small space as a boat, with people I did not know, for the duration of an Atlantic crossing. My reply, without thinking, was; “If I could survive a gruelling Ranger Instructors Course for six weeks, I should surely be able to survive two Germans for four weeks on a small boat”! We all burst into laughter. The wonderful little GPS At mid-day we checked the GPS and discovered we had travelled 121.3 Nautical Miles (NM) since departure the evening before. A nautical mile is about 250 metres longer than a land mile, and distance can be measured accurately on a sea chart by measuring the degrees and minutes scale on the side of the chart nearest the desired course. Each degree is 60 minutes, and each minute is one nautical mile. The GPS (Global Positioning System) refers, in this case, to a small rectangular receiver on our boat which collects information from between three and six American military satellites above us, and displays our exact position in terms of Latitude and Longitude. This system has greatly improved the accuracy of positioning, and therefore safety, at sea. (Thank you very much, Mr and Mrs Our position is shown digitally as 26 degrees 34 minutes North, 019 degrees 49 minutes West (which means that we are located 26 degrees 34 minutes (or, when multiplied out, 26 by 60 plus 34, which equals 1594) nautical miles North of the Equator, and 19 degrees, 49 minutes (or, 19 by 60 plus 49, which equals 1189) nautical miles West of Greenwich, in London). This is usually written as 26 34N, 19 49W Heinrich found and brought out his fishing kit and put together his fishing line, to try his hand at trolling (trailing a long line with hooks and a lure, behind the boat), but no fish took the bait. However, during the night a fish, probably a big one did take the bait. All of it! We were left with a limp line trailing after the boat. That night, with the combination of the rolling of the boat and the heat from the engine I got very little sleep again. Day Three, Monday, 14th Jan. Ships in the night At 0400 the radar alarm sounded, signifying that a ship was approaching. The ship passed well clear, right out on the horizon, about 50 miles away, to the north of us, heading east. Heinrich has a very good radar alarm system, but no radar, which he believes is just an extra instrument requiring constant monitoring. Better to have warning of approaching ships, which he does. This assumes, however, that the other ship has radar, and has it switched on! However, a ship travelling at 20knots would take two and a half hours to reach us, coming from port or starboard, that is. Coming from straight ahead, this time would be reduced by our closing speed, about 5 knots, which would mean about 30minutes, so he could reach us in 2 hours. If coming from behind, it could take 3 hours. By 1200 we were at 25 15N, 21 43W, and our recorded mileage for the previous 24 hours was 131 NM. At 1300 we saw another ship, also travelling east, and about 40 miles south of us, but the radar alarm did not sound, implying he had his radar switched off. I had been observing how well Heinrich and Lisa complement each other and that although Heinrich is the acknowledged ‘head of the house’ that Lisa exercises power in her own quiet way. At lunch I quoted a line from an ancient Eastern book called The Book of Manu, which, hopefully I recall correctly. I believe it says, “The man, of himself, has no power. The woman has all the power, but she doesn’t know how to use it. If the woman lends her power to the man, and he uses it wisely, both prosper”. Heinrich and Lisa both agreed that this is so. In Russia they say, “The man is the head, but the woman the neck”! “Irish Stew”, German style. This afternoon we had the German version of Irish stew, which is with cabbage, but without carrots (probably the result of Chinese whispering). It was delicious, of course, and as always, Heinrich and I had second helpings. After the meal Heinrich and I set up the spinnaker pole. This is a long aluminium pole which is attached to the front of the mast, and when the other end is attached to the rearmost corner of the Genoa, this large head-sail at the bow of the boat is kept stretched out so as to catch all available wind in light airs. Later on the sea got quite rough so we took down the pole before dusk. Then, as it got dark, the wind dropped so much we had to put on the engine, which remained on all night. It was hot in my little cabin, and with the constant rolling of the ship I got very little sleep again, for the third night running. Day Four, Tuesday, 15th Jan.
In the early morning the wind came up again from the east so that we could make 5kn, a good average, without engine. The boat was still rolling a lot, with the wind dead astern. I asked Heinrich about the possibility of going off the wind a little and perhaps using the main to balance the boat. I even joked with him that he is a feminine sailor, using only the feminine power from the front sail without bringing in the balance of the masculine main sail. Nothing would have him consider using the main. He did, however, put the wind vane onto the self-steering system, allowing that to steer the ship, which it did remarkably well. Heinrich has made an ingenious adoption to his self-steering system by placing an ordinary arm-type electric auto-helm onto the push-pit, and then connecting that to a pick-up spigot near the weighted end of the wind-vane arm. It means he can steer electrically without the costly installation of a wheel-mounted auto-helm. Time Zones Earlier this morning, as we crossed the longitude line, 22*30’W (22 degrees 30 minutes West of Greenwich), we moved into a new time zone (Oscar, in this case) and so we must put our watches and clocks back one hour to have the correct local time (not that there are many locals out here!). References to time, whether on forecasts or radio communications is normally assumed to be UTC and Heinrich has a clock at the navigation station which is always set on UTC, even though the rest of our watches and clocks show local time. Heinrich’s UTC clock is quite unusual in that it is from a Russian helicopter, and it has to be wound every few days. Our mileage for the past twenty four hours, recorded at noon, was 132NM, in position 23 52N, 23 30W. This was the first day we had dolphins come to play with the boat. I stood right out on the bow-sprit and was enthralled for an hour as they darted back and forth under the bow, criss-crossing each other, usually in pairs, in perfect harmony. Each pair darted left and right in faultless choreography as if there was an invisible brace tying them together. This was also the day Lisa treated us to her Pasta Bolognaise Arabiata, made from scratch, from a recipe of a Turkish friend, and it was beautiful. Emails Order aboard ship A watch system is now becoming established aboard. The way a watch system normally works is that whoever is ‘on watch’ is responsible for the ships course, monitoring all traffic so as to be able to avoid a collision, making any small sail or course adjustments which might be necessary to maintain a reasonable speed, and calling the Captain if anything gives rise for concern outside these parameters. The duration of the watch differs from ship to ship, as dictated by the Captain. It should be noted that there is no democracy on a ship, only lands-people can afford to dabble in such niceties! The Captain is responsible, under the International Law of the Sea, for the control, safety and good conduct of his ship, including all aboard. Coupled with this responsibility is a commensurate authority. Heinrich does the watch from midnight to 0800. I’m usually up by 0630 and ready to take over around 0700-0730. Heinrich goes to bed after breakfast. I’m on watch from 0800 until about noon when Lisa writes our position and mileage in the ship’s log. Lisa shares the watch with me during the day until Heinrich gets up. Then he shares with me while Lisa prepares dinner, when we share again until my watch starts at 2000. Heinrich usually tries to get a ‘Grib File’ Forecast through the SSB radio as soon as darkness falls. The Single Side Band radio is a High Frequency set which bounces radio waves off the atmosphere and can therefore achieve extremely long ranges. Heinrich has a Ham (Amateur Radio) Licence which allows him operate on specific frequencies to other Ham operators. , which usually only works satisfactorily when it is dark at both sending and receiving stations due to the sun’s influence on radio waves. Day Five, Wednesday, 16th Jan Today we are quarter way on our voyage to Trinidad. We had good sailing wind, force 5 to 6, sometimes 7, from the south east. This way of describing wind is on the Beaufort scale, where 7 is Near Gale, 8 is Gale, 9 is Severe Gale, 10 Storm, 11 Severe Storm, and 12 is Hurricane. Lately, though, people, including forecasters, are speaking of wind speeds in Knots (Nautical Miles per hour). Recently I have been trying to get to grips with this system, being used to Beaufort for years, but I don’t have it yet. Well guess what? Heinrich operates in metres per second, and the boat’s wind-speed indicator is calibrated in M/Sec. Luckily, Heinrich has made up his own handy conversion table which is pasted onto the GPS housing in the cock-pit and also at the chart table (where all the navigation and radio work takes place). At 1200 our recorded mileage was a whopping 148NM at position 22N 25W. All this time, as well as availing of the easterly Trade Winds, we are also being helped by the Canaries Current which can add 0.5 to 1.5 knots to our speed. This can mean approximately 20% in our favour. Lisa made a lovely lentil soup for our main, afternoon, meal, and I did my party piece with a banana flambé. Lisa bought a full size bunch of bananas, green, and straight off a tree, on the 8th Jan when we were on La Gomera. They hung in the main saloon and ripening gradually, and were to last us until 22nd. This day we must have had a particularly good after-dinner discussion leading Lisa to remark in the ship’s log that there was a great atmosphere on board and between us all. Gale. Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of the wind rising, gusting now to Gale force 8, and necessitating a sail reduction. We then noticed that the new, spare Genoa which Heinrich had had shipped to La Gomera, and which was bagged and secured to the starboard rail near the bow, was coming loose. The seas were so rough that Heinrich and I had to put on our life-jackets and life-lines, and, secured to the stout hand-rail, we inched forward on the heaving deck to tie on the new sail more securely with an extra rope, while Lisa steered. Then the dolphins arrived to entertain us again with their frolicking about the boat.
Day Six, Thursday, 17th Jan.
The wind was due east in the morning, and Heinrich attached the wind vane to the stout Foerthmann self-steering gear on the stern. The light plywood wind vane is sensitive to changes in wind direction, and through a simple mechanism, exerts pressure through a small rudder, on a larger rudder, which steers the boat to best advantage according to the prevailing wind. I have heard these wind vane systems described as “the best, most reliable crew one could have, requiring no food, and very little attention”! ‘The Big Breakfast’ Lisa had already made us scrambled eggs for breakfast, but this morning she showed that she remembered my remark of how my Mum, and then Angelique, used to put lots of tomato, onion, and chives into the mix. There was enough on the pan to feed a small army, but it was so good that we cleared the lot. Later we were fed a beautiful couscous salad for our main meal. Most mealtimes Lisa would only have half a bowl of the main course, while Heinrich and I, growing boys that we are, would have two full helpings, each! That afternoon the radar beeped out a warning of a ship within range. We went to investigate and saw a big freighter, on a parallel course with us, but at about 40 miles distance. We watched him as he eventually dropped out of sight again, below the southern horizon. Heinrich has been trying to catch a fish for days now, but without success. Today all that was left was the line again ... another monster from the deep, perhaps We recorded 139NM at position 20N 27W, and in the late afternoon I heard Lisa mention the word Blister again. Not knowing German, of course I have no idea what she means, but Heinrich explained that it is the large spinnaker-like sail, used for down-wind sailing in light airs. He promises Lisa, “Maybe tomorrow”. Day Seven, Friday, 18 Jan Straight after breakfast Heinrich announced, “Now the Blister”, and we went to the fore-deck to remove the large sail-bag containing The Blister. It looked a bit complicated to me at first, but helping as best I could, I assisted Heinrich in attaching the large, long sock containing the sail to a spare halyard (the rope to haul the top of the sail up to the mast-head), and then attaching the sheet (the rope leading back to the cockpit from the sail corner, which is used to control it and set it to the wind). It looks truly beautiful as it hangs out past the bow of the boat, slightly to one side, pulling the boat along gently. It has a huge three pointed red star, set within a white one, and surrounded in blue. Knowing his attitude to the US President, I jokingly asked Heinrich if he had it made like this to impress George Bush, or maybe it is another kind of star and he is really a Communist at heart. He says it is for Hillary Clinton! This day’s dinner was goat and carrot stew, the recorded mileage at 1200 was 118NM, and the location was 19 59N, 29 00W. Having fairly low wind-speeds of force 2, 3 and 4 we had a great days run with the Blister, which was taken down before sunset because of the un-predictability of the night-time winds, and, because taking it down at night in stronger winds might prove difficult and even dangerous. At night, or any time, one person can easily enlarge or reduce the size of the furling Genoa without difficulty, as it is wound onto the forestay from the cockpit by means of a rope attached to a simple drum system. This day’s sunset was really beautiful. At the evening meal we all agreed that we were very lucky to be enjoying such a life, not to mention the good boat, good food and good company.
Day Eight, Saturday, 19th Jan
Another beautiful day, and one for the Blister, again. Once more we saw a large ship near the horizon which did not appear to have its radar on judging by our radar alarm staying silent. This always annoyed Lisa and sometimes concerned Heinrich as well.
“Master and Commander” After much thought on the subject of Heinrich’s love of down-wind sailing, I begin to notice other little things about him. He has the same boyish smile, the same little idiosyncrasies in the way he puts his head to one side, sometimes rubbing his forehead with an arched right forefinger, and the same build, as the actor, Russell Crowe. He is an absolute ringer for Lucky Jack Aubrey, of “Master and Commander” movie fame. I had already remarked, several days earlier, that he would have made an excellent military or naval commander because he displays in equal measure those ideal human traits of fairness, firmness and friendliness. I promised myself I would try to get a copy of the movie as a present for him, when we reach Trinidad, as he hasn’t seen it. My present for Lisa, if I can find a shop that sells hunting equipment, or maybe even fishing equipment, is to get her one of those excellent little, pocket-sized knife-sharpeners. Heinrich refuses to sharpen her kitchen knives with his state of the art equipment, because she keeps them all together in the drawer. I can only guess that his reasoning is that those knives must be collaborating together in some subversive manner, agreeing to all sorts of pacifism, non-violence and bluntness. No Forecast This evening Heinrich failed to get any of the Ham stations to relay his requests for a weather forecast. It normally operates quite well, starting with him filling out a request on his computer programme for what is called a Grib file, and sending that via his SSB set. With the computer, he draws a rectangle on a map, around the area he is interested in, and states that he requires it for the following 2-3 days. He spent hours re-sending his request to several Ham stations down the East coast of the North American continent, from Newfoundland in Canada to Florida in the southern US, and also to some of the Caribbean Islands, but no joy. At position 18 32N, 30 23W, at 1200, we had clocked up 118 NM for that day’s run. The moon is getting bigger now, a welcome visitor when I go on watch at 2000. She lights up the whole ocean and insures some visibility in all directions. As we approach the full moon on 22nd we will have even more light to show what is, or hopefully is not, in front of us. Day Nine, Sunday, 20th Jan
Another Gale. The morning was warm, with no wind, so we had to use the engine to provide the power. At 1000 we saw a ship out at the southern horizon. The noon position was recorded as 17 54N, 32 18W, and we had covered 117 NM. However the barograph, which then read 1018 hectoPascales, began dropping quickly, so that it was reading 1013 hP two hours later. The NE wind increased from force 3 to force 7 in the same period. In the evening the wind steadied a little and dropped to 6, but there were dark storm clouds gathering to the north and by night-fall the wind shifted to the north and the speed increased from 6 to 7 initially, and would eventually become Gale force 8 overnight. The electronic self -steering began giving trouble. There was no comfort to eat at the table this evening so we had sandwiches in the cock-pit. Heinrich still had no luck getting the forecast. There seems to be no reply to his requests, or else they are not getting sent out for some reason. I begin to think of worst case scenarios but realised that no matter what weather comes our way we are on a strong, sound boat. If the worst came to the worst as regards very stormy weather, being so far from land, we could take down all sail and just go to bed for a couple of days. The boat would be just fine on her own. Day Ten, Monday 21st Jan. By 0200 the storm had abated, and the barometer began rising again. By 0800 the barograph showed the pressure had risen to 1019 hP, the wind had backed to the NE, and it was calm enough to put up the full Genoa again. We are now leaving the Canary Current and come under the influence of the North Equatorial Current, both of which have the same average speeds, and both help us as we progress towards Trinidad. By 1200 we are at 17 34N, 34 26W and we have covered 127NM in the previous 24 hours. I found a very dead and very dry Flying Fish on the deck. He was like a Herring, about 8ins long, but his lateral fins were about 6ins long and when spread out, formed beautiful gossamer wings. On Heinrich’s instructions I put him in a bucket of salt water to soften again. Later we spread his wings fully, and sandwiched them between sheets of kitchen roll so that they would dry again in the fully spread position to look his best for the photo shoot. We left him on top of a barrel on the stern that evening but his aerodynamic body must have taken flight in a gust of wind in the night. Neither Fish nor Forecast Heinrich still no luck either with fishing or with getting a weather forecast. This was to be another sleepless, full-moon night for me, with a rolling ship and too much moonlight. Day Eleven, Tuesday, 22nd Jan Today we ate the last of the bananas at breakfast! They lasted two full weeks from when Lisa purchased a huge green bunch on La Gomera. This morning I found three Flying Fish on the deck, in good condition. I filleted them for an appetiser before dinner. They were very tasty indeed. Half Way Today, at position 17 11N, 36 43W, marks the half way point on our journey, and we have travelled 135NM today. It is getting much warmer now. It was 30 degrees Celsius in the saloon at midday. It is also Full Moon today, and as we cross longitude 37 30W we cross into time zone, P (Papa), and must put out watches back one hour more. Salt-water shower This is also the day I took my first shower at sea. Heinrich has two outdoor shower systems, one fresh and one salt-water, installed on the stern of the boat. I don’t know why he has the fresh water one because, not only is it not used, but fresh water is strictly rationed on the boat, for washing body parts, that is. I have been shaving, and doing a bird-bath-wash of the other necessary bits in about two cupfuls of water every second or third day. I also use the remaining soapy water to wash my t-shirts, shorts, etc. Lisa and Heinrich have been taking salt-water showers nearly every day. Today I just didn’t care how cold the water was, and it wasn’t. The boat has two massive fresh water tanks which must still be 95% full of “good quality water from Germany” (I believe about 1,300 litres). I think Heinrich hopes to have enough for 10 years! At the rate he is going, he will! We have dolphins round the boat again. Day Twelve, Wednesday, 23rd Jan. In the early morning it was fine and settled, but with little wind. Today was the last day of the oranges. At 1000 the wind came up from the north east at about force 5, which was perfect to push us along nicely. We had a stew for dinner followed by delicious pancakes, filled with plum jam and topped off with some of the wonderful dark honey from Severo’s bees. Lisa asked about how we make porridge in Ireland. I told her I would make it next morning, to my own special recipe. Our mid-day position was 16 21N, 38 36W, and we had covered 118 miles. At 1400 the wind turned to the north, and it was a beautiful sunny day, and we had time for sun-bathing. We also did the laundry, in the largest washing machine in the world. The clothing is put in a green string bag and cast off the stern of the boat on a rope. It is then towed, so it is washed and tumbled for three hours. After that it is taken aboard and a little of the on-deck water in water cans filled at El Hirro is used to rinse the cloths, which are then hung on the rail to dry. The danger of un-restrained women. At 2000, when I went on watch, there was no wind, but at least the moon had just come up. Heinrich was painstakingly trying, for the sixth evening in a row, to get a forecast over the SSB. He would start at dusk and continue for 3-4 hours. This evening he started going through all the fault-finding procedures he could think of to find the problem with the radio, including checking the wiring, the voltage, the aerial, and the radio. At 2200 he found the problem, and was annoyed that he had not discovered it earlier. One button, on the front of the radio with “split” written on it, and which he never uses, was pressed ‘on’. He realised then that this had happened several days before when Lisa was thrown across the boat, from the kitchen to the navigation station, as a large un-expected wave hit us broadside on. In putting out her hands to break her fall she must have inadvertently pressed that button. Women can get up to unbelievable mischief when not properly supervised or restrained! Day Thirteen, Thursday, 24th Jan Porridge At 0830 I got together the ingredients for the porridge, and anyone wanting a real breakfast should proceed as follows. First add plenty of milk to the oat flakes, then dried fruit and nuts, stirring well over a low heat. When hot, put into bowls, add Baileys (a well known Irish milk substitute), any fresh fruit available (we only have Kiwi left) and some honey (preferably Severo’s). If it’s a little too hot, just add more Baileys to cool it down. (I was once told that the Scots put whiskey in their porridge. I’ve tried it. It is vile! Obviously it wasn’t enough that the Irish gave them their name, introduced them to the kilt, the bagpipes and whiskey, but now we have to show them what to put on their porridge. “Hoots Mon, whiskey’s for drinking, not for putting on your porridge”! But, of course I mean real whiskey, Irish whiskey mind you, made with good Irish spring water, not “that auld bog-water they use in Scotland”. However, we Irish must be grateful to the Scots for preserving the tradition of wearing the kilt! Next time I meet a Scotsman in his kilt, and hopefully I’ll be wearing mine at the time, (the original of the species), I’ll buy him a dram of Middleton so he’ll know how real whiskey is meant to taste. The Mission I did a little reckoning in my head on our average mileage (just goes to show what is possible after porridge with Baileys) and calculated that we should arrive on Monday, 4th Feb. Heinrich just grinned and said “That’s a pity, we will just miss the Carnival”. “What Carnival” I asked. He replied, “You know the famous Carnival at Rio, well, it’s like Rio, only bigger”. Finally we had a new mission. Not just to get there, but to get there in time for the Trinidad Carnival. We would have to average not less than 5 knots per hour, 120 NM per day. The race was on. Forget sailing to the moon. We’re off to the Carnival! Today its sunshine all day, so it’s time for topping up the tan (or getting one in my case), and keeping an eye on the sails, the wind, and the speed. We aim for 6 knots, just in case. We were very happy with our fast pace up to now, and anything over 100NM per day is normally considered good, but today we were disappointed with a mere 118NM when we got to position 15 28N, 40 23W. Have we gentle cruisers folk suddenly turned into racers? Star-struck The evening is made all the more enjoyable, with the moon rising as I begin my watch. Overhead and towards the east, and slightly behind us, is Orion (the Hunter) in all his glory. In Ireland we only see him in winter, and even then his keeps fairly low in the sky. Ursa Major appears on the starboard side of the boat. Ursa Major is also known as the Plough, or the Great Dipper, and its leading two stars, ‘The pointers’, show us the position of Polaris, the North Star. Polaris, despite its fame, is not very bright at all, and the ‘pan-handle’ is hanging down into the sea when viewed from here. Back at El Hierro it was very clear, even if close to the horizon. By now, having travelled so far west, the ‘pan-handle’ is almost completely out of sight in the early evening.
Day Fourteen, Friday, 25th Jan
Another lovely sunny day! This means lots of sun-bathing for Lisa and me, while Heinrich catches up on some well-earned sleep. I am on watch until dinner, and then Lisa takes over while I write. The noon position is 14 20N, 41 56W, and we have completed another 119NM. Dinner is Irish stew, followed by Cappuccino (with Bailey’s for me). Heinrich always cools his with water. I’m afraid of water! Herb of "South-Bound 2". In the afternoon Heinrich showed me his copy of Reed’s Nautical Almanac of the Caribbean. In the section on Weather and Ocean Weather-forecasting I found reference to Herb Hilgenberg of South Bound II. Herb provides a wonderful, free service to mariners. He interprets the various forecast outputs, and with collected information from ocean-going yachts, and gives his summary in lay-man’s terms for each boats specific location and passage. He even suggests what course might best be used to avoid danger areas or pick up more wind, as the case might be. Herb opens his service at 1940UTC each evening on HF/SSB frequency 12359.0 and compiles a log of check-ins. Then he contacts each station logged, asks a few questions on location, local weather at present, etc, and follows with his prediction for the next days. He is also reputed to be very amenable to clarification, receiving questions and giving additional advice. Heinrich is sceptical. He believes it to be a “load of American palaver” by bored people with nothing better to do. Lisa and I feel that a second opinion won’t do any harm, and in any case, if we had a Grib File failure of any sort, it could come in handy. No ground given by the Boss. End of discussion! The moon is an hour late as my watch starts this evening. The inky blackness into which we are steadily progressing could hold any number of dangers. My mind wanders, thinking of boats without light, boats abandoned, a large steel container partly under water, a rock where no rock should be, sailing right over the edge of the horizon? Stop!!! It is OK. Trust! Must have more trust! The moon comes up to expose my folly. Day Fifteen, Saturday, 26th Jan Yet another lovely day. Peace, perfect peace! Our noon position is recorded as 13 5’N, 44 15W and the mileage is 138NM. At 1835 we take photos of the GPS which shows that we have exactly 1000NM to run, to when we reach our destination, Port o Spain, Trinidad. Ship’s radio Operator, part time In the evening Heinrich asked about Herb. I queried, with a hint of insubordination (a very dangerous offence at any time, but aboard ship it can be fatal.), “What about Herb?” “I thought you were going to contact him”, Heinrich said. “Me? Why me,” I asked. His reply was unambiguous.” It was your idea, and you have the necessary radio qualification, and you have a better understanding of the ‘American language’. Do it!” I have a new, temporary, appointment. I collect all the info Herb might ask me about location, local wind conditions, clouds, pressure, etc and sit at the navigation table while Heinrich tunes the HF set to Herb’s frequency and shows me the purpose of extra buttons on the microphone hand-set. I tried a few times but without success. The moon is two hours late as I begin my watch. I hate looking forward into that inky blackness, wondering what might be there. I love Orion and his attendants. He is so clear, slightly to the east to begin, then directly overhead the mast, then leaving us behind as he continues on his hunt I enjoy how Polaris is indicated more clearly by Cassiopeia in theses latitudes and then how this system appears to rotate so that The Plough comes up later. Day Sixteen, Sunday, 27th Jan.
Whale At about 0930 Heinrich and I were chatting on the after-deck, me facing north and him south, when suddenly a whale surfaced, vertically, straight out of the water like a surface-to-air missile, about 20 metres away from the boat. His head was very square-looking and his overall shape was very much like that of the one in the movie “Moby Dick”. I think he was what is known as a Pot Whale. Over 60% of him had come out of the water on that first, unexpected, and very dramatic leap. I shouted “Whale”, and Heinrich turned only to see his massive fluke disappear again under the water. Lisa rushed out and we all saw him rise slightly once more, as he headed west, but this time on his side, sticking a huge flipper into the air as if to wave goodbye. After plotting the noon position as 13 30N, 46 39W, we were delighted with our best days run yet. We celebrated our 146NM achievement with a beautiful Couscous salad, and a small Martini Rosso, for Lisa and me. Heinrich stuck to his rule. “Palaver” At 1930 UTC it was time to try to contact Herb again on the HF/SSB. This time I could hear him giving a little introductory welcome to existing contacts from the previous day and inviting new ones to check in. I waited a few seconds and then called him. “South-Bound 2, South-Bound 2, this is the Sailing Yacht Salzberg 7, Salzberg 7; Over”. Herb answered, but due to the reception not being great both ways, he was unsure of our yacht’s name and asked for it again. I repeated the name, and then spelt out the letters according to the International Phonetic Alphabet, which he understood and acknowledged. I gave him our position and told him we were in mid-Atlantic, en-route from The Canaries to Trinidad. He then only needed our average speed to be able to give his interpretation of the weather we might expect over the next three to four days. Heinrich agreed it was reasonably correct, but he could never justify the waste of battery power on such “palaver” if we did not have the motor running to recharge the batteries. Under the table This night, knowing that I must get some continuous sleep (for more than 30 minutes at a time), I decide to sleep on the lowest part of the boat, which should be subject to the least motion. After midnight, when Heinrich went on watch, I placed some thin cockpit cushions under the dining table, squeezed underneath, between the table and the circular seating and curled up in the foetal position. It worked to some degree in that there was room for me to sleep there on my right side, my favourite. There was no room to turn in any case. I think I must have slept a bit because I was a little more rested next morning. Day Seventeen, Monday, 28th Jan.
Wild Guess At breakfast, I did some quick calculations in my head, taking into account our most recent and better average mileage, and the distance to Port o Spain, but taking no account of weather or any other possible delays. I announced, rather brashly and only half-jokingly, “we will arrive at our last Waypoint, NW of Trinidad, on Sunday at 1200”. Heinrich, looking knowingly, with that little boyish smile of his, realising that I was being a tad optimistic, not to mention too specific, let it pass. The day was cloudy. By 1200 we were at13 20N, 48 47W, and had made a very good passage of 143NM. Dinner was goat and dried tomato, and it was delicious as usual. Saint Bridget’s Crosses. In the afternoon I mentioned the old, now almost extinct, Irish tradition of making a particular style of cross with rushes on the night of 31 Jan, the eve of St Bridget’s Day. In Donegal, where the tradition survives, at the end of the night of collective cross-making, a selected woman leaves the room before midnight. Then, she knocks on the door three times asking admission, but no-one answers. On the third occasion she says “It is Bridget who knocks!”, and she is let in. She then blesses the crosses and a collection of little pieces of rag-like cloth. The people hang one of these crosses over the door lintel, inside the front door of their homes, to protect the house and the family for the coming year. The previous year’s cross is consigned to the sheds to protect the animals. The little rags are called ‘Bratini Bhride’ (St Bridget’s rags). Someone in the house then leaves these little bits of cloth on the back door-step overnight. For days afterwards local fishermen call for a piece of the ‘blessed’ cloth, putting it in their pocket to keep them safe at sea all year. I mentioned that since there are no rushes to be had in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, if I could just have some old cordage I could fulfil the tradition and show Heinrich and Lisa how it is done. In this way they would have one aboard to keep themselves and the boat safe. However, Heinrich cannot think of a single piece of cordage on the whole boat which he is prepared to donate for the purpose. These nights it is pitch black when I begin my watch at 2000. The moon does not rise above the eastern horizon until almost midnight so the only other light other is the red glow from the ships compass, the green glow from the GPS and the white glow from the stars. The only other flash of colour is from large waves breaking beside the boat as we forge ahead in the darkness. Staring straight ahead there is sometimes a faint line to be seen, which marks the separation between sea and sky. After my watch ends, I spend another night under the table. Day Eighteen, Tuesday, 29th Jan
It rained, on and off, all morning and the sea remained rough. The wind-vane self-steering was not working well. Every half-hour or so it would jump out of alignment due to the force of the turbulent water and the unsteady north-easterly wind which blew force 4-5 all day, gusting 6. Our noon position is 12 21N, 50 42W and we have covered 139Nm since yesterday. E-mails home. The sun came out in the afternoon and stayed to warm us up. The sea begins to calm down again. The rain here is not cold, of course, and we use the opportunity to wipe the salt off the solar panels and the windows. I give Heinrich as short a message as I can compose, to advice Angelique of our ETA in Trinidad, and, to suggest she books as soon as possible for a flight to either Trinidad or Tenerife for the day after she returns to Germany from Ireland, which should be 9th Feb. I will have to wait until we arrive in Trinidad until I know the outcome. I am concerned for her well being, what with the pressure of two dogs in Germany, one a young puppy she had just bought, and, having to return overland to Ireland for a Birthday Party booking at the Mill House. I also wonder what Desmond, our troublesome neighbour, is up to; if Angelique managed to get a worker to help her at the Mill House yet; and if there are other urgent matters needing my attention at home. There is nothing I can do for now except trust in all the wonderful people in my life who are well capable of taking care of things without me.
Heinrich tells me at breakfast that he has thought long and hard about my request for old cordage but he really has none to spare. He offers a new, white, plastic cloths line which, although I know it will not look well, I accept as graciously as I can manage. I know there are lots of spare bits of cordage in various nook and crannies, but I know boats and I know Murphy’s Law, so I know the importance of keeping such spare bits of rope for emergencies. I went back to sleeping in my formerly, very hot bunk, no longer so hot after Heinrich discovered there was a ventilation system that he forgot to turn on which could ease the discomfort. It was noticeably better, but still the motion of the boat is the same and no proper sleep is possible. Day Nineteen, Wednesday, 30th Jan.
I’m still only getting snatches of sleep during the night, partly due to the motion of the boat, but also due to the sound of some can or other object rolling about, that has escaped being cushioned or tied down. Then, at 0700, I heard Lisa calling me from outside, sounding very excited but not alarmed. I quickly jumped out of bed, only putting trousers on, and rushed to the cockpit. Heinrich was at the stern reeling in a fish. He needed me to get the pole-net to scoop it up when he got it to the boat. Then he muttered something in German that sounded like “Shiite”, as we say in Ireland. The fish had escaped. He looked so disappointed. He went straight to bed, probably to dream of diving, and shooting fish with his spear gun. Time Zone Quebec At 0905 we were crossing longitude 54 30W, so it’s time to put our watches back another hour. We are now in Time Zone Q (Quebec). A little later Lisa showed me an apple that Heinrich didn’t eat in the night, as he usually does. Lisa knows I am not really fond of apples, except those from my own tree at home, but this one looked gorgeous. It was round and firm-looking, with streaks of red and green sun-set-layered colourings. It looked crisp and mouth-watering. I never thought an apple could look so appetising. For a moment I thought Lisa was going to offer it to me, but I forgot, she is German. When you tell a German you don’t eat apples. That’s it! Forever! Has she forgotten that I’m Irish! We change our minds, and our stories, on a whim! Back to the fridge it goes, so that Heinrich can have another chance tonight at the very last apple on the whole Atlantic Ocean! At the new 1200 local time, our position is 11 42N, 52 46W. Swimming, in mid-Atlantic At about 1400 Heinrich wanted to go swimming in the ocean. However, he was not going to stop the boat and to do it just for himself, and I think he didn’t quite understand when I quoted that, “the journey is more important than the destination”. I suggested that we really should stop, jokingly adding that I might want to go swimming, in the hope he might then get to swim for himself. Once again, I forget he was German! He laughed knowingly, but took me at my word. He stopped the engine; took down sail; and prepared the boarding ladder, which is attached to the bathing platform on the stern. I knew I would have to go in as well, even though I’m scared of water, and even more-so of the thought of sharks. Heinrich tried to re-assure me that sharks sleep by day and only go hunting at night. Nevertheless I was dreading going in, but I realised that I was going to have to do it now. Heinrich attached one end of a rope to the boat, and the other he secured in a loop under his armpits, explaining that, even with the engine stopped and the sails down, the boat was still being pushed along by the ocean current and the wind. When we checked the GPS we found we were making 2kn, so, a person swimming off a boat in mid-ocean could be left behind very quickly. As Heinrich lowered himself down the boarding ladder I thought I saw a long flash of white passing just beneath him. I told him so, but he just laughed, saying that sharks are not white. I asked; “What about the Great White?” “Aw, rubbish”, he said, lowering himself in and floating away from the boat. Very quickly he was at the end of the safety line, being towed gently behind the boat. Lisa began preparing for her dip, and after that it would be my turn. Heinrich had only just come back aboard when we saw the un-mistakable shape of a large whale swimming past the boat. As he passed he turned over slightly and we could clearly see his white fins and long white belly, and, since he was dark on top, had a long flat face and nose, I believe he was a Blue Whale. This was my ‘Great White Shark’. Heinrich maintained he saw more than one, and in one case, pointed out that this one now was smaller than the one we had seen earlier. We stayed with the big whale for two hours as he swam in great circles round the boat, sometimes coming straight at us, then, diving under the boat, and turning on his side to expose his magnificent long white belly, then diving again. Ever time Heinrich saw him he whooped and shouted with glee. I told him that he was frightening the whale away, but to no avail. Eventually we put up sail again and moved on. I asked Heinrich, and he said that he now understood the meaning of my earlier quote. We had gained an extra hour from the time change, lost two to the whale, but gained a priceless experience from our own, private, grand-stand view of one of God’s largest and most graceful mammals playing around us and the boat. I wondered what was on the whale’s mind, besides just having fun. Probably nothing! There must be a lesson in that for all of us. In the excitement, my swim was forgotten about, thank God! Day Twenty, Thursday, 31st Jan. Another beautiful morning dawns on us with one of the best sunrises we have seen so far. The usual routine unfolds with, some watch-keeping, some writing, some sun-bathing, interspersed with juice drinks, herb tea and water. The mid-day meal was Gourmet Noodle Pasta with Rock fort sauce and Aubergine Puree. I helped Heinrich fix the pole to the Genoa again so as to push it out to catch the light wind. We saw our sixth ship of the voyage, and we are now only 350 miles due east of Trinidad. Atlantic Laundry and Hairdressing Service Today was also laundry day. This meant that a selection of dirty clothes were put in the strong, green string bag and towed behind the boat for about three hours. They were then brought aboard, wrung out, and hung to dry in the sun. If some items were deserving of special treatment they got a rinse in a cup-full of fresh water. Not water from the ships tanks, of course, but from one of the three plastic containers stowed in the cockpit and which had been filled in La Restinga. This was also hairdressing day, as Lisa attempted to pull the required amount of hair, with something that looks like a crochet hook, through tiny holes in a plastic cap covering her head. I was pressed into service to do the bits at the back, where Lisa could not see or reach. Engine noises At 1950 I made a radio call to Herb again, so as to get a confirmation on the forecast. It was more or less as Heinrich had predicted from his Grib File forecast relayed through a Ham station. It was already well after dark, around 2030, all three of us were in the cock-pit chatting, when Heinrich thought he could hear an unusual noise from the engine compartment. He opened the locker cover nearest the inspection duct to the engine and I got a faint smell of burning plastic. Heinrich got into the locker for a quick look, and then called up to me to stop the engine immediately. He then began to pass up all the fenders, warps, fuel cans, etc to create space to work in the large locker. He removed two large inspection plates on the engine compartment to have a proper look. As I stepped down into the locker, all I could hear him say was the Shite-sounding word again, and then “Nein, Nein, Nein”. Although I was unsure as yet what the problem was, I was glad we were not near land and any danger, and that the sea was relatively calm. The mounting bracket on the 220 volt Generator had snapped, and the generator had been dragged into the main pulley wheel on the front of the engine so that one of the fan belts sheared and the pulley wheel sawed into the Bakelite cover at the back of the generator. Heinrich calmly got his tool boxes out of their hiding places under the saloon seats, onto the saloon floor. He fished out the necessary tools, and two spare fan belts form their hiding places deep in the starboard bilge compartment. He then worked in sweltering heat, lying on top of the hot engine, to remove the remaining old fan belt while I passed tools to him, and held things in place so he could complete the work. The whole operation took three hours, but it showed how well prepared this man was for such eventualities. ‘Chancing my arm’ At the end of the work I could see that Heinrich needed something to secure the damaged generator to one side. It was still attached to its electrical cable, so this was necessary to ensure it could not fall foul of the engine pulleys and fan-belts again. I cut a one metre length from a spare coil of light cordage that had been sitting about in the cockpit. After we got cleaned up, and without asking permission, I then proceeded to cut the remainder of the cordage into 12in lengths and proceeded to make two St Bridget’s crosses from it. Heinrich looked on without a word. I finished at about 2345, but now needed little bits of rag for the Bratini Bhride. My requests for any form of rag was met by the same resistance from Lisa, as every cloth, even the oldest t-shirt or rag, could have a useful purpose aboard ship. Lisa explains that during the war years and its aftermath, people suffered great shortages, and nothing was wasted. At two minutes to midnight I found a small white face-cloth in my wash-bag, which I only used for wrapping my soap in, cut it into little patches, and at exactly one minute to midnight, left then in a corner of the cockpit just outside the hatch, in compliance of the time-honoured tradition. Since Heinrich had missed his usual two to three hours sleep before mid-night I stayed on watch until 0130. By then I really was ready for bed. Day Twenty One, Friday, 1st Feb. St. Bridget’s Day. The day started out in lovely sunshine, even though there was a little cloud on the northern horizon. I gave Heinrich and Lisa one of the St Bridget’s crosses for the boat, and a Braitin Bhride for each of them. Heinrich put the white crochet-like piece on top of the computer, where it remained for the rest of the voyage. Later on, as Heinrich and Lisa both slept I saw a very long dark band of cloud gathering, slightly ahead and to the north. I was reluctant to wake Heinrich so I altered course about 10 degrees to the south. I could see a break in the thick dark mass a little further south of our course. After correcting a few times we were soon heading 35 degrees south of the correct course, but I knew that with several hundred miles to go, such a correction in open sea would make little difference. In order to ensure that any contaminated fuel is not electrically pressure-pumped from the main fuel tank to the engine filters, as on most boats, Heinrich has installed a small header tank in the side locker. The diesel has to be manually pumped to the header tank and when this is completed, a small stop-watch is set running. Exactly 75 minutes later the little buzzer sounds and the diesel must be manually pumped again to refill the header tank. It takes about 15 double (once up, once down) pumps to fill the tank. At some stage in the late afternoon I thought it had been some time since I last pumped up the diesel. I checked the stop-watch and found to my horror that I had not set it running after an earlier pumping. I immediately began pumping the diesel and got to 55 double pumps before the tank was full. If I had been too late the engine would have stopped for lack of fuel and then the whole system would have become air-locked. This would have necessitated a very laborious and convoluted bleeding of the fuel system to get the engine running again. When I asked Heinrich later on, pretending curiosity, how many double pumps would be required to fill an empty header tank, he replied, “about 55, why?”. “Oh, no reason”, I lied, “just curious”. Our noon position is 11 26N, 56 55W and mileage covered is 120NM
Later in the afternoon, remembering Lisa’s pre-occupation with the danger of large ships for small sailing boats, I decided to try to draw a cartoon, my first ever. It depicted a lady looking through binoculars at the sail-boat-like anchor of a large US Battleship, named the GB2 (because I know Heinrich’s regard for George W. Bush). The battle ship is about to run down the small sailing yacht which is crossing its path at right angles. The ‘speech balloon’ coming from the lady’s mouth reads, “Don’t worry about the radar alarm, darling. It is just a small sail boat, and it is miles away”. Lisa liked it so much she confiscated it for the Ships Log Book. I could only get it back when I managed to reproduce it in the Ship’s Log. Lisa made ‘Poundies’ (potatoes, milk, and onion) to go with the mid-day meal, according to the traditional recipe normally associated with Saint Bridget’s Eve, but that part of the performance had to be postponed from the night before due to the generator difficulties. We see our 7th ship today. The sky got darker and darker and by 2100 we had winds of force 6 and 7 (Near Gale) for the early part of the night. Day Twenty Two, Saturday, 2nd Feb. My Ego rears its ugly head This morning I proposed a bet of €5 that we would see Trinidad or Tobago before sunset, and a further bet of €10 that we would see their light-houses before midnight. Heinrich said that the islands were very low-lying and too far away yet. He did not bet, but Lisa took me up on it. I pulled out the Caribbean Almanac to check the light-house signatures we could expect to see as we approached Trinidad and Tobago (every light house in a given area has a different sequence of light flashes so that one’s position can determined at night). Heinrich maintained that this was quite unnecessary as the light signatures could not be trusted in this area and they did not signify anything anyway. In any case, he emphasised, we were navigating by computer, and the computer and the C-map had brought us safely this far. I could feel that my out-dated way of navigating had no place on this boat! Our noon position is 11 06N, 59 78W, and the recorded mileage is 138NM. Ego confirmed I found that Heinrich was a little more irritable today, or was it that I was getting ‘cabin fever’? I knew before this voyage started that there would always be a risk of personality clashes in such confined spaces, but when the duration is for more than just a weekend, and there is no way to get off the boat, anything can happen. I have heard some horror stories where people became so un-hinged as to jump off the boat. I had hoped that my fear of water might ensure that this would not happen to me. Heinrich and Lisa were aware of this as well but at least they knew each other for 60 years and must have some solutions worked out by now. I wondered now whether my first day quip about having survived a Ranger course was really a joke at all. I had also survived some very difficult Commanding Officers in my time, so with a little luck I could bite my tongue before a questioning observation passed my lips which might be construed as a criticism. I began to feel that this was more like Stalag 7 than Salzberg 7. Ego 3, Self 0 I had noticed long before that Heinrich has his own way of doing things, and I had hoped that I didn’t make too much of the fact that I have been sailing single-handed for 22 years, and therefore have a certain level of experience. However, I was well aware from the beginning, and adopted the policy that in the interests of good relations I must largely forget what I think I know. This policy stood me in good stead and I learned many useful tips from sailing with Heinrich. On this occasion, however, he seemed irritated no matter what I did, so I tried to avoid any discussion that might give rise to conflict. Eventually, I found it so unbearable that I spent as much time as possible, on my own, on the bow of the boat. Lisa noticed my un-ease and told Heinrich. He immediately ordered up a Martini ‘sun-downer’ for each of us, his first drink of the voyage, and made it very plain to me that he had no difficulty with me what-so-ever but that he was bothered by a family difficulty, which he went to some lengths to explain. The problem was over.
We sighted Tobago at 1840, 20 minutes before sunset. I won the €5 bet. This was the evening that I was looking forward to, not because of my second bet with Lisa, but because as darkness fell I could entertain myself during my watch with identifying the light-houses as their loom came into view. I knew that the loom, the reflected light on the sky, would be visible long before we would see the direct light, and I assured Lisa that seeing only the loom of the light did not qualify. However, at 2350, the southern lighthouse on Tobago, with a range of 30NM, came into view and I had won the second bet. Day Twenty Three, Sunday, 3rd Feb Final Way Point This last morning at sea I got up at 0600. Daybreak came at about 0630. We were already sailing close to the Trinidad shore and Tobago had dropped far behind. There were now several small fishing and pleasure boats to be seen, and a couple of ferries. The Trinidad coast looked lovely, with several sandy beaches, hills covered with lush vegetation and lots of trees. Heinrich got a couple of hours sleep as I navigated the easy passage towards our last way-point. I was really looking forward to getting off the boat for a small break. The coast of Venezuela was clearly visible further west, behind some small islands that are off the north-east coast of Trinidad. Our last noon position was 10 45N, 61 37W and the mileage for the previous 24 hours was 144NM. I remembered then, that a week earlier I had predicted we would arrive at our last way-point at midday on 3rd Feb. I was wrong. We were almost 8 minutes late! Heinrich emerged just before we reached the way-point, and, just before we must negotiate the passage between Trinidad and an off-lying island, into Chaguaramas Bay. This bay is where the famous woman pirate Jean Bonney operated from, in the 18th century. I was later told by someone on the island that she was the mother of William Bonney, better known as Billy the Kid, but I’m not sure that this is true. Plenty of sailing boats are in evidence as we turn the corner into Chaguaramas Bay and as the busy commercial port opens up it is now 1300. 'Clearing In' We have had our Q-flag flying for a couple of days now and Heinrich already had the Trinidad courtesy flag to hand, from among the full array of all the Caribbean island flags he might need. Flag etiquette is taken quite seriously by some yachts, but everyone should bear in mind that it is taken seriously by some government officials as well. Every ship is required to fly a full-sized version of their own national, or national maritime, flag, which is called an ensign. When visiting a foreign country, Immigration formalities and Customs clearance regulations, known as “Clearing In” must be observed immediately on landing. A small yellow flag, known as the Q flag must be flown from just below the starboard spreader to indicate that you are waiting for, or proceeding to, the relevant authorities. Q stands for quarantine, and in the days before modern medicine, no-one was allowed off a visiting ship until it had first been checked by the appropriate medical authorities. Even now, strictly speaking, it is only when the Immigration and Customs formalities have been completed, and all permissions received, that a small version of the host country’s national or maritime flag, known as a courtesy flag, must be flown, which then replaces the Q flag. One should also be careful to ensure that any un-official flags, such as house flags or club flags, flown from the port spreader, are not positioned higher than the host country’s courtesy flag, which could be taken as an insult to that country. Heinrich knew the location of the Customs Dock and we tied up there at 1340. The log showed that our journey from La Restinga, El Hierro, has been one of 2,841NM. We proceeded first to Immigration to show passports and receive our Visas and from there to Customs to make the necessary declarations. Everyone seemed reasonably friendly, if a little officious, but they were delighted that we made the effort to get there for Carnival. The feeling was mounting that I really need to get ashore and get a fresh-water shower and stretch my legs, but first we have to get the boat berthed. We discovered it will be difficult to procure a slip at either of the two nearest marinas, or to get a mooring in the bay, again due to Carnival madness, so Heinrich suggested we stay at the Customs dock for the moment. This gave us time to have our first lunch ashore for over three weeks but we then discover there is a bit of a panic about shopping for fresh fruit and vegetables as everything is about to close for the next couple of days due to Carnival, and anyway, it is Sunday! The nearest market had very little fresh produce and lunch took so long to arrive we were too late to do any proper shopping. Carnival However, we are in time for the main events of Carnival week. This evening there will be a concert in Queen’s Park at 1930, and we should have plenty of time to make that. Monday is the first day of band parades, or Mas, as it is called here. Tuesday is the main event, when the bands are judged as they parade through Port-o-Spain. Cabin Fever Heinrich and I launch the dingy but for some reason he was reluctant to allow me to check out the nearby marina on foot while he checked those on the opposite shore, 100 metres away, with the dingy. I felt trapped! Could I not be allowed a little freedom? Could I not be trusted to find out what berths might be available? Eventually Heinrich opted to move the boat to the other side of the inlet where the berth for lifting out boats was un-occupied, and, in fairness, was unlikely to be occupied for a few days due to Carnival. Lisa thought that the boat would not fit, and told us so. To me there seemed plenty of room. We ventured in slowly, with a metre to spare each side. I felt vindicated, but I knew I was feeling edgy. I suggest putting most of the fenders on one side of the boat and tying up to one side of the berth. Heinrich wants to secure half-way between both sides. We did it his way, of course, but then I could see that his was a perfectly good way to secure the boat. Maybe I’ve been sailing single-handed for so long that I can only see one way of doing things. Another lesson for me! Ego 4, Self 0 Undoubtedly I was over tired, and in need of a psyche-cleansing under a fresh-water shower for a half hour. Once the boat was secured, all I could think of was finding those showers, then, getting to that concert! Lisa was concerned about staying without permission. I chipped in with the old adage that “it is usually easier to get forgiveness than permission”, hoping that would be enough to get things settled. When I got to the showers, the door was locked and the sign read “Closed for the next two days for cleaning”. I believed that they probably meant that there no-one was available to do any cleaning because of Carnival. By the time I returned to the boat Heinrich had succumbed to Lisa’s fears and had been to visit the Marina security people to tell them where we are berthed. They, of course, told him we must move as there was a boat due in for lifting! Somehow, neither we nor the neighbouring boat-owners we had spoken with believed them. Shower Then the warm, gentle rain began falling, and in a combination of relief, desperation and necessity, I took out my soap, jumped onto the pier, and began showering in the biggest and best shower I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Heinrich had a shower with a fresh water hose and wanted to hose me down. My resistance, coming from a bruised and defensive ego, would only allow me to think of all those chemicals which the local authority might have put in the water, so I declined his offer. I would only agree to hose off whatever sand might be on my feet as a result of standing on the pier, so as not to bring it onto the boat. Ego 5, Self 0 My mounting need for even the tiniest bit of time on my own, without being continually questioned by Lisa, or being told how to think, feel, act, or be, by Heinrich, was now reaching crisis proportions. My completely unreasonable feeling of needing to run away, now that I had felt dry land under my feet for the first time in weeks, was subdued only by a sense of duty I felt to ensure that the boat was safely secured somewhere, anywhere, and that Heinrich and Lisa did not need my help, at least for a little while. Heinrich then decided to return to the Customs dock for the night. Once again this proved difficult as, having ensured that the fenders were in the correct place and the fore and aft warps were lead to the beam, ready for me to jump off and secure the boat when Heinrich brought her along-side, Heinrich decided to approach bow-on. This made my job quite difficult and ensured I could only bring one line ashore. It also made it difficult for him to judge how far off the wharf we were, and because of the sound of the engine he could not hear me as I shouted the distance to him. After a couple of attempts we were close enough for me to jump off the top of the pulpit onto the pontoon. However, bringing the stern alongside then proved almost impossible as the keel stuck fast on something. After suggesting that the swing-keel be lifted we eventually came alongside. We were all very tired! ‘No room at the Inn’ I went immediately to the nearest Marina Hotel and tried to book a room, despite the inflated week-end prices. I just wanted to sleep in a normal bed for a night or two, but of course everything was booked out due to Carnival! My concerns and efforts to get information on flights home, to get a sim-card for a mobile phone, or even get a call out on a phone card were frustrated by the complete absence of any possibility to do any of these things until after Carnival, which would be three days later. It was even impossible to use my own mobile phone with its Irish Sim-card. In total frustration, and feeling that I needed to make some decision for myself, I changed as quickly as I could, ordered a taxi from the hotel’s front-desk, even though it was well after midnight and very expensive, got a guided tour of Port-o-Spain and got to see some of the late-hour Carnival madness. I felt free at last, even if I was tired enough to sleep standing up and did not enjoy the experience at all. Later, I was relieved to get back to a blacked-out boat and fall straight into a bunk that, for a change, didn’t feel like a sauna in a tsunami. It felt like we had landed on the Moon, at last! Morning after Heinrich had visited Trinidad some years earlier, when he sailed here with some German friends on their yacht. On that occasion he became friendly with a local lady whose name was Shirley, and they kept in contact over the years. Shirley was anticipating our arrival and came to meet us with her son, and an elderly friend called Jim. Jim was a retired taxi driver and he was going to bring us on a small tour of the island and then to see some of the Carnival. Neither Shirley nor Jim spoke much English, and I spoke no Spanish, so I relied on Heinrich, who had quite good Spanish, to translate. Fast Food After our tour I offered to bring everyone to lunch but asked if we might eat somewhere where good, simple, local food would be available. As is sometimes the way with native people overwhelmed too quickly by Western commercialism, they brought us to a local Mac Donald’s-style fast food outlet, thinking that to be more ‘up-market’ than anything indigenous. While Jim and I were eating at a table by the window, we noticed a very sorry-looking individual looping up the street towards us. He was over six foot tall, skin on bone, with no teeth, and wearing a ragged black tea-shirt, dirty black track-suit bottom, black woollen hat and scruffy gym-shoes with holes in them, and no laces. He could have been 70 or more, but it was difficult to tell. Jim made the comment, “Cocaine”, so as to describe the man’s appearance and affliction. He stumbled through the side door of the cafe, with his long skinny arm outstretched, begging, but was immediately ushered out by one of the staff. He slumped down to the ground with his back to the plate-glass window, apparently exhausted. I motioned to Jim that I would bring some food to him, but he shook his head in disapproval, saying only, “Cocaine, Cocaine”. Later, as we drove to the Carnival, Heinrich, translating from Shirley’s comments, revealed that the beggar was a woman, and not very old, who had been one of the most beautiful women in the Caribbean, and Trinidad’s top fashion model! Carnival The spectacle of Carnival was incredible. Literally thousands of people, mostly groups of women, dressed in very ornate and spectacular costumes, whose leaders needed a massive, specially made, wheeled, tricycle-like apparatus to support the huge head or shoulder gear, which was often 12-15ft high and covered in brightly coloured feather-like fronds. Many represented oversized, exotic, birds from the rain-forests of South America. Other groups presented themes from the many cultures of Africa, Asia and Australia. The beat of the music and the heat of the day were overpowering at times. Large articulated trucks pulled highly decorated floats with the largest speakers I have ever seen. The music physically vibrated my chest as they passed by and although I found the sound deafening; the throb of those speakers had an electrifying effect that was quite captivating. Some trucks pulled large sprinklers as well, under which the dancers could refresh themselves when necessary. As I was trying to get a better photo at one point, I was observed to be on the wrong side of the security barrier by a policewoman, who called me over and ushered me to a traffic island where I had an un-interrupted view of the parade, right beside the main judging stand, where the best performances and dances were performed. Unlike all the other police I had seen, who seem to have a well practiced, stern countenance, Corporal Janet Roberts, could not always contain her beautiful smile. She seemed fascinated by the fact that I had not only sailed the Atlantic to get here in time for Carnival, but that I came from Ireland. She also told me that I should be dancing to the beat, to which I replied, “But, white men can’t dance”. She wasn’t taking no for an answer, and insisted that I dance. I told her that I didn’t know how, but wondered if perhaps she could teach me. Obviously that was not ‘pc’(pardon the pun) for a woman in uniform, especially there, but looking round quickly to ensure no other police officers were watching, she showed me the basic steps and insisted I try. After a few dismal attempts she seemed more willing to believe my earlier assertion, but, as the parade ended for that evening she insisted that I meet her at the same spot next afternoon, but wearing my Irish kilt this time. Slow Food Next morning, on our way into the centre of Port-o-Spain from the marina, I asked if we could stop by a ramshackle vegetable stall I noticed the day previously. The rather hard-bitten, poor-looking, older lady who ran the stall was intrigued by my kilt, examining the design and the cloth in great detail. There was a young man, about 25-30, helping her with the stall, who looked quite out of place in such a poverty-struck setting. He was tall and well built, had immaculate white slacks and an American baseball-style jacket and cap, some gold teeth, and a very well-groomed beard. As we got chatting he revealed that he was a boxing coach and international judge in the US, and that he was home for Carnival and to visit his mother. He had been a champion boxer in Trinidad and won a scholarship to a college in the US, but because he was Muslim he would not remove his beard, so was prevented from becoming a professional boxer there. He warmed to our company and invited us to share in the fish which he and his Rasta friends had just caught and had cooked near a large tree just behind the vegetable stall. I wanted to buy them a beer so I was directed to a nearby house where I could buy chilled beers for the four of them. Their cooking site turned out to comprise a small piece of corrugated tin on two bricks with hot coals from pieces of burning sticks pushed underneath. The foil-wrapped parcel on top was opened for us. What was revealed and shared with us was the most memorable, succulent, flaky white fish, potatoes, onions, garlic and carrot I have ever tasted. The very tasty Yacht club dinners we would get throughout the rest of the week, couldn’t compete on spontaneity, hospitality or taste. On Parade When I arrived at the appointed spot for the parade, Janet was there as promised. She revealed that this was not a normal duty for her as she was the police department’s fingerprint expert, so she worked in the Crime Investigation Department, so not in uniform. However, for Carnival, all police were called up, and required to be in uniform, to help marshal the parade and the large crowds. Just then her boss arrived. She was a Chief Superintendent, and she was surely the most stern-looking woman I have ever met. She stood tall and erect and looked down on people over the top of the gold-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She carried a swagger stick, with which she poked people as if they were cattle, and everyone seemed to be afraid of her. However, she also was quite taken with my kilt, which I described to her as my second passport, at which comment she almost smiled. She was very interested in the current political and policing situation in Northern Ireland since the Good Friday Agreement and the subsequent peace. I noticed how she stared, apparently disapprovingly, at some of the parade participants so I asked her if she enjoyed the great spectacle.” Not at all”, was her reply, especially since she had” been on this duty for the past twelve years”. “In any case”, she remarked as she motioned to the scantly-clad dancers strutting their stuff, “don’t you know that the body is the temple of the Holy Spirit?” “Yes of course I do”, I replied without thinking, “but don’t you know that the Holy Spirit is pure, perfect, complete, and eternal! Therefore nothing that the human mind or body can get up to can have any effect whatsoever on the Holy Spirit?” I was as surprised as she was at the answer that came out of my mouth, and Janet told me afterwards she would have given anything to have had a photo of her expression at that moment. Just then, the warmest smile broke out over her face, and her whole demeanour softened, and she revealed, quietly, that when she retired in a couple of years she just might like to help out with some aspect of the parade. Somehow I couldn’t see her in one of those costumes, but you never know what she might have been repressing for the sake of the service. Just then there was a break in the parade and in that interval a group of men came sauntering up the street. One was the Assistant Commissioner of Police, escorted by four heavily armed police SWAT-team members. Most ordinary police wore heavy, old-fashioned black uniforms, as Janet did. Officers of Inspector rank and upwards wore a very nice khaki uniform with a black Sam Brown belt. The SWAT-team wore black jumpsuits and flak jackets, and they were armed with Glock automatic pistols and Heckler and Koch submachine guns. Another group then came up the street. This time it was the Commissioner himself, escorted by two SWAT-team members. One of these had all the gear except his HK was the assault rifle version and he also had a Kevlar helmet and several different types of grenade clipped onto his flak jacket. I asked Janet if I could have a photo together with her and the others, and I was surprised that the helmeted guy jumped in as well. It turned out that he was the most openly friendly of all the men, as well as being the SWAT-team leader I had offered to bring Janet to dinner some evening before I left. At the end of the parade she took my number, promising to ring me. I received her call next day. She said that she had hesitated earlier because she wasn’t sure if her husband, or her boyfriend, would be better company for me, but in the end she chose her boyfriend. They came to collect me next day from the boat, and I then discovered that he was an ex Superintendent of Police, and a very nice man indeed. We had some interesting discussions about the island’s history and its people, multinational investments in mining, where all of the island’s wealth was going, drug running, the political situation, police corruption, street shootings, etc, and all of the influences that affected everyday life in Trinidad. Immigration Immigration Officers in some countries can be formidable at the best of times, and downright officious and aggressive on occasion. Mostly they are regarded with due respect, but in some parts of the world they are feared, because, for the slightest reason they might refuse entry, and then it is a case of ‘up anchor’ and hightail it out of there! We met one very nice Australian couple on the way into the Immigration Office who had been having great difficulty extending their stay. I was to discover later that their application was rejected and they had to leave immediately. I had known from earlier research that the procedure for someone arriving on a boat, but intending to depart by plane, or visa-versa, can be tricky if not adhered to carefully. Most people’s experience is that a visa must to be procured in advance of flying to some foreign countries, whereas, on a boat you arrive first, and then get visas, all going well. On our arrival in Trinidad I informed the Immigration Officer who had ‘cleared us in’ that unlike Heinrich and Lisa, I would not be staying with the boat, but that I planned to depart on a flight within about a week. I was told that I must return with the Skipper two days before my planned departure, whereupon I would be formally ‘signed off the boat’ and given my exit papers. I thought that I had better play safe, so I went to the Immigration Office three days before my flight, just to confirm the procedure. This evening, there were two ladies on duty, but the one who served me was not so stony faced and formal as her colleagues. In fact she was positively charming and very elegant indeed. I must admit that even though I personally have never found myself attracted to black skinned ladies, this one was an amazing exception. She confirmed that what the previous official told me was correct, and said that I should present myself, together with the Skipper of the boat, and all our documentation, at 1030 next morning to complete the process. Chancing my arm again Later that night, pondering on the effect that this lady had on me, I took my courage and my pen in hand, and wrote her a letter. I told her that when I returned to Ireland that I would be asked about the ladies of Trinidad. In reply I would tell them about the beautiful women I saw at Carnival, but then I would tell them about one who surpassed all the rest in grace, gentleness, beauty and charm, a woman who had such an air of calmness and spirituality about her that she seemed to float about the office. Then they would ask if I had invited her out. In reply I would tell them that I was just too shy, and in any case, she would be sure to refuse me. Those who know me best would then upbraid me for my lack of courage, and I, for my part, would always wonder what she would have said, if I had had the courage to ask. I finished the letter by saying that, ...“In my old age, I too would be angry at myself for not having the courage to match the occasion, and I would be condemned to wonder what you would have said, and so, I simply must ask, ....will you come out to dinner with me?” In one sense, this was a perfectly ordinary, romantic effort to invite a lady to dinner. However, on the other hand, this was Trinidad, where there are a lot of serious crimes, drug-smuggling, and shooting incidents, and there are a lot of armed police, military, customs and immigration officers dealing with a very difficult situation. I could be playing with buttons in a very high-stakes game, way, way out of my depth. I went to Immigration next morning at 8am, just as the office was opening, and who should be there but the same two ladies as yesterday. I explained to the intended recipient of my letter that I would come back at 1030 with my skipper, but that in the meantime I wished to give her something. She was a little surprised, but took the letter, and I left immediately. When I returned with Heinrich at the appointed time, the same lady dealt with our documentation but no out-of-the-ordinary comment passed between us. My heart was in my mouth, but I could not embarrass her by saying or asking anything. She gave no indication that she had even read the letter. Then, as we were leaving, she called me back, saying, “I will phone you later”. Success Later that afternoon she did ring, on the local cell-phone number I had given with the letter. She said her name was Denise, and that she hadn’t laughed so much in years, as she read my letter several times. She said that she had never gone out with a ‘Yachtie’ and that it posed her some professional difficulty given the compromising position it might put her in. However, she believed that “my intentions were honourable” and agreed to bring me on a little tour of the island next morning. She would collect me from the boat. As it happened, it was she who had refused the Australian couple an extension on their visa. Next morning at 1030 she came to visit Heinrich and Lisa, before taking me on a mystery tour. First we visited a 19century Cocoa plantation, whose old wooden and stone, colonial-style buildings were beautifully preserved, and the little church, ancient trees and natural hollows in the former volcanic craters made for excellent, natural music amphitheatres and picnic sites. My guess for the next surprise was one of the northern beaches where the turtles should soon be coming ashore to lay their eggs. However, I was told that I was mistaken and would have to bide my time. We next arrived at the river-side car-park of a huge mangrove swamp, where we boarded a simple flat-bottomed river boat along with about 12 other people. As we progressed down the narrow channel we could see Caiman in the water and large snakes in the trees. We arrived in a lake-like area of open water with islands, and our boat-man reversed our boat into a small island, facing a large one we had just passed, which was covered with a dense green canopy of tightly-packed trees. Then as the sun went down, the miracle unfolded. We were alerted to the arrival of a number of pink Flamingos flying towards the large island, which landed in the trees. Then tens more arrived, then hundreds, then thousands, until the entire canopy of the island had transformed from green to pink within about a half hour. After all her previous reservations, Denise agreed to accompany me to the Yacht Club for dinner, even if only to cause a stir. We attracted quite a lot of stares from the usual dining members as the Saffron-kilted white man escorted his well-known, black-skinned Immigration Officer guest, resplendent in a very fetching, and matching, orange-coloured dress, to her table. We had many interesting discussions, but mostly she was interested in why people like us travel as we do, and she called me a wanderer. In the course of the conversation about sailing I told her of my un-successful attempts to get a copy of the Russell Crowe movie anywhere in Trinidad. After dinner, when Denise delivered me back to the boat, my last request was to ask her to get a copy of “Master and Commander”, and to present it to Heinrich with my compliments. Next morning, when she collected me from the marina to bring me to the airport, it was time to say goodbye to Heinrich and Lisa. As I was about to leave, Heinrich reminded me of the question he promised he would ask me at the end of the voyage. His question was “Would you do it again?” and I knew the answer he expected. I could see how bitterly disappointed he was, when I replied, “Never”! Epilogue As I write the final paragraphs to this narrative, approximately one year later, I am on the island of El Hierro. I have driven my motorbike down through France and Spain, and having taken the ferry to the Canaries. I have realised one dream, which was to drive those beautiful, sweeping, hair-pin bends to the mountains and the sea on La Gomera. I am on my second attempt to spend four quiet weeks on El Hierro. This time I have the use of a lovely apartment with a spectacular view of the harbour, sea and sunsets to stay in, courtesy of Heinrich’s friend, Irena. This time I am not travelling alone. This time I have a Sputnitsa (feminine of the Russian word Sputnik, meaning travelling companion) who seems to like the wandering life. Marina is Russian, and with a name and a nature like she has, I will have refuge no matter where my wandering may lead me. Yesterday being 31 Jan, I went out on the bike in search of rushes, or their nearest equivalent, so as to make Saint Bridget’s Crosses in accordance with the time-honoured tradition. The nearest equivalent I could find were long, strong grasses, along the roadside. On my way back through the village I caught up with a group of girls returning from a walk. I instantly recognised one as Maria de la Mar, and then noticed her mother Anita approaching. I told them about the tradition of making Saint Bridget’s crosses and invited them to join me later. Anita reminded me that I told them about this last year, and immediately produced the bedraggled remainder of one I had hastily made for them from little grasses from across the street, just to show how they should do it. I set up in the Las Calmas Cafe/Bar at 2230, and was soon joined in the enterprise by two Sligo yachtsmen, Shane and Paul, a dozen locals, and the Philippino proprietors. Looking back on the overall experience, I realise that I was afforded a great honour, to share such a voyage and such an adventure with two wonderful people, and, that I learned some valuable life lessons from them and from the voyage, for which I will always be very grateful. One year later, I might now answer Heinrich’s question differently, however, this time I made sure to take the ferry to El Hierro, just in case!
New twist That should have been an end to this story, but, on the evening, 26th of Jan 2009, while in the company of an ex-fisherman-turned-homeopath now living on La Gomera, Willie Kirkham from Castletown Bere, Co Cork; I was told about the mythical, missing, Eighth Island of the Canaries called San Borondon. This island has, for hundreds of years, been reported to be west of El Hierro, and Willie saw it himself once, before he knew anything of the legend. San Borondon is Spanish for Saint Brendan (our very own Brendan the Navigator), who is reputed to have sailed to the Americas 1000 years before Christopher Columbus, who set off from this here in the 1400s. Saint Brendan, after whom I am named, is reputed to have set off from Brandon, in Kerry, that headland in southern Ireland where my ancestors come from. I am prompted to enquire what Saint Brendan was doing here? Ditto for myself! In conclusion, I am left to wonder what my constant journeying is about, and why so many Saints, mostly Irish, keep cropping up along my route, just as on my motorbike pilgrimage to Assisi in 1997? I also wonder whether the tradition of making Bridget’s crosses could catch on here, which could then give rise to speculation, many years from now, that Saint Bridget might have been on that boat trip with Saint Brendan! Some wags would doubtless add that perhaps he earned his sainthood by bringing a woman on his boat!! _________________________________________________________________ . . CHANCE ENCOUNTER
Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of rockets and mortars exploding, which Frank said were being directed at his Station. I came to the conclusion that the car parked by the phone-box might be somehow connected to the group now attacking the Police Station. We suspected that they would soon be coming down that side road. I suggested that the car needed to be immobilised so I volunteered to go out and do just that. I shot out the tyres and heard the sound of one of the hubcaps go clattering down the road in the darkness.
. . . Memory (revised, 25 Oct 2006)It never ceases to amaze me how often I can convince myself that I remember exactly what happened in the past. Later I find that I have been mistaken. Can I ever rely absolutely on the accuracy of what I recall in any situation, without any consideration of what I may sub-consciously choose to forget? One memory I have goes back to when I was about 5 or 6, - from the days of my Dad’s heavy drinking binges. On this particular night, Mum woke my brother and me, saying that we that were going to stay at her brother’s house, just up the road. Mum was choosing for us not to be there when my Dad arrived home, drunk. When we got to my uncle’s house, because of a shortage of beds, I was put in a room where one of my Uncle’s cattle-truck drivers was sleeping. I was woken again in the middle of the night to find that this man was in my bed, behind me, and that he was touching me. I was frozen with fear and confusion and didn’t know what to do. Then, the strangest thing happened, but I’ll get to that later. Any time I have told this story I have always said that I could not really be sure that it happened at all. My recollection was vague, somehow. However, most people who hear it seem to think it is true, for some reason. Whenever I was asked how I felt about the driver, I always said that I bear him no ill will. Anyway, I point out that it is not so much what happens to us that matters, but our response to it. In recent years, some new light has been shed on my dilemma, which has created even more uncertainty. One friend, a psychologist, suggested that I should ask my Dad what he remembers, rather than leaving it too late, and then I will never know. It occurred to me that there was always the risk that he would not remember in any case, especially if he had been drunk at the time. I rang him and told him only, that I remember Mum taking my brother and I to my uncle’s house one night that he, Dad, was away drinking. I told him that I remember being woken by him calling my name at my bedroom window, and that he took me home. His reply was that it couldn’t have happened because he would never go to my uncle’s house with drink taken (my uncle was a non-drinker, non-smoker, and he disapproved of Dad’s drinking). Only then did it occur to me that he wouldn’t have known where we were, and even if he had guessed, he wouldn’t have known which room I was in. In any case, why only take me home, and not my brother as well? A more subtle change happened in relation to my reaction to what the driver had done. That is, if in fact he had done anything, and if any of this had happened at all. I was staying for dinner one evening with two poet friends when I was asked to read something after dinner. A strange feeling came over me, and I said quietly, that I didn’t want to read anything, but that I wanted to write something. The two ladies got up from the table immediately, got me a pen and a brand new book to write in, and left the room. A poem fell onto the page, complete in its entirety. I was as surprised by its conclusion as I was by reading my description of the driver. Midnight Rescue (12 Sept 1998) A man tapped at the window, Called my name. I rose and left the bed, And left my shame. I saw it was my father standing there, With outstretched arms To rescue me, Save me from harm. I never, ever, told him how that man, Played well, a strange new touching game, With musky smell. I hear he’s dead, And rotting in some grave, Too good for him, Who made my life a slave, To faltering, jagged memory, All my life. I know my Dad was there, Though rumour’s rife, That we invent salvation, Just because …….., But I know my Dad was there. He was! ………. He was!!!! Another Memory A startling revelation in my memory loss occurred in late ‘98, or early ‘99. I was stuck in traffic en-route to the RTE television studios at Donnybrook in I related that when I had been training to become a commissioned officer in the army, I was informed, one day, by my Training Officer that my father had been arrested and sent to prison on a firearms offence. My first thought was to go to see him. The second thought, however, was how this might impact on my career. For 28 years after that, I carried the guilt that my father was in prison for a year, but I didn’t go to see him. Tonight I would bare my soul on national TV in an attempt to atone for my cowardice. Noel, asked if my Dad knew that I was going to do this. When I said no, he insisted that I must ask him if it was OK to do so. I told him that my Dad was happy that he had done the right thing in the circumstances and that he was proud, both of the act, and of the consequences he had suffered. Noel insisted that I should at least let him know, so I agreed to do so. I rang Dad, telling him about the programme, of what I proposed, and of the guilt I had carried in silence all these years. He was shocked. He said, “Are you mad, or what? I was in prison for one week-end, and you did come to see me”. “No Dad”, I insisted, “I didn’t”. “You did” he said, “and don’t you remember, you brought me a box of King Edward cigars, which I shared with the other prisoners, joking at the irony of a soon-to-be Commissioned Army Officer, bringing cigars to his ‘jail-bird’ Dad”. At that moment I remembered the small wicket-gate in the huge green doors of Limerick Prison being opened to allow me in to visit. I clearly remembered then, stepping over the bottom rung of the doorframe and entering through the gate-well into the outer courtyard. Now I am left with the possibility that the explanation for my general memory loss is what came out in the poem. Even so, I must consider that the memory of visiting my Dad in prison may have been obliterated by guilt, because I entertained, even for a split second, the selfish notion of the effect of his actions on my future career. Will I ever know the truth of all this, and if so, will I remember what I have discovered, and will it really matter?
The AGM ("Weekend") of the Independent Holiday Hostels of Ireland was held here on Fri/Sat/Sun 12/13/14th Oct. All the delegates agreed that it was an Ulster experience they will never forget. I wrote the following reflection immediately afterwards. AGM with a difference. By Brendan Rohan It was never meant to be all about big business. It was never meant to be all about big city hotels. It was never meant to be all about big organizations. It was never meant to be all about mobile phones, the internet, buzz words, the Celtic Tiger………., and yet that’s where it all ended up, until it very nearly all ended. “One last chance”, was the hope of those who had not yet finally given up, and yet the outcome of that last chance brought the writer face to face with a totally unexpected gift. That gift was not just all the appreciation, it was not just all the fun, it was not just all the net-working, it was not just meeting old friends and making new ones, but most remarkably, most un-expectedly, it was also about a young Derry man, whom I will call ‘Sean’ to protect his identity. The Independent Holiday Hostels of Ireland was founded in 1994. It came into being when an amalgamation of the then Budget Hostels, mostly bigger city hostels, and a very independent group of individualistic and smaller-hostel owners from around Ireland agreed to also come under the Bord Failte umbrella. What had started in the 80s as a cottage industry of six far-flung hostel-owners with their very different hostels was fast getting itself organised and talking about networking and marketing, whatever that meant. The stated aim of the IHH, an association of over 100 hostels nationwide, is to provide friendly, reasonably priced accommodation, and to make the guests stay as pleasant as possible. It is, in fact a Co-operative Society and all member hostels must have full Planning Permission, Fire Officers approval and comply with Failte Ireland regulations. I’ll never forget the day the Bord-Failte-man called to inspect my hostel at Corcreggan Mill near Dunfanaghy. After satisfying himself that it was quite a unique hostel, and that it seemed to comply in almost every respect, he needed to ensure that I had a TV for the guests. Well, I tried to assure him that my clientele would not want a TV, as it would completely detract from the quiet and social atmosphere they like to enjoy. He was stuck, confined by his book of rules, but wanting to approve the hostel. I suggested a compromise. I would get an old TV set, take out the tube, and insert a large goldfish bowl, so that people could watch Goldfish TV all day. In exasperation, but smiling, he approved the hostel. In compliance with the spirit of that man’s Book of Rules I had that wonderful Derry artist, Brian O’Doherty, paint a picture of a TV set, which hangs on the common-room wall. It depicts a fuzzy screen, and is titled “Un-plugged”. Our Hostels come in many shapes and sizes; each is unique and reflects the individuality of its owner and the diversity of Ireland, from a Georgian house in Dublin to an old Mill in Donegal and the isolation of an island off the west coast, the same warmth and friendliness can be experienced. The communal ethos of a shared experience over a cup of tea means that there is always the feeling of being among friends, there is always someone to mark your map, always some one to direct you to the best view, the best music, the best pub. What does the IHHI contribute to the country? The 100+ hostels have over 6,000 beds across Ireland, and record approx 1.2 million ‘bed-nights’ per year, yielding a conservatively estimated, total contribution of €83 million to both economies on this little island. Not bad for a” budget-spend” market!!! As our Chairman, Robin Hickey, said, in the Youth Submission in 2003, “If the Youth and Budget Tourism sector is the Cinderella of Irish Tourism, it is also the nursery for the tourist of the future. Most of the overseas visitors to Irish hostels are in the top 3 socio-economic groups and will, in years to come, be 5 star tourists if they have a good experience on their initial visit. If business is improving, why have the number of hostels decreased in the past few years?” One factor of course is the high value of buildings in Ireland, compared to the relatively small income from this market segment, making it difficult to refuse a good purchase offer. Another is that in order to keep up with a rapidly changing market it has proven costly and difficult for hostels to maintain their ethos while improving facilities and answering customer expectations. The more you modernise, the more you risk losing the atmosphere, if you are not very careful. “A terrible beauty is born.” (WB Yeats) The Ulster AGM-weekend Experience begins I had set myself three objectives; 1. Bring hostel-owners to Ulster so that they would then be in a position to recommend our scenery, our culture and our better-than-the-grim-forecast weather to their guests. 2. Allow a better opportunity for networking than the 2-hour, busy, whistle-stop, city-centred AGMs had been able to. 3. Make the programme interesting enough for our own members to enjoy quality time together, with fun, food and craic. Friday saw the arrival of the Committee for their usual pre-AGM meeting. When they came down to supper they were amazed to find the congenial gatherings huddled around tables, engrossed in conversation. Five Dublin hostel managers around one such table were delighted to have the first ever opportunity to put a face to the name they were only used to on the phone or email, and it should be said, they were among the first to book the weekend! It was a long night, and there was no need to arrange any extra-curricular entertainment. Some other members availed of the hospitality of other hostels and the magnificent Ulster scenery en-route. D-Day dawneth 1. The Trade Show The usual trade show preceded the AGM proper, but with a Green flavour this year. Al Gore’s “An Inconvenient Truth” was on show continually. Renew It Energy Solutions had a fine display of alternative energy systems. The Corcreggan Mill Hostel’s recently installed Solar Panel heating system was available for verification. The Green Box System was also on display advocating the way ahead for a cleaner, greener Ireland. Orbit Security’s array of services included a CCTV system featuring live footage of the key aspects of the property. One camera caught the French Chef stealing herbs from the owner’s Organic Garden. Even our Free Range chickens felt much safer than usual. 2.The AGM The setting was the large and airy ‘Upper Room’ which we had specially adorned with interesting paraphernalia, not least of which was the Committee’s table, which, instead of the usual table-cloth, was bedecked with an array of international flags. One Northern Ireland delegate was impressed that the British flag was shown right-way-up, but then some of the more southern delegates insisted on the inclusion of an Irish flag to balance the scene. The routine was punctuated by short presentations from three guest speakers. Karina Kelly informed us about the various alternative energy systems now on the market, their usefulness, their cost, and the grant aid available. Ian Wasson from the Green Box, advised us how we can go about reducing our Carbon Footprint. This was followed by a detailed, informative, and hostel-appropriate presentation on tourism-body objectives, our own contributions, market trends and visitor expectations, and, key issues to look out for and capitalise on, by Maire-Aine Gardiner, Failte Ireland’s North West Regional Tourism Development Officer. The normal, predictable, routine-business-matters were quickly dispensed with, and followed by a lively debate on the future, or otherwise, of the association. Suddenly a new energy was evident in the room and instead of the usual hesitation when it came to Committee service there was raft of volunteers for specific and even non-specific appointments. The new Marketing Officer, Aileen Galvin, an independent professional who had opted to sleep in a bunk-bed rather than the luxury Hotel suite she might have normally been accustomed to, lit a fire under us, saying she would be in hot pursuit of all of us to guide, or, force us, if necessary, into positive marketing objectives and results. Then came the real cruncher, …, the test of the success of the initiative, and the whole event, and the venue. The Chairman announced that the next item would be to decide if there was to be another AGM, and if so, where it would be. There was an un-nerving silence for a couple of seconds but when I turned around one brave man, Sean O’Roideain from Co Louth, had his hand up. His proposal, “The Foy Centre in Carlingford will host next years AGM”, was met with a long round of applause from all the delegates, and a jubilant sense of relief and triumph from yours truly. The meeting ended with the host’s encouragement of a new, homely, connected organization of mutually supporting owners and managers, which would value our own quality of life as highly as any business success. Final instructions and timings were then given for the Dinner. 3.Preamble to the Dinner Great effort was made to dress for Dinner and I led the assembly into the Dining Room at 8pm sharp. People unfamiliar with my interests and ethos were at first surprised by the traditional Irish Saffron Kilt topped by a green tweed short jacket and Saffron ‘brat’. The guest speaker was adorned in a “Roman collar”, as one young man described it. One guest was heard to comment that there was a confusion of colour, flags and pictures that just didn’t add up. Over the mantle-piece, in pride of place, was a large, framed, official photo of a very regal Mary Mc Aleese. Her Excellency had penned a suitable inscription above her signature on the photo to mark the occasion, which read, “To the IHHI. Best wishes for a successful AGM, in beautiful Donegal. Beautiful Ulster”. Either side of the chimneybreast hung the National and Ulster flags, while the Donegal flag also hung in one corner. On the wall opposite the fireplace there were two, seemingly odd bedfellows that had partnered each other since the beginning of this unusual hostel in 1991. One I always describe as one-of-the-greatest, should-have-been-the-Nationalist-hero, characters, who, supported by the Pope and many Irishmen, beat the English King right here in Ireland, King ‘Billy’. The other is of that gallant band of (predominately) Presbyterians, the United Irishmen, the ‘fathers of Irish Republicanism’. Both subjects deserve to be re-examined, as does our historical instruction and our ’hand-me-down’ values. The diners were treated to a medley of tunes reflecting each of the 32 counties, by Colm O’Donnell on the 1910 baby grand piano. On the wall behind Colm’s head was a copy of the Proclamation of the Irish Republic, and beside it, a teenager’s reflection on the merits and madness of the 1916 leader’s initiative that fateful Easter Sunday. It is the most honest, balanced and generous appraisal of that event that I have read, and it was written by a young Irish Army Cadet called Pol O’Donnell, who is also the son of our pianist for the evening. 4. The Dinner The diners then sat down to a fish starter prepared by French-born, Aranmore-based, “Eric the Chef”, followed by a choice of local Venison, personally procured for the occasion by myself, local wild Rabbit from the dunes near the Mill, vegetables of all sorts from the Corcreggan Mill Organic Garden. Even the fruit gracing the table, and the apple-pie dessert, came courtesy of the same garden. The spring-well table water was brought ashore, specially for the occasion, from nearby Inis Bo Finne, on my old wooden sailing yacht. A few places were reserved on the H-shaped table layout, which had ‘banners’ of Black, Red and Green ribbon, to represent the I.H.H.I of the association’s name. One seat, nearest the door was reserved for a mother with a monitor whose young baby was asleep in a nearby bedroom; one was for the after-dinner speaker who needed to be able to step back out of the H to address his audience; and one was for the host who needed to have a clear view of the door, and be close to the Port selection, which was kindly donated for the event by Margaret Doohan from the Shamrock Lodge Bar and Hostel in Falcarragh. ‘Sean’, who had had to return urgently to Derry during the after-AGM break had no option but to occupy the only available seat, at the centre table, right beside the host. Proceedings began when I called the assembly to order. I first read from a gift given to me when I began the hostel at Corcreggan Mill on the 1st of June 1991, and which has been a constant inspiration. It is called the Rune of Hospitality. This was followed by Grace-before-meals, which, unlike the usual rushed prayer, was a reminder to the guests from this former vegetarian, of the spirit of the animals and vegetables whose flesh would now nourish our bodies, and I asked for an acknowledgement of the connectivity of the whole of Creation. ‘Sean’ nudged me to ask if the guy sitting opposite was really a Priest. He seemed to think there was something odd about him. He was right! He was also confused that the “Priest”, who spoke with a refined English accent, proclaimed himself to be Irish, showing also that he had a very detailed knowledge of both Donegal and Derry. The piano music was barely audible over the buzz of conversation and hearty laughs filling the room. The tinkling of a bell called the guests to order again. I explained the meaning of the Irish words, ‘An t-Uachtarán’, and the tradition behind the toast, and then called on everyone to charge their glasses, stand, and join with me in a toast to her Excellency, The President of Ireland. The room resounded with the full-voiced reply, “An t-Uachtarán”. This little Northern Ireland lady’s unique contribution to the event, and to “bridge-building” among the people of the whole island of Ireland, was not lost on this assembly. 5. The After Dinner Speech My short introduction of the “Priest” consisted only of the fact that the little I knew about Niall was all based on whispered hearsay, but that I did believe that his Passport read like an index to a world atlas. After an un-remarkable introduction he removed his jacket to reveal a multi-coloured polka-dot shirt whose black front with ‘Roman’ collar belied the comical ensemble behind it. ‘Sean’ nudged me again saying, “I knew he wasn’t a Priest. He’s a fucking stripper, isn’t he”? Niall remarked that he wore the black, red and green colours to compliment the table-banner decoration, which he recognised as recalling my former Irish Army Cavalry Corps service on the Border during the 1970s. He went on to recall his own service as a British Army Officer in Northern Ireland during the same period, remembering a particular shooting incident on the border, where he and his men, and members of the Irish Army, and the IRA were all involved. I noticed ‘Sean’s’ face tighten, not believing his ears. I couldn’t help wondering if he was speaking of a similar incident I was involved in, only to discover weeks later that the IRA commander was my cousin. He had his audience in raptures of laughter with accounts of time spent accompanying the Queen Mother, and some of the funny incidents he experienced in that household. The mood changed to absolute stunned silence as he told of his experiences as a Church of England clergyman and aid worker in strife-torn Africa, where he said that the atrocities he experienced first hand, and described in graphic detail, made the Northern Ireland situation almost pale into insignificance by comparison. He rounded off his engaging speech very nicely by comparing the function and hospitality with which the hostel owners, managers and staff perform their role, to be as good as that of any peace-keeper he had met. When Niall regained his seat it was the turn of the Downings-based, internationally renowned tweed designer, John Mc Nutt, who is now better known as an accomplished composer, singer and musician. John had his audience spellbound with his Donegal ‘blas’ and rich storytelling manner. I hadn’t realised until then what a marvellous storyteller he is. His spectacular guitar playing, his rich voice, and his very engaging and meaningful lyrics held us all speechless. 6. “The Show” (Desmond Donnellan) I then rose to remark that, although most of us present were familiar with the traditional Irish tunes and songs we had been entertained by throughout the meal, that there was another tradition in Ulster. I asked, “How many of you have ever seen an Orange Parade? How many of have marched behind a Lambeg Drum? Well, now is your chance”!! With that, the door opened and an ‘Orange’ fife-player, backed by a massive Lambeg Drum, whose equally massive drummer with his typically clean-shaven square head, entered the room playing The Sash. I rose from the table and vigorously encouraged the guests to quickly rise, and follow that “Different Drum”. Un-noticed by anyone but Niall, ‘Sean’ was frozen to the spot, unable or unwilling to stand for that spectacle, which, despite his respect for the host, the President, and the Reverend Niall, was just too big a challenge to his up-bringing and beliefs. Quite definitely, ‘a bridge too far’! Somehow, Niall persuaded him to follow on. The long line of revellers were led out the front door, the long way around, to the rear of the Mill House, in through the first floor reception room, and up to the large performance space in the ‘Upper Room’. The ear splitting, hair-raising, music continued as the room filled with IHH guests, and locals alike. As the last of the audience took their seats the drumming quietened to the sound of a heartbeat. Then there was heard a different but more familiar beat from somewhere towards the rear of the room, perhaps on the landing, outside the still-open entrance door. Each time the Lambeg answered the call of the Bodhran, the Bodhran got louder. Then each got louder and louder until the two merged in a rare orgy of prohibited union that brought tears to several eyes in the room, where many never thought that such a spectacle was either appropriate or even possible on this island. The first line of Army Cadet Pol O’Donnell’s letter began, “Times change. Opinions change”, and perhaps a new era in our troubled history is beginning to dawn. After the Bodhran player, Roy Arbuckle from Derry, had advanced up the centre aisle between the rows of chairs, and joined his Londonderry and “Different Drum” colleague in centre-stage, the two drumbeats merged as one and played side by side. When the sound finally died away I reminded the assembly of an old saying that goes, “When the Lambeg and Bodhran play together we will finally have peace in Ireland” The drummers then retreated to the fireplace and the room was filled with a lively dance tune. Eight young girls in black costumes with silver mini skirts paraded up the aisle in heavy ‘hard-shoe’ brogues. As the music stopped they separated left and right in front of the first row of chairs, turned dramatically into line to face the audience, and stopped, frozen in dance-ready pose, prepared to begin their first number. After a couple of seconds the silence was broken when Michael from Jamaica Inn, Limerick, with a deep husky voice was heard to utter, “H E L L O G I R L S !!!”. Well, the place erupted into laughter and the young girls took some time to get over their embarrassment and recover their composure. Robin Hickey said afterwards, “that will be the quote that this whole weekend will be remembered for”. As the music came on, the dance began as a nice, quiet step dance, but very quickly erupted into a deafening crescendo of energy, and hair-on-the-back-of-the-neck-raising primal rhythm that was even more powerful than the effect of the kitchen dance scene from Brian Friel’s “Dancing at Lughnasa”. The wooden sprung floor was tested to the limit and the varnish was completely destroyed, but boy, was it worth it!!! The drummers and a very accomplished, international fiddle player from Canada entertained us for another two numbers. Then, the now-10-girl troupe, in different costumes, danced on and gave another tingling performance to a standing, participating audience’s hand-clapping accompaniment, and ovation. John Mc Nutt, very appropriately, played and sang his recent composition, “The Planter and the Gael” which received a tremendous appreciation from a grateful gathering. As if we weren’t already sufficiently enthralled, the young, shy, very talented and recently prize-winning Uillinn piper, Martin Crossan, wooed the guests with his startling ability. After all that wonderful performance of music, song and dance, a session began, and all sorts of un-rehearsed combinations of talented musicians entertained us into the small hours in various rooms in the Mill House. Bright and early next morning the hardworking Mill House volunteers, without whose help the whole extravaganza could not have operated so professionally, if at all, were at their posts again. Gabi, (who tirelessly worked unpaid, very long hours, in just about every job that came up), Noreen (who is supposed to be relaxing in her holiday home, but helped decorate the tables, wash dishes, and much more), Conrad, the German, Brad Pitt look-alike (who had only planned to camp for one night, but stayed for a week of un-paid, hard work, and who kept us all going with his cheerful efficiency), so too Olivia, (a young, girly, Oriental Australian, and one-night-only guest, stayed to help with waiteressing). It was she who hand-painted the 50 Donegal beach stones with the IHH logo, “one for everyone in the audience”, to remind the delegates of their extraordinary, Corcreggan Mill, Dunfanaghy, AGM-Weekend, and Ulster experience. I wish to express my sincere gratitude to the Northern Region Hostels whose moral and physical support gave me the confidence to carry it off. Their following up with phone calls to remind members made all the difference. In particular I want to thank Arnie from Belfast who came two days early to paint and cut grass and do taxi runs and much more, and then stayed for the clean up. Finally, I must point out that, without the moral support and guidance I received from Robin Hickey and Claire de Jong it would not have turned out as beautifully as it did. How can I ever thank those wonderful friends who turned up to WOW the delegates and lay on a night to remember, and an unrivalled” Ulster Experience”? They are Colm O’Donnell, John Mc Nutt, Rev Niall Johnston, Roy Arbuckle, Richard Campbell, Fionnuala Shields and her Damhsoiri Clann Lir, and Martin Crossan. I would like to express my sincere thanks to the IHH, Failte Ireland and the Ulster Bank for sponsoring various aspects of a very successful AGM, which included the musicians and dancers travelling expenses, the official opening reception, and the After Dinner Speakers expenses, respectively. Conclusion Everyone I have met agrees that my three objectives were achieved, that the overall experience was a resounding success and that it sets the scene for a revival of the IHH and future AGMs. I am pleased with all of that, but the real gift for me personally, was when ‘Sean’ came to me on the steps of the Mill House next morning, saying “You know, I had a chat last night with the Lambeg Drummer. He used to be afraid to come to Donegal because of all the Teagues, but now he’s not afraid any more. He loves it here. He’s not such a bad chap after all. In fact, he seems quite normal, ….. nice, even!”
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