When I first heard Mark Knopfler’s ‘Mighty Man (click this link and you’ll get the context)’ I was transported back fifty-five years or so into my late aunts pub…
Dave was an itinerant Irishman and a force of nature. Everyone loved him; he charmed all the women, found well paid, but very hard work for those who wanted it and when he was in the pub, nobody else needed to put their hands in their pockets. Physically, he was typical of the breed; put a shovel in his hands, fuel him with Guinness and he could pretty much carry on indefinitely, doing what he did best… “digging trenches in the cold and wet weather and laying half the roadways in England as well”.
Dave would turn up from nobody-knew-where, put a team together, work hard for a few weeks and then disappear for months. When he was in lodgings, close to my aunts pub, we were all enriched by his presence.
Yer man became quite fond of me. On one of his visits he turned up with boxing gloves, got down on his knees, laced the gloves onto my little hands (I was about eight at the time), and told me to hit him as hard as I could, wherever I liked. This ritual went on for some weeks and I never did get a punch through his guard. During these boxing lessons Dave would try to impart some combat knowledge. He explained that the gloves were for his benefit, just in case I landed a lucky blow, but that bare knuckles was the proper way. Although he taught me how to punch with my whole body and what to aim for, he also stressed that fighting for the sake of it was wrong… unless there was enough money involved and it looked as though the odds on winning were considerably better than evens. A couple of years later, during the summer holidays, I was with a girlfriend called Trish when we got picked on by a group of secondary school kids. Dave had once said to me that there would definitely be times when I’d need to stick up for myself, or someone I cared about, so I picked my spot and decked the mouthy ringleader.
Yes, Dave was a hard man. One of the locals had been pestering my aunt for some while. I knew something was going on, but mum didn’t enlighten me other than ‘things were getting a bit nasty’. This particular evening, Dave was sitting quietly in the corner trying to make sense of a pile of receipts and IOU’s, while the particularly unpleasant looking and sounding regular continued to make smutty remarks to my aunt, who started to cry. Dave got up and just stared at the offensive regular who then left the pub. Dave followed him out. I can’t remember the blokes name now, but I can remember the other regulars asking what had happened to him; apparently he just disappeared and my guess is that if there is such a thing as reincarnation, he came back as a pothole in the bypass.
And of Dave’s pile of receipts and IOU’s? One day he turned up at our house with a large brown paper bag, an exercise book and some pens and pencils. He thrust a couple of tenners into my hand, told me to see that my mum and dad were OK and then informed me that I was to become his accountant, which basically meant sorting out who he owed money to and who he should be collecting it from. It was a simple enough task that was repeated every time he turned up for a stint of work in the area. We were struggling at the time and in truth Dave was just trying to help us out without embarrassing dad.
Christmas and New-year were riotous affairs in the pub. The adults would entertain themselves thoroughly and as long as us kids made a reasonable effort to remain unnoticed, we too could make the best of the festivities. Uncle Ern would be on the accordion and together with my stepfather, Dave would be on hand for bouncer duties.
One day Dave vanished, never to be seen again. And to be honest, until I heard ‘Mighty Man’, I hadn’t really given him a thought. Listening to the lyrics now though makes me smile with renewed affection. And, if one of Dave’s progeny (and I’m guessing that there were a few), ever caught up with him, then yer man may well have sung this song to him.
Apart from the copyright issue, posting my own version of Mighty Man would be inappropriate on aesthetic grounds. However, on a similar subject, Mountains of Mourne c. 1896 has been covered by just about everyone, including Dave, in the public bar of the Monument Canterbury, some fifty odd years ago, so here goes!
It’s well over a year since I wrote ‘Bloke Dancing’ and to be honest, despite some positive feedback and a decent amount of views via various social media platforms it’s been a total failure; I’m still just as lonely, craving some male company.
It’s not all bad news though. A few of us ‘blokes’ adjourn to the pub after salsa. A couple of us are out on ‘long leads’ and one of us is gaining the reputation for having a girl on every dance floor, which may or may not be the case so I’m sticking the word ‘allegedly’ in at this point for legal reasons.
Anyway, I’m going to try a different tack this time. It’s all about the music.
You know that foot tapping feeling you get when you listen to music? And then there are the times when you’re sitting about at a wedding, beer in hand, trying to avoid eye contact so that you can dodge a humiliating excursion onto the dance floor, but with a nagging feeling that if you could just find the right moves, then you could let yourself go and have some fun.
The foregoing is particularly pertinent when you are listening to music that you like. Randy Newman’s Falling-in-love always did it for us; didn’t matter where we were (Tesco was a bit embarrassing), we’d get up and give it a crack.
I’m probably not alone in this, but despite thoroughly enjoying the dancing, I don’t necessarily enjoy the ‘proper’ music that goes with it. Also, I’ve concluded that I don’t really want to get serious enough about it to worry too much about style. And it gets worse. Going to a Milonga (an event where Argentine tango is danced) or indeed any other formal dancing fills me with dread. That’s enough to be getting on with, so if you haven’t screamed a rude word at your screen, ticked the ‘thumbs down’ box and then cut me off in disgust, please let me try to explain.
A lot of ‘proper’ dance music associated with a particular style isn’t that easy for a novice to dance to (well, this novice at any rate) and to be honest, if I don’t like the music, then I ain’t much interested in dancing to it. But then it’s the same with anything; some people love heavy metal, whilst others consider it useful only as part of a torture regime. So the key point here is that it doesn’t really matter. If you have a go at dancing then there will be music that you may not initially like dancing to, but it will grow on you. And there will be music that you will never come to appreciate; so what? There is also however the music that you love and you will be surprised at what you can dance to once you have mastered a few basic steps and learnt how to let the music take control. I’ve recently rediscovered Fleetwood Mac’s Gold Dust Woman… which just makes me want to tango… and then there’s the image of Stevie Nicks to go with it… hang on a mo, I’m going off on one.
You don’t have to be that fussed about doing it properly
I bet there are a lot of people like me who just want to learn a few steps and dance with a broad grin on their face. Take this stuff too seriously and you’ll break one of the the fundamental rules of life… ‘dance like nobody’s watching’. Do a bit of googling about the Argentine tango though and you’ll come across the etiquette associated with this beautiful dance, which for a novice can seem intimidating, but is in my view unnecessary for those of us who don’t want to get involved in ‘the scene’ or indeed take it too seriously.
The current Mrs O’Neill and I stayed at Yaiza on Lanzarote last year. Yaiza has a very large town square and so armed with (in)appropriate music loaded onto my phone, each night we strolled to the square, fired up the music in my shirt pocket and tangoed badly to our hearts content. A few locals wandered by, stopped, looked perplexed, and then, when they realised what was going on, smiled appreciatively at a couple enjoying themselves…
…which explains why going to a milonga would fill me with dread.
So I guess it’s street dancing for us. We love this video. Forget the fact that this pair can really, and I mean really dance; that’s not the point; just look at the expressions on their faces and the fun that they are having. Contrived? Over edited? Most certainly, but who cares, the joy that this video communicates is, I believe, what dancing is about. And look out for the old boy with the backpack… infectious!
And my point is…
If you enjoy music, then the act of turning the rhythm in your head into movement will fire up your endorphins, titillate your pleasure zones and with a few basic moves give you and your partner a lot of fun. One totally unexpected element of learning to dance has been that I now listen to music differently; my first reaction while swaying from side to side or counting (uno dos tres, cinco seis siete…) is to consider how to dance to it.
And now for the plug. In this effort to persuade a few more blokes to give it a try I’m majoring on the musicality; my point being that if you can dance to the music you love, then you’ll enjoy the music that you love even more. The place we go to learn uses all types of music to suit a style of dance, both traditional and contemporary. So if you live in the Seaton/Bridport area, I can thoroughly recommend Dance Sabai
And, I could do with the company.
When we’re not knocking down trees, unbunging sewers or generally fixing up our Victorian estate, we take to the sea in boats. And once the final cast has gone ‘splosh’, our hope is to end up at Fiddlers Green; a legendary afterlife filled with perpetual mirth, a fiddle that never stops playing and dancers who never tire.
The Rousdon ‘in-house-team’ have been involved in some challenging endeavours. On one occasion a helicopter was needed…
…and that didn’t work out too well; so in the hope of keeping our highly valued, hard working and skilful residents safe, both at work and at play, we’ve compiled a safety brief…
A lot of songs about the sea have lyrics that tell a story and Shoals of Herring is one such song. When I first sang it with the Jurassix shanty group it reminded me of a geography lesson (could’ve been history) back when I was a lad. The east coast fishing industry was already in decline; people were losing their taste for salted herring, in favour of Cap’n Birdseye fish-fingers. But in the late 19th, early 20th century, Great Yarmouth catered for a thousand drifters (fishing boats), ten thousand fisherman and five thousand fisher-girls (mainly responsible for the gutting and preserving the ‘silver darlings’). Many of these workers and boats were Scottish and just there for the season.
The song mentions ‘a hundred cran of the silver darlings’. A cran is thirty-seven and a half imperial gallons and the fisherman on the left is loading a creel basket that would hold roughly a quarter cran of fish. Herring fishing was hard dangerous work; a fact conveyed in the lyrics of Ewan MacColl’s evocative song.
Anyway, to the song. Some while ago I rewrote the lyrics and recorded ‘Shoals of Pouting’ about a seasick grockle on a day charter out of Lyme Bay. I feel guilty about this, but not guilty enough to delete it. Never mind, this is my version of the proper song, which, if I can get the technology to work, will be replaced in due course by the Jurassix shanty version…
It’s Halloween again and as usual it is unsettling me more than somewhat. Although the events that I am about to relate happened forty odd years ago, the horror of them haunts me to this day. I’ve kept this to myself for all these years; maybe sharing it now will enable me to find some closure.
Back in the day, the telephone company was awash with managers who got to be in charge because they’d been around a long time. All they wanted was a quiet life; they did no more than they had to do and then went home. A management team with this level of motivation was unlikely to inspire their workforce and working in this environment was an unfulfilling experience. Luckily though, very occasionally, a manager with drive would come along; Doug was in this category.
When I met Doug I’d been working in a planning office for a couple of years; I missed field work, but the only hope of promotion was in an office, so I grudgingly stuck it out. By now my once calloused workman’s hands had returned to those of a choirboy, my motivation was at rock-bottom and I needed a firm kick-up-the-arse; Doug was happy to oblige. He drove me like a (I’m stuck for PC words here, but you know what I mean). And, luckily enough, I hadn’t spent so long in a torpor that I wasn’t able to respond to some useful ‘counselling’ and come to realise that the alternative to laziness and endlessly long days could be engagement and fulfilment. Suffice it to say that once flinty-eyed Doug had kicked me into shape, we got along fine.
Although I didn’t know much about Doug, what I did know was that he enjoyed a pint in his local. We were chatting over a coffee one day and he put a proposition to me. Doug said that the landlord of his local was in the process of building an extension and a few days ago they had uncovered a deep well. This well had been covered by a concrete patio, and was only unearthed because they needed to break the patio up to install footings for the extension. They knew the well was deep, because when they threw rocks down it, it took some while before they heard bonk, bonk splosh. The ‘bonk, bonk’ indicated that there was some kind of obstruction somewhere near the bottom of the well and the ‘splosh’, yep you guessed it, water! Doug became very enthusiastic as he told me that the landlord and the locals were mightily intrigued by this find and were hoping for an opportunity to discover if the well held some treasures. I guess it was a reasonable thought; people must have thrown all kinds of things down old wells. Anyway, Doug knew that I scuba-dived, so his proposal was that I’d strap on the gear, they’d tie a rope around me and lower me down.
At this point I must ask you to consider my position; I was in my early twenties with the possibility of a successful career stretching out in front of me and my guv’nor was asking me for a favour, so without any consideration for personal safety, while my brain was thinking “here’s a chance to ingratiate myself with the boss”, my mouth said “what’s in it for me?”. Anyway, Doug replied with “free beer, and, if you’re lucky, pie and chips”. “Done” said I. And I had been!
Luckily though, Doug wasn’t quite so gung-ho. The next day he came to work via the phone company stores (he once managed proper ‘hairy-arsed’ engineers, so he had all the right contacts) with a miners’ safety lamp, overalls and a hard hat. He explained that as the well was just “another bloody-great hole in the ground”, it could collect gas or foul air, so to be safe, we ought to test it with the Davy-lamp before venturing down, especially as we’d worked out that lowering me in with full diving kit would be too heavy and probably prevent me from negotiating the obstructions, therefore I would be breathing ‘well air’ on the way down. And the hard hat; obviously to protect me from the rocks accidentally kicked down the well by the inevitable drunk(s) staggering about above.
After a couple of days, Doug also hatched a safer plan to get me down to the water. The landlord had asked his regulars to supply ladders, so now the plan was to tie a load of ladders together and lower them into the well as far as the obstruction, hoping that I would be able to negotiate whatever it was that was causing the obstruction and manoeuvre my way into the water. Doug was confident that all this would be in place by the time that I arrived on the evening of the 31st October… Halloween!
I wasn’t exactly getting cold feet, but I was feeling in need of reliable back up. Pete Two (you may read about Pete One and Pete Three elsewhere, but in an effort to safeguard his identity this Pete is to be known as Pete Two) was an obvious choice. Pete Two had one of the best senses of humour I’ve come across – ever; and my god could that boy drink. So, I explained the need for a backup diver and Doug confirmed that if the landlord wouldn’t settle the bar bill, for all this fun, then he certainly would. Game on!
It was getting dark by the time we arrived, with our wives at the pub. The locals had the drinking element of the adventure well in hand and there was an air of anticipation. The landlord offered us a pint, but the rule is that you don’t drink and dive, so we declined the offer, pointing out that we would more than make up for it later.
We checked out the preparation. Give Doug and the landlord their due, it was all there. The ladders disappeared into the gloom, there was a bucket with holes drilled in it for collecting the spoils and plenty of rope for lowering the aqualung, bucket and a safety rope for the diver.
Four of us stood atop the well. Although it was forty years ago, I can remember this as if it were yesterday. My wife Glenys was standing next to me, and just a few feet away, on the other side of the well stood Pete and Geraldine. We were all staring down as I shone a powerful underwater torch into the hole. The torchlight penetrated no more than six feet or so and I was slightly unnerved that the well was full of mist, but it had been a mild October day and now that the temperature had dropped, it seemed reasonable that a mist would form, especially in low lying areas… and this was certainly low lying. The plan was that we’d lower the Davy lamp into the well on a pre-marked length of polypropylene line that Doug had also liberated from the stores. Doug and the landlord had worked out the length of line needed based on the number of ladders that were lashed together. As I held the torch, with Pete, Geraldine and Glen watching, Doug appeared from the gloom with the lighted lamp. He lowered the lamp down to the mark, made the rope off to the top rung of the ladder and then returned to the pub to finish his pint in the warm, leaving the four of us with our thoughts. The plan was that we’d leave the lamp for a few minutes and then haul it back up. If the lamp was still alight, then the air was good and we could dive in relative safety.
As I turned away from the well, I thought I noticed a slight swirling in the mist and at the same time, Glen gasped and took a big step back from the hole… “did you see that?”. Her voice was a strained whisper. “See what?” I responded, somewhat taken aback. “I’m sure I saw a face, there was a swirl of mist and for a second these hollow eyes stared back at me… I’m certain I saw something, you can’t go down there Graham… you can’t”. I laughed… “nice one Glen, you got us going for a minute with that one… “. Glen didn’t look at all amused and Pete wasn’t looking too happy either.
Personally, at that time I had absolutely no belief in the paranormal so as far as I was concerned, what my wife had observed was just a trick of the mist in the torchlight… absolutely nothing to worry about. However, at this point the pub landlord put in another appearance and once again offered us a ‘stiffener’ before we ventured forth. I looked at Pete and the four of us said in unison “yes please”.
I still couldn’t be certain if Glen was just winding us up, but one thing I did know was that she never ever touched spirits, so I was a bit alarmed when she asked for a double brandy.
Pete and I knew that only the first person into the well would be able to see anything, because as soon as someone touched bottom, the silt debris would reduce visibility to zero. Our agreement was that as it would be great to actually see what the underwater vista looked like before disturbing the silt, we would toss a coin for the honour of who went first. Things had changed though. Pete was staring at Glen as Glen sat quietly in the corner gently shuddering and taking gulps from her large brandy. She’d definitely seen something, and while I was certain that it was just a trick of the light, I was equally certain that Pete didn’t see it that way at all. At this point I need to explain something about Pete.
Pete was a strapping lad and at over six feet tall and built like a brick outhouse, he was well able to look after himself. And, added to this Pete boxed and had the scars to prove it. Bear in mind that as a couple of likely lads in our early twenties, on a good night out, we had on occasions come up against some dodgy characters. On one occasion Pete parked his Cortina outside a Chinese takeaway and I jumped out to sort out the order. I was into the premises before I’d noticed the three skinheads waiting impatiently for their grub. These lads were being rude to the chap behind the counter and when I came through the door, all flowing locks down to my shoulders and flared trousers, their attention turned fairly rapidly to me.
Parked outside, Pete must have seen what was about to happen and quick as a flash he was out of the car and through the restaurant door with a big grin on his face. He stepped in front of me and turned to the direction of aggravation… “hello lads, how’s it going then?” I looked gingerly out from behind my big mate. The mouthy leader had stopped walking forward and looked a bit uncertain. Pete pressed on “ok lads, this is how it’s going to play out, you three are going to wait patiently for your “chinky” [colloquialism, perfectly acceptable to the Chinese person serving us forty odd years ago] and then you’ll go home and enjoy your grub… deal?” The three of them sat down. My point is that Pete was bloody fearless. Whereas I needed a change of underwear, my mate couldn’t have cared less if a fight had broken out; his only disappointment would have been that there was only three of them! Having said all this however, Pete was also the biggest ‘scaredy-cat’ I had ever met.
The four of us were great mates, to the extent that we actually went on holiday together. On one occasion we’d hired a cruiser on the Norfolk Broads. It was a big old boat with a lot of timbered features and in the half-light, it was easy to imagine that you were on an old galleon; and Pete had a vivid imagination.
The ‘facilities’ were of the pump-out variety. The bloke in the boatyard said that the holding tank was more than big enough for four of us for a week, so there was no need to get the toilet emptied; clearly though he had no notion of the amount of beer that was about to be consumed. Anyway, it was agreed that where possible Pete and I would pee over the side, so as to avoid filling the bog too quickly. On this particular evening we had decided to get the beers in, moor up in the ‘wilds’, do our own cooking and then play scrabble (Geraldine reckoned she was good at scrabble; we reckoned she was bloody cheating!). Anyway, while the girls sipped delicately on glasses of Chardonnay, Pete and I shovelled the beer down like our lives depended on it. When necessary, I’d take a trip to the rail and when Pete needed to go he’d use the ‘ladies’ toilet. After several trips I retorted “oi Pete, where do you think you’re going? Go outside mate!” Pete glared at me and went in the ladies. Once he was out of earshot, Geraldine explained that her brave husband was, in fact, scared of the dark. Oh boy was I going to have some fun!
I’d been reading a book called ‘Ghosts of the Norfolk Broads’, so when Pete came back in, I started to recount one of the short stories. He didn’t want to hear. Part of the problem was that a slight breeze had got up and this was causing the boat to rock on its moorings which in turn caused a ghostly creaking sound as rope strained against bollard. Coupled with this, as each gust of wind blew, the ornately panelled doors would ease open slightly against their catches; Pete had his back to the doors, so he couldn’t see this. “What’s up Pete old mate? you look a bit uneasy”. “Nothing, nothing at all, now come on you lot concentrate on the game”. The doors eased, the ropes creaked… “crikey mate, this is a spooky old boat isn’t it? With all this creaking and tapping going on, I’m half expecting the headless ghost of Blackbeard to burst in through those doors”. Pete couldn’t help himself and he looked over his shoulder just as a strong gust of wind lifted the catches and blew the door open. Pete let out a blood curdling scream as he leapt to his feet knocking all the scrabble paraphernalia onto the floor. The three of us nearly wet ourselves laughing; not quite true, I actually did wet myself… I should’ve gone to the rail before winding up poor old Pete.
Back to the plot. You can see my predicament. I knew that there was no way that Pete was going to face whatever it was that had frightened Glen and so I needed to apply some psychology.
“OK Pete, I know I said we’d toss a coin to decide who goes first, but let’s face it mate, you’re a big fxxxxr and as you’re always pointing out to me, I’m a short-arse, so, if there is an obstruction down there we don’t want to risk you getting stuck, so why don’t I go first? After all, they’ll be sod-all to see down there anyway”. “Mmmm…” Pete took his time “…s’pose you’ve got a point” …he paused some more… “OK then, I’ll man the rope topside”. Then Glen said “you’re not actually going down there are you? You must be crazy”. And I replied “look around you; these locals are half drunk and they are expecting some kind of show. The way I see it is that I either go down the well of my own accord, or this lot are going to throw me down there”. Glen could see the logic of the argument and took another large gulp of brandy… “you’d better get me another one of these then!”.
Glen armed herself with another double and the four of us went outside. We recovered the Davy-lamp which sadly was still alight and then Pete and I changed into wetsuits, donned the overalls and hard hats and then readied the aqualungs.
Pete lowered my kit down to the obstruction, Geraldine lowered the bucket and I clambered onto the ladder. It was a long way down. I held my torch so that it pointed down into the gloom, but I avoided looking down to where it shone. I worked my way carefully down and down.
By the time I’d reached the first obstruction I was bloody terrified. My mind was in a turmoil; what had Glen seen? Was it real? Had I married an alcoholic? The first obstruction was a huge wooden beam that went from side to side across the well. Shining the torch down I could see that the aqualung was resting on a second beam roughly three feet below, with the handle of the bucket caught around the first stage of the demand valve.
I looked up and saw the ladder disappearing up into a foggy yellow mist, lit by the torchlight shining down from above. I shouted up… “Pete, I’m standing on a beam – give me some rope”. My voice had a muffled dead sound to it, but Pete’s “OK mate” sounded like an ethereal whisper; I was spooked! Nevertheless, Pete payed out more rope and I clambered down to my diving kit. “OK mate, I’ve reached the kit; take its weight and I’ll get it clear”. Pete pulled on the rope that was securing the aqualung and lifted it clear of the second beam. I pulled the kit sideways, clear of the beam and then shouted back to my support diver to lower away. I shone the torch down to the limpid water below as the aqualung touched the surface. “OK mate – hold it there”. I sat on the lower beam, with my legs dangling in the water, then I spat in my diving mask, rinsed it in the water to stop it from misting up and then fitted the mask to my face. I tucked the aqualung under my arm and shouted up to Pete “OK mate, I’m going in, give me slack on the ropes”. I felt the bowline loop around me slacken and I took the weight of the dive kit as Pete gave me more rope. With one final glance into the mist above, I stuffed the demand valve into my mouth and slid off of the beam into the water.
The well water was crystal clear. I could see the shape of the chamber; it was onion shaped, cut into the chalk away from the well shaft. I had decided in advance that if I was the first to venture into this hole, I would take plenty of time to orientate myself before disturbing the visibility. Also, as I was stressed, my breathing was erratic, so I needed time to sort myself out before venturing down. I estimated the depth at no more than ten feet to the silt. Looking down from just under the surface, there were no specific features of note, apart from a slight hollow in one place where the curve of the chamber reached the silt.
After a while my breathing settled. For me the underwater world, be it in lake, sea or river held no fears, only adventure and now I could add well-diving to the list. Common sense and excitement were starting to reassert themselves and fear began to abate. I resurfaced… “Geraldine – let the bucket go”. The rope on the bucket slackened, I tipped the bucket off of the beam and then ducked under again to watch the bucket settle in a cloud of silt. Then the work started.
Topsides we had a system. Pete managed the aqualung and diver rope when I was working below and I did likewise for him. Glen and Geraldine took it in turns to manage the bucket and sort through the debris. And we had a signalling system. Once the bucket was full, steady pulls from the diver on the bucket rope would result in the bucket being pulled up, emptied and then returned as far as the first obstruction. Two pulls on the diver rope from above signalled “are you OK?” and two pulls from below signalled “yes”. Continuous rapid pulls on the diver rope indicated that everything was far from OK!
What followed was for the most part straightforward. By the time Pete took his turn underwater he could see nothing; the job was done through touch alone. Indeed, once I’d taken the first scoop of debris from the bottom the visibility instantly turned to zero.
We had been at it for about an hour and the system was working well. During one of my stints I felt something longish with knobbly ends. I stuffed it in the bucket and carried on working. Once the bucket was full I signalled for it to be taken up and decided to take a break myself, so once the bucket was clear I started on up the ladder.
As my head cleared the edge of the well-head, the first thing I saw was Doug with a bone; he had a quizzical look on his face. When Doug saw me, he said “look what you’ve found; an animal bone – too big for a sheep, must be a cow I guess”. I’m no forensic anthropologist, but it looked human enough to me.
Pete didn’t see or hear any of this as he’d gone for a pee (I’d specifically instructed him not to piss in his wetsuit). Doug secreted the bone away and placed it in a plastic carrier bag. As the girls sifted through the mud and debris, several more bits and pieces came to light. Doug kept on referring to bovine body parts and I kept on recognising fingers and toes. Pete was down the well, grafting away, sending the bucket up at regular intervals. Whenever a bone appeared, Doug took it away.
When Pete appeared at the top of the ladder he said that he’d had enough. We had cleared most of the well-bed of debris, so my next trip down was to be my last.
Back at the bottom, I was scrabbling about with the bucket; there wasn’t much left. But, as my hand shuffled along the edge, it came to the indentation that I had seen before the visibility turned to zero. As my hand rummaged about, the bed of the well gave way to reveal a small tunnel. The tunnel was too small to get much more than my hand through, but as I tried to clear what I thought was rock away to enlarge the hole a lump came away in my hand. I cleared the mud away from what felt like some sort of curved symmetrical object, which I then placed on top of the rest of the debris in the bucket. I signalled steadily on the bucket line and it was whisked away.
I sat back and waited. The first pull on the diver rope jogged me from my respite; the continuous hard steady pulls shook me into action. I surfaced, spat out the demand valve and shouted up… “OK, OK, I’m coming, what’s the rush?”. The next voice I heard was Doug’s… “Graham, get up here NOW!”.
It took me a couple of minutes to climb the ladder. When I got to the surface, Doug was holding a human pelvis.
The landlord was beside himself. “What am I going to do; the building inspector is coming on Wednesday and I need my builders to get this lot capped before he arrives. My business depends on getting the restaurant open for the summer… oh god, the police, the bad publicity, the newspaper headlines… I’m finished”.
At that time, some forty years ago, the phone company didn’t send people on management courses, so none of them had even heard of ‘action centred leadership’. Luckily though, some people have an innate knack of managing the task, team and individual. Doug flew into action…
He barked at the landlord “shut the xxxx up! Take the girls into the bar and make them a cup of tea”. Doug grabbed the landlord by the shoulders and shoved him back towards the pub. Then he walked over to Glen and Geraldine gently put his arms around their shoulders and shepherded them away. As he did so he prised the brandy glass from glens shaking hand and threw the contents down the well. I stood rooted to the top of the ladder, staring at Pete, who was staring back at me with eyes the size of saucers. Glen told me afterwards that Doug had pressed on with the animal bones theory, reasoning that everyone was tired and overwrought and not thinking or even seeing clearly.
When Doug returned to the well-head he was clutching the bag of bones. He reached out and handed them to me. Having seen it many times before, I recognised the ‘you are going to do what I tell you and you are going to do it now’ look so I took the bag from him. “Now then Graham, you are going back down the ladder and you are going to put these bones back where you found them. In the week, the builders will cap the well and none of us will ever refer to this night again… understood?”. I nodded.
Through the laboured descent, I felt no fear. I was physically and emotionally drained.
I took the bag of bones to the hole that I had uncovered with the intention of placing them safely into the cavity. Before doing so I reached into the hole and had one final feel about; who knows, money, jewellery, gold watch? My hand rested on something roundish.
By now I was very tired, but in what a psychiatrist would describe as ‘a high state of arousal’, so I guess what happened next could have been some kind of hallucination; that’s how I’ve tried to reconcile it to myself anyway. But, from where I was, kneeling with my arm outstretched into an unseen hole, breathing rapidly through my demand valve, I swear that something wrapped itself around my wrist and dragged me into the hole, up to my armpit.
I recoiled in horror, gasped and spat out my demand valve. As I pushed backwards my outstretched hand slipped along the spherical object, turning it as my fingers slipped into it.
I shot to the surface like a missile, banging my head on the low beam. As I gasped for air, my hand came out of the water with the human skull. My ring and forefinger were stuffed into the eye sockets and my thumb was through the nose hole. I screamed, dropped the skull and clung onto the beam panting.
Somehow Doug had convinced the others that the bones were from an animal. Only I had seen the skull and this has been my problem. You see, I never told anyone. Doug was waiting for me as I reached the top of the ladder. He saw the horror on my face, but as I opened my mouth to speak, he fixed me with those flinty grey eyes and put his finger to his lips. An understanding flashed between us and until today, nothing more was said.
And of the expected treasures, what did we actually find…
…yep, nothing but a wee willy winkie lamp, not dissimilar to the one in the picture. Oh, and one new penny, probably tossed in by one of the locals. The landlord kept the lamp and Doug tossed the coin back down the well.
I had hoped that telling this story would finally lay the ghost to rest, but to be honest I’m no more settled about my actions. Who was it? Were they murdered? Was it a dreadful accident? I’ll never know.
There is an island, it’s only just an island, you can drive onto it without even noticing that you are leaving the mainland. Nevertheless, an island it is. And on this island stands a Victorian pub. Today, a casual visitor can enjoy a well-kept pint and good food, totally unaware of the dark secret that lurks beneath them. So if you should venture onto such an island and stop for refreshment at a comfortable Victorian pub, take a look about you. If you spy a dusty shelf and see, lurking towards the back of it a chipped enamelled winkie lamp, then spare a thought for the lonely soul resting in a watery grave beneath your feet.
If this story has affected you in any way. Or, maybe you’ve identified the pub. Or, then again, maybe you are just a well-wisher. Either way, do please let me know…
We went to a Bob Fox concert (Songman from War Horse) the other day, with our good friends Mick and Sylvia. It was an intimate little affair in Colyford village hall, with a small but appreciative audience and we were thoroughly entertained for a couple of hours with both song and humorous anecdote.
Anyway, Bob Fox opened his set with ‘Shoals of Herring’; an evocative folk song about a bygone industry. This song has been covered lots of times in various styles and with varying lyrics. The Bob Fox version is superb and there are some other beautiful cover versions on YouTube; sadly, this isn’t one of them…
Our first impression on entering the grounds of the Victorian estate at Rousdon East Devon could best be described as spellbound tinged with disbelief. Glenys and I had spent the best part of a year looking for that elusive mix of peace, quiet and tranquillity and until that day in late summer 2009, we had not even got close to achieving our aim. Even before setting eyes on the quirky Engine House, a visit to the estates private piece of Jurassic coastline sealed our fate. It was a sunny day and the only other sign of life was a solitary seal and a pair of buzzards; Glen said “have you seen any fossils?” My reply “Just the one” which I admit was a cheap shot, elicited a whack.
Strangely though, despite its benefits Rousdon had a detrimental effect on my ability for rational thought. The decision to build a multipurpose bicycle and keep it at the Engine House may have been sound, but the decision to ride it from Whitstable was in hindsight completely bonkers. Not that I lacked cycling experience, it’s just that the distance and time constraint was always going to be challenging, especially when coupled with lack of planning, poor preparation and bad eyesight. Indeed, in the back of my mind lurked the thought that when the time came I’d probably put the bike in the car and take the easy option, which is why I told everyone about the plan, reasoning that having set myself up, pride would prevent me from ‘bottling’.
So, during the winter I sourced the bits and built the bike; on clement days I even cycled a few miles around the Kent lanes. Then as spring approached I scoured the internet for a suitable tent. The tent arrived while Glen and I were at Rousdon and so my neighbour took delivery of it. He thought that it was a packet of handkerchiefs, but noticed the name ‘Gelert’ on the packaging and Googled it to check. He would not accept that it was a tent until he had witnessed me trying to get into and out of what was basically a funereal shroud. He gave Glen a sympathetic smile, muttered “plonker” under his breath, shook his head and walked away.
A reliable northeasterly breeze is rare, but this was what I needed to shove me west from Whitstable to Rousdon. So, when a few days of suitable wind direction with dry conditions were forecast I loaded up and set off at the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning. Initially I made excellent progress along the old ‘Crab and Winkle’ cycle route, through East Kent and on to the Romney Marsh. I was cruising comfortably at 12 – 14 mph with the wind behind me and the morning sun on my back, thinking “this wasn’t such a bad idea after all”. And then the wind shifted. I noticed that all was not well as I hit the coast road with the sensation of a cool sea breeze on my left cheek. By the time I reached Winchelsea the wind was a steady south westerly and my speed had dropped to below 10 mph. And then came the first major slope; Fairlight Hill highlighted two elements of poor planning and preparation. The bike only had provision for rear panniers and with weight on the back end it was difficult to stop the front wheel from lifting on the hills, so basically it turned itself into a unicycle. The other obvious cock-up was my choice of route. A lover of fresh sea air I’d reasoned that the coastal scenery would be a pleasant distraction and would aid navigation since all I needed to do was keep the sea on my left. The downside was that the traffic was horrendous and the hills epic.
It was dusk when I eventually reached a campsite at Arundel; I had covered 120 miles in 13 hours. Shattered, I limped to the shower block, freshened up, staggered to the pub and demolished three pints of best and a huge curry, then crawled into the ‘shroud’ and promptly got a severe attack of cramp.
As day two dawned I was up, packed and raring to go. Enthusiasm was tempered by doubt though due to uncertainty about the route. It had occurred to me several times whilst poring over the maps that the south coast was not well served by quiet lanes running east-west; I’d dealt with this during the planning stage by convincing myself that the way would become clear once I was on the road. Sadly, whilst in the midst of the morning rush-hour traffic negotiating cycle lanes designed by people whose approach to route planning was lamentably similar to my own it became apparent that the shortest distance between two points was out of the question. South coast topography lends itself to the north-south bicyclist though, so I embarked upon a meandering zigzag with a subtle westerly drift, which is where the eyesight problem started to manifest itself resulting in considerably more zigzagging than was strictly necessary, so when I spotted bikes outside a café in Emsworth I decided to seek help and it was at this point that I realised how irritating ‘proper’ cyclists can be.
A few years ago Mark Beaumont cycled around the world; he set the record, wrote a book about it and the BBC made a documentary about his truly epic endeavour which was a testament to the benefit of good planning. I digress, but the point of this digression is that since Beaumont’s adventure lots of others have set out to beat his record which probably accounts for the fact that every cyclist I met en route greeted me with “hello mate, you on a round the world tour?”. And thus was the ridicule that greeted me on entering the café at Emsworth. What was more irritating and a little sad was that the retired brethren therein were unable to suggest a reasonably traffic free route heading west; one of them (to the obvious embarrassment of his mates) suggested that I head east instead as the roads were better. I enquired how this would lead to Lyme Regis; he just shrugged.
After a bacon sandwich and several cups of coffee I bade farewell to my amiable but unhelpful friends and continued my meanderings interspersed with myopic squinting at the OS, eventually arriving at the Town Quay in Southampton for a relaxing ferry ride to Hythe. The Hythe ferry provides an excellent view of Southampton Water and the huge passenger liners that frequent Southampton docks, but the best bit is arriving at the end of the pier at Hythe. If you arrive at Hythe without a bike you can take advantage of the world’s oldest pier train and gain access to this gateway to the New Forest.
From Hythe I picked up a cycle route bound for Brockenhurst; it was clearly signposted which was handy as I knew that there was a good campsite at Brockenhurst and I was by then, to put it bluntly knackered and unable to focus on the map. Inevitably the signs ran out at about the same point that civilisation ended, so I followed the setting sun and eventually ended up at Lyndhurst. The ride across the national park was superb, but the only camping in the vicinity of Lyndhurst required that you arrived with your own facilities, which in my case was problematic so I pressed on towards a dot on the map called Linwood which according to the OS had a campsite near a pub. At this point I decided that if the campsite was but a figment of the cartographer’s imagination I’d make for the nearest pub for anaesthetic and chips and then find a spot for rough camping. In the event the pub still had an adjacent campsite and although the Antipodean lad sussed that the sad old bloke with a bike was desperate, he must have been having a laugh when he charged me £15 to pitch my ‘shroud’ and chain my bike to the fence! And then the landlady in the pub charged me for too many pints, although to be fair they were disappearing quite rapidly, so I may have lost count. All in all though it was a good night.
As day three dawned I was once again up and ready for action. I’ve spent a fair amount of time under canvas over the years but I have to say that the dawn chorus at the ‘Red Shoot’ campsite was phenomenal; it must have been something in the beer because the campsite was fairly full and everyone was snoring – the birds didn’t get a look in!
With the sun just showing over the horizon it should have been impossible to cycle away from the campsite in the wrong direction. Nevertheless, I’d covered several miles before the warmth on my face alerted me to the fact that I was heading east. Not the best start to a day that was about to get a lot worse.
Having turned and retraced my tracks back past the campsite, it was just outside the village of Verwood that I decided to remove some layers as the morning sun aired the road. I stopped by a farm track and leant the bike against a gate. It was still early and the lanes were deserted apart from the Morris 1000 pickup that juddered to a halt with its rusty front bumper resting against my shin. My first thought was “you don’t see many Morry thou pickups nowadays, must be a classic”. Then the driver’s door flew open and things became tense. The man hastily squeezing himself out of the van looked as though he had started life in the Appalachian Mountains; indeed, all that was missing was ‘duelling banjos’ playing on his eight-track. As he growled “can I help you”, my buttocks were as clenched as his fists. His beady eyes darted about looking for a spot to land his first punch and it was obvious that he was not going to await my reply. At this point I need to digress again and refer to a mate called Tony. Tony is a big lad and one of his more colourful jobs was as a bouncer, so he knows what he’s talking about when it come to violence. It was Tony’s advice about what to do when faced with a situation that is about to ‘kick-off’ that I recalled. Evidently the trick is to get the first punch in and make it a good one. Apart from tattoos, there isn’t a mark on Tony, but his knuckles are all broken, so I believe his theory to be sound. And so it was with Tony’s advice in mind that I too clenched my right fist as tight as my buttocks and was picking my spot just as the ‘hillbilly’s’ eyes stopped darting about and focussed on my bike. “You cycling somewhere then?” he said, the tension visibly easing from his fists. “Yep” I responded breezily “I’ve been going a couple of days; on my way to Lyme Regis”. We chatted, we relaxed; evidently the gate I had chosen to lean my bike against belonged to his parents and backed onto their house which had recently been burgled, so seeing me at that time in the morning he was convinced that I was the burglar back for another go. Anyway, we shook hands, but when he moved in to give me a hug by way of an apology the storyline from ‘Deliverance’ once again sprung to mind, I re-clenched my buttocks and beat a hasty retreat.
After Fairlight on day one I decided that major climbs were to be avoided and that the safest bet would be to go around significant topographical obstacles wherever possible. So it was with this in mind that I squinted at the OS map with the intention of plotting a zigzag that would avoid the bit where the contour lines became plentiful around Bulbarrow Hill. I headed confidently along a lane that was just about to be closed for resurfacing. Exchanging insults with the engineers as I passed by and just (in my estimation) coming out on top in the ‘who’s a smartarse’ competition it occurred to me that a repeat run of the mornings lapse in navigational prowess, followed by a U turn would in the circumstances be ill advised.
I cycled on past a few cottages bidding a jolly “good morning” to the locals as I ambled along the gentle incline towards an ominously large escarpment. In hindsight, the fact that all I received in return for my greetings were quizzical looks, perhaps I should have foreseen trouble ahead.
Rounding a bend I came upon a large cottage with outbuildings and skidded to a halt as the road turned into a track. The reasonably fit looking chap in his mid forties who asked me where I was going was pleasant enough as he directed me to the footpath behind his house; as he said “I think it leads to the top of Bulbarrow Hill mate but I can’t say for certain as it’s too bloody steep for me to walk up”, not for the first time that day I felt a pang of unease.
I rode the first few hundred yards and then got off and walked; at this stage the climb seemed ok. Then the track started to deteriorate and became difficult to push the bike along. Then the gradient increased. Then the large stones on the track increased in size until they were large boulders. It was impossible to push the bike so I stumbled slowly backwards dragging the loaded beast behind me. As sweat oozed from every pore the flies got wind of me and without a spare hand to bat them off I soon resembled the Japanese bloke in ‘Lord of the Flies’. It occurred to me that at my age expending this amount of effort was probably unwise and that in the worst-case scenario, given the size and quantity of the flies, within 24 hours I would be reduced to a pile of bones.
Eventually the path ran out in the middle of a fallow field. Through pinpricks of light between the flies I could just make out the sun which enabled me to head west. Fairly soon I was relieved to hear the sound of traffic and soon after that I reached a road. The view from the top of Bulbarrow Hill is indeed magnificent, but to be honest it was a view I could have done without. Allegedly flies fly at an average speed of 5 mph but can reach speeds of up to 15 mph when threatened; my experience is that if they’re hungry you need to exceed 12mph to get away from them and if you stop to consult a map they are onto you again in a flash!
The free-wheel off of Bulbarrow was cooling and enjoyable. I then headed towards Dorchester through some pretty villages and encountered yet another opportunity to make a bad decision. Anyone who has explored the southwest will be aware that there are plenty of hills, so whilst trying to avoid the main roads I cannot be blamed entirely for choosing such a tortuous route but the stupidity of some of my decisions is just plain embarrassing. Still, I’m being honest here so I’ll confess that the view from the Hardy Monument, over Chesil towards Portland and then across the Dorset countryside was spectacular; once again a view I neither wanted nor anticipated. On this occasion I was certain that the Hardy Monument car park was in the valley and the climb was made on foot; ok, I should have checked the map more carefully. Whilst unicycling up the hill towards the summit a group of American cyclists on racing bikes flashed by “tough climb” drawled one, “you on a round the world tour”, intoned the next “bollocks!” exclaimed I.
The free-wheel down from the Hardy monument was cooling and enjoyable but I was going so fast that I missed the turnoff and ended up in Abbotsbury. “Not a problem” thought I, “the coast road from here to Bridport is fairly flat”, which was when I unicycled past the sign for sharp bends and a 20% gradient.
Bridport was more or less where the final OS map came into play so I was on the home straight. Keen to avoid the A35 my intention was to follow National Cycle Network route 2. Sadly I needed to consult the map that I had omitted to pack to ascertain where NCN 2 started. Never mind, a trip to the Bridport tourist information office provided the necessary leaflet and the pleasant lady provided concise instructions together with a warning to be careful near the school as the school run was imminent. After executing some hair-raising evasive manoeuvres in the vicinity of the school, all was going well until a point where it was not immediately clear which lane the little NCN route sign was pointing to and a helpful farmer stopped in his Land Rover to enquire if I needed assistance. He dissuaded me from following my instincts (which given my track record seemed like a good call) and instead sent me off in a slightly oblique direction stating that the lane I was about to choose was far too flinty for a bike. Sadly I had just been dissuaded from making my only good decision since leaving Whitstable, a point that was driven home by the extremely ‘fit’ young lady who shared her OS 1:25,000 with me an hour later as we deduced that I was once again going the wrong way.
Eventually I hit the B3165 just south of Crewkerne and finally cycled through North Lodge Gate at Rousdon late afternoon on day three.
The distance from CT5 to DT7 by car is 212 miles, so allowing for the requirement to avoid main roads I had estimated 250 miles by bike. In the event I covered 288 miles. Whilst sitting in the bath at 1 Engine House with a large glass of malt I decided that on balance the trip could not be described as enjoyable, but it had been an experience. When on the following morning a neighbour asked if I’d do it again my answer was “probably not”. If asked now though I’d say “you bet”. But would I invest any more time at the planning stage? Nah, life’s more interesting without a plan, although I have been to the optician…
I’ve researched the copyright status of a better known version of this and understand that it was initially performed in a bar in Thebes, 521 BC, so it’s classed as public domain.