That Was the Wick That Was

 That Was the Wick That Was

Bodham Lighthouse

The very north of Scotland, like the very south of England, has an allure. Somewhere I have felt impelled to visit. I could be pretentious and say it must be the Celtic blood coursing through my veins but it’s just a yearn for travel I have embodied over the years since I lost my partner Sue, my better half, in 2014. Each one of us has a thread through their ancestry which if one takes the time to discover, makes us all basically a band of gypsies. How many have a true ancestral line that stretches back centuries, aligned to one single area, be it a village, town, county, or country? The Smith line takes us through Shropshire, South Wales, Jersey, Normandy. A french connection back as far as the 15th century, and a name more exotic than Smith. Daubert.

Mick & Laura

Be that it may, in August 2019 I found myself travelling by train to Peterhead, north of Aberdeen for a close friend’s 70th birthday. Mick Thoirs hailed from ‘Peterheed’ and was heading home with his family to celebrate both his birthday and to visit a Lifeboat housed in the Local prison. A lifeboat in which his grandfather had been skipper way back during the war years and had subsequently ended up in a Northern Ireland knackers yard where it had been laid to rest for years awaiting salvation. To their credit Peterhead council heard of its plight and brought the vessel home to where it belonged. Granddad Thoirs would surely have chuckled had he have known his beloved boat would have its final resting place in one of the toughest penal institutions in the kingdom.

Mick and his wife Laura very kindly invited me along and a wonderful weekend was spent with their extended family. To make it even more exciting, we stayed in a lighthouse at Bodham on the outskirts of Peterhead. Which brought some symmetry to the occasion when I told them tales about my great granddad being a lighthouse keeper on Jersey at the beginning of the last century.

The birthday weekend over I caught the bus back to Aberdeen to get the train to Inverness for my continuing journey north to eventually end up at John O’Groats. The northern most outpost in the UK.

The trip over to Inverness took longer than I expected with two changes, one at Dyce airport from which a connecting bus then took us to Inverurie where along with fellow travellers I had to wait half an hour on a deserted station platform with very little shelter in pouring rain. The journey was interesting though with some great views of the Scottish Highlands, passing through towns with names that were familiar from watching the Scottish F.A. Cup football results on the TV teleprinter when I was a youngster. Nairn, Forres, Elgin, Keith, Huntly. 

The Scotrail train arrived late in the afternoon at a damp and dismal Inverness. Checking my street map, I decided it would be wiser to get a cab rather than ramble aimlessly in a direction I wasn’t even sure of. I normally do this wherever I go. Ramble aimlessly, before hailing a taxi. And getting ripped off! The driver in question this time headed off in a westerly direction, along a dual carriageway which seemed to take an age. I was booked in a hostel which I realised was just outside the town but going by the journey this guy was taking me on, I thought I was heading back to Aberdeen! I was watching the meter tick over. Just as it clocked up a tenner we arrived. The hostel was new, isolated, impersonal, no one around. Finally a goatie bearded student chap booked me in and gave me a key and pointed me in the direction of my ground floor room. Thoughts of relaxing for the night with my feet up watching the tele soon vanished when I discovered there was NO tele! The room was tiny, as was the bed. Barely room to put my hold-all anywhere I decided as it was still early evening, albeit still pissing down, to have a shower and get out to find a pub. Hopefully nearby. Thoughts of a shower went the same way as the tele! There wasn’t one! Not even a bar of soap or a towel. I thanked the lord I was only staying the one night!

Stepping out into the night I spotted a bridge in the distance which crossed over the dual carriageway the taxi driver had taken me along. I headed over and figured that drive had added another mile on the trip. The city centre was only a mile away from this point. Well, you learn. 

Walking through a housing estate and on to the main road there was a pub, a Beefeater called The Auld Distillery. There was only a handful of punters. Two playing pool. A couple of pints and reading a newspaper I found lying on the table was a perfect way to chill after a hectic day.

Wick

Next stop on this tour was Wick. I caught the train for this outpost just after midday the following morning. Couldn’t believe it was going to take four hours but it promised to be interesting. It didn’t let me down. Through towns and cities, lochs and mountains, could think of worse places to travel. Throw in a few distilleries, small hamlets. Makes a trip like this very pleasurable. Arriving in the old fishing port of Wick I once again checked my map, decided it wasn’t that big a place so headed off in the direction of the harbour and where I hoped I would find my Harbour View Hotel. Had to be luxurious with a name like that I guessed when booking it.

The Harbour View Hotel

Walking past a cafe I had a change of mind and entered to ask if someone could point me in the right direction. A couple passing time over a coffee asked me if they could help. I told them I’d just landed and was booked into the Harbour View Hotel which is where I was trying to find. They immediately looked blank, conferred with each other and then the guy said, ‘not sure of that one but I’ll take you down to the harbour to see if we can find it.’ That was very nice of him but it did arouse my suspicions. I said it was ok, I’d find it but he insisted he’d drive me down. Leaving his missis behind to sup her cuppa! Had to smile at that. Thanks I said. His missis smiled too so she obviously wasn’t bothered.

How friendly I thought! I’ve always felt the further north you go the friendlier people are and this only went to confirm my preconceptions. We drove down the hill towards the harbour and I’m keeping my eye open for some grand sort of maybe old salubrious type of building. Nothing of the kind to be seen and the only establishment, ‘overlooking’ the harbour was a downtrodden wreck of an abode advertising ‘fine ales’. Apparently a pub. Looked derelict to me but my friend suggested it might just be the place! ‘I think they have some bedrooms above it” he added almost in embarrassment for his town.

‘So here I am’. Nothing else resembling a hotel around here so I went in. Indeed it was a pub. ‘Ah, Clive!’ the guy behind the bar greeted me, taking me completely by surprise. ‘Ah, yea’ I replied. ‘I’m looking for the Harbour View Hotel”. ‘You’ve found it’ he said triumphantly. The one customer keeping him company perched on a stool, glanced round. ‘This is it’ he assured me. The guy behind the bar turned out to be the Landlord, and hotelier. ‘You having a drink?’

‘Er, no thanks. I’d like to get to my room first and settle in etc first if that’s ok’

‘Ok, alright, I’ll get you your key.’

Whilst he did this I looked around the bar trying to spy a door that would probably lead to the staircase. There wasn’t one which had me puzzled.

I’ve been in some dives, which I don’t mind at all. Grimy, scruffy bars, minging places but this one took some beating! Whilst I’m considering this the landlord returned, ‘come on, its this way’ he said joyously, and took me outside, around the corner, down a back alley littered with debris, discarded cans of paint, buckets, ladders, boxes, stones, bins, and there it was. The entrance. A windowless wooden door with a dodgy lock and hinge, looking more like a secret hideaway than a hotel entrance! He led me up some rickety stairs, across the landing where there was a sideboard that had probably been there since the 50s, with a kettle and the obligatory dish of tea bags and sugar sticks, and introduced me to my room. There were three bedrooms and a communal bathroom. My expectations were growing lower by the minute. For all the state of this place, the bar included, the Landlord seemed well satisfied with his establishment. ‘We have two SAS men staying tonight’ he told me with pride as if to say ‘if it’s good enough for them....’ Did seem a friendly enough chap I had to concede. And I did get his point.

Wick harbour

My room was on the small side in which was crammed a double and a single bed. Negotiating around them was like tackling an obstacle course. Two windows gave me a view of the ‘High Street’ and the corner of the harbour. Not a lot to see out of either. There was a television, high on a bracket in which I had to crane my neck to watch. As the landlord explained the house rules and lay out he saw me eyeing quite a large damp patch on the ceiling. ‘Ah, yeah, we’ve had a leak in the roof’ he said with just a hint of discomfort, ‘I’ve been meaning to get it fixed. It should be alright though’ ....to which all I could say, rather meekly, was…’well I’m not living in the room I suppose...and as long as it doesn’t rain...’ at that he left.

God strewth, I’m thinking. ‘You come all this way..and you end up in a shit hole like this...how do I manage it?’

Time was getting on so I decided to discover the delights of Wick before it got too dark. Quick look around the harbour and then the town which didn’t take long, and I called into a hotel, a lot smarter than mine I hasten to add, and ordered a lovely dish of cod and chips. Well you have to don’t you. After all, reading some local history I found that Wick was the largest herring port in Europe at one time, sadly many moons ago. I could also imagine my hotel right on the harbour being a well popular drinking hole for the hundreds of fishermen who returned from adventures on the North Sea down the years. And my friend Mick Thoirs later told me he had spent many an evening here during his seaman days; “We called it Dodge City back then”. I could believe it.

The main priority of course was getting to John O’Groats of which Wick was basically a stepping stone. The only way from Wick to John was by bus as it turned out, and nowadays there isn’t a direct one, you have to go to Thurso first. So, if nothing else, it gave me the opportunity to visit another place I’m unlikely to re-visit.

It was grey and drizzling when I arrived in Thurso. With nowhere substantial to shelter from the rain, apart from a shop doorway, I took a short stroll to pass the time until the connecting bus to John turned up. 

Thurso was another famed fishing port but with the harbour a mile away and with the rain, I decided to stay and entered a newsagents, making out I was probably going to buy a magazine. 

The bus was on time and I eventually made it to John O’Groats, aware that I had been told what to expect, ‘there’s nothing there’. Well, I didn’t expect much and to my surprise, I found it remarkably similar to its opposite number at the other end of the U.K, Lands End. Why I should have been surprised I don’t know. Maybe 50, 60, 100 years ago these places would have been much different, less commercialised and certainly not tourist attractions. 

One thing that was different was that O’Groats had a small harbour, delightful too. You can get a ferry here to the Orkney Islands. Photographs were taken of the famous signpost indicating Lands End that away, a million miles or something. Hoards of people mingled around the view points which I found disappointing. I still like to think some places remain obscure in their isolation and I dream what it must have been like to sit here, as in Lands End, alone with no one around, peering out into the sea and wonder what is over the horizon.

No chance of that today. And apart from that, a mist descended to shut out any hopes of a view!

The bus to take away the tourists wasn’t due for two hours and I spent the interim period walking aver the cliffs, sitting on the grass in solitude. Before heading for the bus stop I bought a couple of shirts out of the shop. Plus of course a mug. A thing I do wherever I visit somewhere new! Having a cup of tea or coffee at home I can drift back into memory land and remember places as far apart as Budapest, Buenos Aires, Montevideo, Cape Town, Copenhagen, Stockholm, that Welsh place with 20 odd letters in its name, Llanfair P.G. for short. Also Lands End, and now I will remember my brief stopover at the top of Scotland and the British isles.

Strangely, the return bus journey went direct to Wick, which was a pleasant surprise. Couldn’t figure out why you can’t go direct the other way but there you are. A bureaucrat in an office somewhere obviously thinks it makes sense.  

Whilst in Wick I also intended to visit the famous Pulteney Distillery but having a pint in my hotel, the landlord informed me the distillery was on its annual shutdown. Typical! Something to do with the time of year when the water is at its best, the barley too, or something. Not being a whiskey drinker I didn’t have a clue about how its made to be honest. But, I’m sure I’d have found it interesting. Alas, it wasn’t to be. I still walked over the bridge to discover where it is, in the old part of town called Pulteney, hence the name. Didn’t take much imagination to figure that one out!

From there I walked out of town to look for the football stadium of Wick Acadamey. Another thing I like doing, being a lifetime football fan. Obscure clubs and grounds fascinate me. I noticed on the trip to O’Groats a sign for Brora. Wick and Brora, both names I’ve seen in the Scottish Highland League. Considering the sparseness of this part of the country it made me wonder how or where they get the players from!

My last night on this brief trip to Wick was spent in the ‘cod and chips’ hotel and then Wetherspoons, possibly one of the smallest ones I’ve ever been in. 

I retired to my room, wondered if the SAS were still in town and drifted off.

It was back to Inverness next morning, and a hotel I had booked in the city centre near the railway station. One night only. Next day I was heading back to Aberdeen for a couple of nights before the train journey back to Peterborough, via Edinburgh, on the Sunday.

Checking in at the hotel was another odd affair, joined by a young backpacker, a Hungarian girl in her 20s (think she was Hungarian, couldn’t speak a word of English anyway), we waited by the door, pressed the bell a few times. No answer we both stood looking at the door wondering what was or wasn’t happening. Suddenly a voice came out of a speaker on the wall. Telling us to go down to a hotel a few doors down. We looked at each other, and I tried to explain in pidgin Hungarian we have to go… Looking confused and concerned I signalled to her to follow me. The door to this hotel was open. Ah success! Expecting to be greeted again we found there was no one here. Then I noticed a message next to the telephone on the table. Ring such and such a number. This was getting tedious. Christ almighty. Eventually I managed to talk to somebody who asked me my booking reference and was then told I was in room number 14. You’ll find a keycard in the room. With Miss Hungary standing behind me looking worried I informed the bloke on the other end about her predicament and he asked me to get her reference number. Somehow I explained this to her, I was beginning to feel like a translator, the bloke said, ‘she is room number 12’. ‘Follow me I said to her. Relief was palpable.

After that carry on I went out to explore the city. Hadn’t been here since 1999, excluding the other day! Lovely city it is. The weather was awful, lashing down but it didn’t stop me getting around. Dodging showers in brief interludes, respite in a pizza restaurant, I  had a pint in a bar then took a walk to the Auld Distillery, the pub I had enjoyed a couple of nights previously. 

Heading to Aberdeen for my next leg felt like the end of the journey. Two nights in the Station Hotel, which was a grand place, compared to what I had put up with so far, it was well situated for what I wanted to do. Adjacent to the harbour and the maritime museum. Next morning, Saturday, I had planned to got to Stonehaven by train but discovered it was better by bus. Stonehaven Station was well away from the seafront and with the incessant rain, there was no other way. Reason for going to Stonehaven was because I knew of some old acquaintances who had moved there years ago from Corby. Twins Margaret and Sally Cooper who I was at school with, and a girl, Mu Duncan who hailed from here but back in the 60’s was singer with a local group, the Invaders. Mu had called in at my house one day when I was working to buy the book. ‘Its Steel Rock and Roll To Me’. My wife Sue told me about her visit when I got home that night. But forgot to get her address! 

I had tried through various avenues to find all three but all to no avail. All the same I was curious about this place on the east coast of Scotland. I couldn’t have chosen a worse day. The rain never gave up. Walking around, taking photographs, it didn’t paint a great picture. Couldn’t help but think; “why would you move

here? Unless it is a hometown, homecoming or something.’

Stonehaven

I was beginning to feel I’d had enough by now and was looking forward to going home next day. Aberdeen didn’t impress me either. A city of grey buildings it was almost claustrophobic. 

It had been an eventful week or so. Apart from my adventures, the country, the U.K. had been deluged with storms for over a week, shutting down rail services, floods everywhere. So, what could go wrong?

The train left Aberdeen on time, the connection at Edinburgh for Peterborough also. Fine. Until we got to Newcastle.

Suddenly we were informed the train was terminating. Everyone had to get off. Confusion reigned. Looked like thousands on the platform wondering what was going to happen next. Half hour went by and then another train arrived. Packed with people which didn’t stop a stampede to get on. Railway staff tried to restore order, asking people to get off. It resembled a scene on the Delhi Railway. Turns out because of the delays all round the country, train drivers were all over the place, out of hours and there wasn’t a crew at Newcastle to enable the journey to recommence. Couldn’t make it up. An hour went by and then another train turned up. Half full and heading for London! Hooray!

An hour late, I was back on home turf, well nearly, I still had to get the bus to Corby which thankfully, was sitting there as I found my way across to the bus station.

I needed a pint, or three after all this. Funny sort of week it had been. Unusual to say the least!

How Corby celebrated V.E day, as reported by the E.T. (May 8th 1945)

How Corby celebrated V.E day, as reported by the E.T.  (May 8th 1945)

Cheerful Noise Battle Raged At Corby.

Precisely at 1pm on Tuesday Corby gave vent to its pent-up feelings. For five years it has been working seven days a week, sometimes twelve and sixteen hours a day, holidays included, to hope to achieve victory.

Hooters, buzzers and loco whistles, men making gongs out of old oil drums broke the afternoon calm. Drivers competed to make the loudest and the most sustained din. The victory overture was terrific and the loco drivers are still arguing as to who won the battle of the noise. But who cared? The performance was distinctive of the town and Corby is proud of it. 

Bands of joyful men and women paraded the streets singing the latest songs 'Roll Out The Barrel' seemed to be the favourite. Accordionists supplied the music. One band passed the Evening Telegraph office led by Mr. W. Scales who was a prize-winner at the recent Corby amateur talent competition.

The church bells were rung immediately after the Prime Minister's talk by enthusiastic campanologists, and again at 7pm.

Biggest Blaze

Most shops opened for a few hours on Tuesday morning. Many shops were sold out of cigarettes and tobacco before 10 o'clock and closed. Long queues were outside shops dealing in food commodities. One greengrocer had served over 600 customers and sold all his potatoes, cabbages and lettuces before 11 0'clock. Pastry shops could hardly cope with the rush and were closed very early. Apparently all housewives were out to get in foodstuffs before the traders closed. 

The tenants of the council houses on Oakley Road had the 'Mother of all Bonfires in Corby'. Forty cart loads of hedge cuttings were piles as high as a house by the west side and at 9 o'clock it was fired.  At 10 o'clock the east side lighted their monster pile. The kiddies had had a splendid tea provided by the tenants; then they had the time of their life romping and singing round the mighty flaring furnaces.

Al Fresco Dance

Every street seemed to have its bonfire - Netherfield Grove, Bessemer Grove, Highfield Grove, West Glebe Road, Lodge Green Road, Westfields Road, Fineshade Grove, Weekley Avenue, Stephensons Way, East Avenue, Kelvin Grove etc. All organised by the local residents.

Effigies of all the Nazi chiefs were burnt, and the children had a great time. Our reporter stood at the top of Rockingham Road at 12.30am on Wednesday morning. In all directions he could see the glare of bonfires reflected in the skies. To the East, Benefield way, rockets rose and exploded in cascades of brilliant stars. The factories were working with the black-out off. The bleeder was roaring and flamingand from this vantage point the centre of Corby looked like a cauldron of fire surrounded by lesser fires.

All roads led to the Welfare Club on Tuesday night. Mr. C.L. Benner and the Weklfare Entertainments Committee threw the grounds open from 6 pm till- just as long as the people wanted to remain, which was around 2 am. 

Four bands, George Graham's, Ballantynes, Corby Silver band and Eva's Trio were in attendance.  The back entrance to the stage was opened and fitted up as a concert platform. Loudspeakers brought the music over the grounds and open-air dancing went merrily on until everyone was satisfied.

Over the stage was Hitler - hanged well and good. One onlooker, after seeing the effigy, plagiarised Winston Churchill, and remarked "Some chicken - some neck"

Refreshments were served in the Club until 11 pm. It was floodlighted  and well decoarted. Many local artistes had volunteered to help to entertain the crowd, yet the compere repeatedly asked for more artistes, and got them.

The spontaneity and goodwill was infectious. 

But home-sickness  amongst the Scotch was apparent. It was clearly expressed in the parody of  of the song 'Tipperary' which was rendered as 'It's A Long Way To Bonnie Scotland'.

Open-air dancing took place again on Wednesday night at the Welfare Club. The Odeon Cinema was floodlit..

On Tuesday night all the places of worship had their special services.

Tomorrow never knows...

Tomorrow never knows..

“The week is flying by” Two days to go before we head back to Blighty and the chills of winter. Hard to believe while we are swanning around over here in Espana. Cartajena, a coastal town with a Roman amphitheatre is our destination today. Dave particularly excited being an amateur archeologist and enthusiast of everything ancient. I like a bit of culture myself so all was good. Pat’s looking like he’s raring to go after  a good night’s kip catching up with some zzzz. Looking refreshed. Chef Dave is up first and has the breakfast of bacon and eggs on the go before we emerge - superb effort I have to compliment. 

Wolfed down with a mug of coffee, we were off. No hanging around today. 

Adopting his tour guide mode Pat drives us through various view points with all the aplomb of Judith Chalmers. Pointing out various landmarks, describing the appeal of the Salt Flats. “Best air in Spain”, “breathe it in, wonderful” he purred. And it would have been had it not been for Dave lighting up a Lambert & Butler. The salt flats are more like lakes. Why do they call them flats I wondered? The less intelligent could assume they constitute an estate of houses built with Saxa but maybe not. Couldn’t be anyone that thick. Soon however, the conversation switches from the wonder of the salt flats, beautiful as they were, to more serious matters like football, music, literature. Yes, quite an intellectual bunch we were. Somehow the topic of Sherlock Holmes came up. Dave, sitting in the back of the car giving his appraisal of Holmes and his sidekick Watson. I was day dreaming at this point. Pat concentrating on the road ahead. Interrupting Dave’s monologue I butted in; “who wrote that Sherlock stuff?’ Quick as a shot Dave answered with Mastermind confidence, “Arthur Conan Doyle”. 

“Oh, I was going to say Edgar Allan Poe”.

‘What? No, it was Arthur Conan Doyle”

“Well, I knew there were three names involved” I said.

Pat who has been quiet throughout all this piped up, “F—- me, you might as well have said Peter, Paul and Mary!”

Cue laughter all round, particularly from Pat, chortling at his own wit.

Getting back to radio stuff I asked Dave what time he normally arrived  at the station in Market Harborough for his 7 to 10am show. Thinking he was going to say an hour before kick off for preparation, coffee etc.

“I normally get there about five to seven…sometimes I just make it with a minute to spare!”

Well, that was a surprise. There’s me imagining these radio presenters are up hours before their show, like those people on Breakfast TV, showered, script organised, bright and breezy…and I picture Dave turning up dishevelled, cup of coffee in hand, cigarette in the other, tuning in with ‘Good morning Britain!’ Been at it that long I guess Dave has got it off to a tee! 

I remember Pat on the other hand would be at Corby Radio a good hour before his ‘Aboot the Toon’’ show to catch up with the gossip before easing himself in. Mind you he didn’t start until 10am.

I ask Dave what sort of music he starts the day off with. “I like to ease the listeners in” he says with all the professionalism of a veteran, “something soft and gentle, maybe Fleetwood Mac…Little Lies for example.” Makes sense I think. “You wouldn’t wake everyone up with Jailhouse Rock then?”

Takes about an hour to get to Cartajena. Another hour finding a car parking space. We drove through the town’s narrow streets, Pat getting more frustrated by the minute. Then we find ourselves by the seafront, alongside the harbour. Hills in the background, yachts and boats of all sizes in the Marina. Beautiful. And we find a spot where we can park up! Hoops of delight! “Right, make a note of where we are” I suggest. “Can’t go wrong remembering this place” Dave adds. Pat looking doubtful. 

Walking into town, much to our surprise, there was the Amphitheatre. Right in the middle. Dave is wetting himself. I thought he was kidding about the archeology thing but no he’s a genuine enthusiast. No doubt if he ever managed to get on Mastermind, archeology would be his favourite subject! Speciality? ”Roman Empire” 

He tells the tale of being in Crete with Shirley when he picked up a stone and told her it was a couple of thousand years old and he was taking it home. Until an advisor told him if he was caught he’d end up in jail for five years. Believe that if you will. 

We paid our entrance fee to the museum and theatre, the equivalent of a couple of bob and off we went to explore. Pat was equally impressed as Dave whilst I have to hold my hands up and say I can take it or leave it. A few old stones and things are interesting to a point. But you do have to marvel at how these buildings were built, ‘couple of thousand years ago’ Dave reminds us. “No cranes those days” he says with the air of a university tutor. He knows his stuff that was clear. He then regaled us with more tales, this time of Mexico when he treated Shirley to a trip to the Aztec pyramids. Similar yarn about the pyramids being built without the aid of a B.C. McAlpines or Wimpey. Quite. 

Anyway back to the museum, we take numerous photos, enthral at the  theatre with steep rows of stalls, the hills in the background, the sea in the foreground. ‘Can you imagine the planning that went into this?” Dave asks.

In my mind’s eye I picture a few Julias Caesar type characters poring over blueprints, organising work gangs, digging holes like Charlie Dunn’s odd job gang in Corby steelworks. 

“And they had to keep everyone in Rome informed of progress” Dave adds.

“How did they do that?” I enquire, “Pigeon?”

“Horse”

“Horse! from over here in Spain, all the way to Italy?”

Couldn’t quite comprehend that, ‘That would have taken years for one trip” I suggest.

Dave, trying to keep on top of this debate added “Well they would have had it organised like a relay I expect. Hundred miles perhaps and then they would hand the plans over to the next chap on a horse and so on.” 

Sounded a bit dubious to me. Pigeon would definitely have been quicker.

Dave explaining his theory about the horse...

The amphitheatre was impressive, ‘like a mini Pompeii’ Pat affirmed with all the knowledge of Judith. Out in the midday sun was taking its toll though and a  coffee and some lunch was needed.

Pat took us past an interesting place called The Arsenal. A military compound complete with sentry outside tooled up with machine gun. “Have to try and get a picture with the bloke” says Dave..

“Looks more like a prison”.

“If he’s still hanging about on our way back I’ll ask him to pose with us.”

Nearby was the town square with bars and restaurants and a guy entertaining customers with his accordion. Taking a pew, the accordionist, dressed in ‘traje de luxes' costume, matador’s gear, (I googled that) comes over to us. And I make the mistake of singing a verse of ‘Viva Le Spana’. “Ah” he looks at me with a big smile. Taking that as a request he thus bursts into the tune, warbling a couple of bars of “hey, hey, we’re off to sunny Spain..” Then held his cap out!

We gave him a couple of Euros and he cleared off. 

Cheese and egg omelettes were ordered with a beer and a coke for Pat, which must have been driving him crazy by now. Fair do’s to him, he didn’t quibble, Sensible hat on with him being the driver. It was appreciated and both Dave and I promised him some respite when back at base when he could dump the car and enjoy a few beers. 

The omelettes turned up and I’ve never seen one like it! ‘Christ how am I supposed to eat that!” It was huge! Overlapping the plate. Pat and Dave were likewise surprised. Struggling through it we all eventually gave up. “Take it back with us to feed the birds” Dave suggests, with his ornithology hat now on.

Thought about that for a second and then said, ”bollocks to the birds, not carrying that around”.

Time was passing quickly, Pat wanted to get back to Algorfa before darkness fell. We head off in roughly the direction we came to look for the car. Past the Military Base where it looked as if the soldier had disappeared. Peering through the archway, there he was. Chatting to a pal, he might have been asking how Barcelona got on last night. They must get bored these fellows. Dave shouted to get his attention. The soldier turned round, wondering who the hell was shouting at him. He sees us three staring at him and Dave mimicking the taking of a photograph, like they do on the Charades TV programme. ‘Looks like, sounds like thing…’ 

The soldier glared at us, waved his gun, shook his head. With a look that said ‘F— Off!’

“Worth a try” Dave said dejectedly.

Pat was getting stressed again, not sure which way we were heading. ‘Keep going” I say, confident of my instinct.

“No” Pat says. looking at the GPS on his phone, “it’s this way”.

“Don’t think so Pat”  

“It is, follow me” and charges ahead. Coming to a side street he stops, checks his phone again; “Right, according to this, it’s turn left here.”

We’re not convinced but follow him like he’s the Pied Piper. I daren’t suggest we are nowhere near where we should be but Pat is dogged if not convincing. We come to another junction. “I can’t figure this out, it’s leading us up a dead end street!” he wails.

“Told you we should have turned right”

If nothing else, it was worth the diversion to see murals painted on the side of derelict buildings. 

Quick about turn and Pat’s phone is again telling us to turn left. “That’s going away from the marina” I tell him but he was adamant. “It’s telling me this way..”

‘Stick that phone up your arse Pat, it’s wrong, we turn right here..the sat-nav in my head is more 

Dave following the Pied Piper

reliable!’

And who was right? Of course, no need to say. We stumble across a car park behind a building and way over behind a wire fence we see the car.  Parked in the street. 

Dusk was creeping up on us as we headed home, all was quiet. Then Dave stunned us with a news flash on his mobile. With the stoicism of a BBC reporter he announced; ‘Alicante Airport is on fire!” 

Sounding like an attack, like during the 1940 Blitz. The airport bombed and destroyed. “How bad is it?” “Any casualties?” Dave showed us live coverage on his cellphone, flames shooting high into the sky. Looked bad. I’m thinking to myself, ‘We are due to fly home on Friday. Looks like we’ll have a few more days than expected!’ ‘The weather is still crap back home so a couple of more days here in the sun won’t be too bad!” 

A running commentary ensues; “The airport has diverted all aircraft to Murcia”, “the airport will be closed until further notice..” 

We get back to the flat and Dave and Pat both phone home. Dave asking Shirley if she can find out anything about what’s happening, what’s going to happen. Pat similarly with Yvonne. Well I’ve got no one to phone, no real agenda, didn’t matter to me if we were here for another week or not!

A ‘chinky’ was planned for tonight, ‘best Chinese in Spain” Pat assured us. “It’s self service, help yourself to what you want, it’s amazing” Not being an expert on Chinese cuisine I wasn’t sure what to expect. You do indeed help yourself, it’s more like a Chinese carvery! Very nice too. The Chinky finished the night off perfectly with a couple of bars, one called Jilly’s run by an English couple on the way home. 

Thursday was a day dedicated to Alicante. Not the airport which was in shutdown but the resort itself. To my surprise Alicante was beautiful. A large marina with yachts worth billions tied up. We kept our ears open for the news all day and by afternoon the signs for our departure on Friday was looking more promising. Turns out a building on site had gone up in flames. Not the departure hall, checking in, control tower etc. Checking the internet, Shirley and Yvonne keeping their mince pies on the TV news which didn’t reveal much had us feeling we could relax. “Better make an earlier start tomorrow though” Pat says, “up at 5 and off by 6”. Which after some debate was put back back by an hour! 

Arriving at the airport we find everything as normal. Good news. 

Alicante

Lovely week it had been, a few balls ups along the way, plenty of laughs, a few disasters but hell, it had been a great week. But it wouldn’t have finished without another hiccough. 

Back at East Midlands Airport we make our way to the car, drive up to the barrier to get out. I had pre-paid this and put my token in the machine confidently. And the f—-ing thing wouldn’t open! A message comes on the screen - please pay £234!! “What the f—k!”

We tell people behind us to back up so we can reverse and go the car park office. Pain in the arse for everyone but what can you do? I explain to the guys in the office, show them my receipt and they tell me to try again and if that fails press the button with a telephone sign on it. “They’ll recognise your registration sir”

Eventually we were through and on our way home. All agreeing; “We gotta do this again!!”  Deffo!

Tired of Waiting, Tired of Waiting…

Tired of Waiting, Tired of Waiting…(Kinks)

Fancy a lemon?

Surprisingly, considering the late hour we all retired to bed, Dave was up before anyone and cooking breakfast of scrambled eggs! Don’t know if he suffers with insomnia but there he was, coffee ready too! What a man! Better than your maw! Suppose it comes with being up at the break of dawn every weekday for the last 23 years to host Harborough FM’s Breakfast Show. 

Pat didn’t show for some time, struggling with his chesty cold, he looked like shit it has to be said. I’m no picture in the morning I suppose and I guess I looked like crap! Dave on the other hand always looks the same. Does he go to bed with that leather jacket on? “Only cost me £20” he boasts, ‘best 20 I ever spent!” Well it seems he’s determined to get his money’s worth out of it. Even Shirley noticed it in their daily skype. “You’ll need surgery to get that jacket off!!” she bellowed down the phone. 

Dave is a Beatles fanatic, collects anything and everything concerning the Fab Four. Talking about this over the eggs brought to mind the balcony inside Pat’s apartment block which resembled the cover of the Beatles’ Please Please Me album. “I can take a photo of you and Pat looking over the balcony to re-create the Beatles picture taken at Manchester Square if you like” I said. I threw ‘Manchester Square’ in to impress. “Manchester Square?” An example of my knowledge of useless information and trivia which I quite excel at!. 

Please Pleas Me

I have been caught out a few times though. The famous question, ‘what was the first record played on Radio One’ for example. Everyone of a certain age knows it was ‘Flowers In the Rain’ by The Move. Being a smart arse I always asked, ‘Ah, but what was the second one?’ Guarantee nobody knew it. For years I would enlighten one and all; Eric Burdon’s ‘San Fransiscan Nights”. Never failed. Drawing gasps of admiration, ‘He knows his stuff!” “Anything you want to know about the 60s ask Clive.” Until a couple of years ago that is when the ‘Flowers’ question popped up on Facebook and I fired in with ‘What was the second disc…’  Couldn’t help myself. ‘San Fransiscan Nights’ I duly informed everyone. “No it wasn’t” said my friend Cynthia Douglas. What! Nobody had ever questioned my answer. ”It was the Bee Gees and Massachusetts!” Cynthia retaliated. Couldn’t believe it. I had to google it and blow me, Cynthia was right! 

This was the discussion over breakfast when Pat emerged from his slumber. ’You’re full of shite!’ he said, looking for his pills. 

Ready to go out I noticed Dave had changed into a blue denim collarless shirt. ‘Hey, I like that” I say. ‘Where did you get it?”

‘“Don’t know. Shirley gets all my clothes. Just orders them. She always packs my case as well. Haven’t got a clue what’s in there. Same with holidays, I never book them. I just say to her ‘anywhere in the sun will do darlin’. Then she tells me where we’re going.”

Shirley confirms this during the conversation they have on Skype. ‘He’s bloody useless. Be lost without me!”

‘“I know darlin’” is Dave’s meek response. “But can you order one of these shirts for Clive!”

We decide on a walk to explore the countryside behind Pat’s apartment block to get some fresh air in our heads whilst the sun is at its brightest. With his tour guide hat on Pat tells us; “This whole area was under water a couple of years back after the worst storm in a hundred years”. Hard to imagine. “The river burst its banks, washed away houses, cars, a bridge and flooded an area the size of Desborough.” Bit random that I thought but I guess Desborough was as good as anything to compare with. We took a breather to watch men working on the reconstruction of the bridge, walked through fields, picked some lemons and oranges off the trees. Almost sounds romantic. We weren’t holding hands or anything but there’s something about picking your own lemons. Novelty. Picking lemons and oranges..not holding hands. There’s even a street here named Lemon Tree Road. 

Back at the ranch, another coffee, a munch on my ‘steak’ nuts and it was time to get back on the road. ‘Where we going Pat?” 

“La Mata…then Torrevieja.”

Dave sits in the back of the car, I’m coerced as co-pilot. As if I know anything about driving around these parts! Pat does knows his way around thankfully, should do after ten years but blimey, he’s heavy on the brakes. Every junction, roundabout has me and Dave rocking back and for. Dave’s head bashes the back of Pat’s seat. My head nearly bashes the windscreen. ’Christ almighty I’ll have bloody whiplash by the end of the week at this rate Pat!” 

‘Sorry, didn’t see that car coming.”

Didn’t want to labour the point but I added, ‘I can see I’ll end up wearing a bloody neck brace like that woman on TV’s Doc Marten!” 

We dropped by a place called Benahoffa, that’s how it sounds anyway, to call in at a supermarket to replenish the bread bin. And an opportunity for Pat to exercise his Spanish. ‘Ola” he says confidently.. then mumbles something indiscernible but just about gets through to the lady behind the counter. 

“Come to think of it” I say, “what’s goodbye in Spanish?” 

“Gracias”. 

“Oh yeah! I’ve heard of that” Made me think of how ignorant we are though. Learning foreign lingo. I mean, my son Gareth has lived in Sweden for nearly 20 years, my Swedish granddaughter Polly is 7. And all I’ve managed to learn in all that time is ‘Hey Hey’ and “Hey Dor”. Hello and Goodbye. Oh, also “Tack” which is thanks. Pitiful really. 

“Ola”, “Gracias” and paella is about the limit of my Spanish which you could say is piss poor. If we had a car crash for example and an irate Spaniard started ranting at me, in his native tongue of course, ’What were you doin’?” “You were on the wrong side of the road!’ Responding with “Paella” wouldn’t really cut it I expect!

Nice place to bring a lady..

Anyhow, La Mata turns out to be a lovely little place, nice beach, deserted, sand dunes, peaceful. I could imagine it would be pretty much the same during summer. Main feature was a Lifeguard post. Not much else otherwise. Be a wonderful place to entertain a lady I was thinking. Nice little picnic, blanket on the ground, Billy Jo Spears on the radio, glass of beer, wine..

There was an old couple sitting nearby doing just this..didn’t hear Billy Jo mind and come to think of it..old couple..I forget I’m bloody 70 myself next month!

Anyway it was nice, a few photos were taken, Dave managed to get a good shot, shadows of the three of us! Quite artistic. We headed onwards to Torrevieja which has a special interest of sorts for me. 

The Shadows

Couple of my friends moved here years ago, haven’t been in contact with them for donkeys but the fact that they moved out here way back has often intrigued me. By all accounts though, Torrevieja isn’t one of the favourite resorts in these parts. If you listen to Mick and Lorraine, Pat and Yvonne that is. Even Dave appeared less than enthusiastic, having been here before with Shirley. ‘Shit hole” Lorraine called it. Pat concurred. 

I was still keen to discover for myself however and Pat agreed to drive there despite feeling knackered from his late night with Dave, who by the time we got to Torrevieja, had nodded off. 

Driving into town Pat was rapidly getting frustrated. Traffic was busy, parking slots hard to come by. “Always the same here”, Pat moaned, “never find a f—-ing car park!” Then, all of a sudden, lo and behold, we come across one. An underground car park with a tiny entrance on an incline, bit tight to say the least. Compounded with a group of workmen farting around laying cement or christ knows what. They had placed some bollards up in the middle of this road into the car park which made it an even bigger squeeze. Pat attempts to negotiate and next thing there’s a big scrape and the wing mirror on my side has been bashed on the wall which is level with the windscreen. “Bollocks!” Pat shouts. “You mean bollards?” I say, trying to lighten the tension. While we’re trying to establish what happened, one of the workmen appears alongside my window, pointing to the top of the wall which has been damaged, shaking his head as if we were a bunch of numbskulls. ‘F—- Off!” Pat shouts at him. ‘Prick!” I add. Dave calls him a ‘Dickhead”. 

I could see why Pat hasn’t got much of a love for this place. We have no option but to continue down into the bowels where we found plenty of  space but it was Dave who said; ’Drive right through Pat, let’s get outta here..” Pat didn’t need much persuading. 

We drove right on out of Torrevieja. ‘That was brief’ I was thinking! 

Pat was pissed off, so we all agreed to head back to base. “Looks a dump anyway, bit like Skeggy” I said in case Pat thought I was sulking.

We were all feeling grubby, unshaven and looking forward to a shower, if the water had been turned back on. First thing Pat does is turn the tap on. And still, nothing! “This is ridiculous” Pat explodes, “effin’ wankers!” Raging, he phones the water company up, then calms a little as he’s told he can turn the water on himself at the mains, which is situated in the apartment block cellar. To show some support I tell him; “I’ll come with you Pat’. 

Making our way down to the second floor, we find a crowd of people  milling around, looking upset, worried. The front door of their apartment is ajar, an old guy has a box of spanners and is trying to dismantle bars over a window adjacent to the door. They ask us something in Spanish. I was tempted to say ‘Paella’ but thought they might think I’m taking the piss. Pat asked what the problem was. One of the ladies is beside herself. In pidgin English she tells us there was an earthquake last night! And points to a hole in the wall inside their flat that the quake had made and which had jammed the toilet door! “Did you not hear the bang last night?” she asked. Well to be honest we were too busy drinking, listening to music and talking shite to be honest. We wouldn’t have noticed. The old boy with the spanner explains he’s trying to get the window frame off so one of the younger lads can climb through and open the door from the inside. Honestly, you couldn’t make this up.

Dave meantime is still upstairs waiting to yell down to Pat when the water arrives through the tap. “What kept you?” he asks when we return. “You wouldn’t believe it..”

Relief that Moses had given us water again was joyous. A nice hot shower, shave and we all felt like spring chickens again. 

Tonights meal was to be at a fish and chips restaurant. “Best fish and chips in Spain” Pat and Dave hailed. “Fish that size” Dave said with his hands spread wide like the exaggerated fisherman’s tale of ‘the one that got away’.

“You don’t want the large cod” Dave advised, “you’ll never get through it”. I was beginning to feel frightened by this fish! Well as it happened, there must have been a fews gluttons in before us as there was no large cod, or haddock left! Medium samples only. “That’ll do” I tell the waiter. 

For all the big build up, have to say the fish and chips was no better than what you get at the Frying Scotsman in Corby! Didn’t really matter. It was lovely. And ample!

So came the end of another day, Back before 10pm Dave tells Pat to get to bed. “You look shattered mate, go and get a good night’s sleep”. Pat admitted he was aching to get his head down. So me and Dave sat up, a couple of cans of beer were downed, a brandy, coffee. Dave reminiscing about being born and brought up in Dundee. His parents running a boarding house for the stars who appeared at the Dundee Empire or whatever theatre it was. ‘Florrie Lindlay from Coronation Street stayed with us’ he proudly proclaims. Very interesting too. Florrie ran the corner shop in the early years of the Street. In the days of Ena Sharples and Elsie Tanner. Before we knew it, it was 1.30am. ‘Right, I’m off” I say, weary myself now. Dave is a nightbird, likes a smoke, looking at his phone, watching the tele, even if it was only the Film Four Channel. How he does that and still manages to get up before me and Pat I don’t know. By the time he calls it a day, I’m asleep. We are sharing a room. I hear the door open tentatively. I’m dozing. Dave’s doing his best to be quiet. Tip toeing about. Then there’s a humungous clatter! His money has fell out of his pockets onto the floor! Waking the whole block up no doubt! 

I lift my head;  ‘F—-ing noisy bastard! 

’Sorry” he says. 

And I drift off again into the land of nod.

‘Tap Turns On the Water’ (CCS)…

Pat is up early, probably didn’t sleep too well with the business over the unpaid bills and the water being turned off in his flat bugging him. Lovely morning again. Hard to believe this is January and not June. To think just a couple of hours away the UK is getting blitzed with torrential rain. As was confirmed when Shirley skyped Dave to ask how we were getting on and for a nice loveable chat with her husband. “Good morning darlin’” Dave responds, “how are you?”. Shirley informs us all that it’s been hammering down all night, she’s just back from the gym, got soaked right through to the skin getting back into the car, she was dripping wet, her backside was stuck to the sodden car seat - that’s what she said - but for all that, she still looked happy. Dave looks and listens intently, summing up some sympathy. “Well, that’s a shame. It’s lovely here. Sun is out. Temperature is around 12%. Really nice…” To which Shirley replied with an expletive which would be impertinent to say here. I caught the second word.. think it was Off.

Lorraine is up bright and early too, offers us a breakfast, a fry up but Pat is desperate to get moving. “I want to be at the bank at 9am when it opens! Sort this shit out! I paid the bills last month.. it’s ridiculous…” Right, let’s get going. A quick wash to refresh and we were on our way. Past some mountains, one which is prominent that Pat has renamed Paddy’s Mountain. Assuming it had a name in the first place that is. “It’s a great landmark” Pat says, “you can never get lost around here. The mountain is always there.” Well that’s true I’m thinking. Not gonna go anywhere is it? It is really nice though, if you like mountains. “Reminds me a bit of Table Mountain in Cape Town” I say.

Takes us around half hour to get into the nearby town of Almoradi  where the bank is. Main street resembled a Western town, a cowboy town, to my eyes anyway. “There it is” Pat triumphs. We found a parking slot, Pat went off to give hell to the bankers and me and Dave went in search of a cafe. Which was easier said then done. Everywhere was closed. Maybe it was too early for them, thinking about it. But, eventually, there was one establishment open, quite a large cafeteria, a few punters in there and we ordered some cheese toasties and coffee. Amazing how quick time flies when you’re rabbiting. Music was the pre-eminent topic and a conversation ensued about working on radio stations. “Do you get many boring people phoning up for requests, crap tunes that you think ‘oh! no!?’ I ask.

“Yes. Sometimes it’s the same one phoning in at the same time every day, basically because they just like to hear their name mentioned on the radio. They might ask for a 10cc record and I’ll say ‘we played that about half hour ago, can’t play it again.” And I might select another 10cc record and then again I might give them some waffle just to get rid of them!”

It’s fascinating listening to the way the DJs operate on live radio, having to intermingle weather and news reports, jingles, choosing what track to play next. I used to enjoy working with Pat for a brief spell on his Corby Radio Sunday morning show a few years back. Baffled me just looking at the monitors! Something I’ve always admired though and would love to do but fear my lack of pc would possibly be a hindrance. I’ve gone through life with the ideology of being ‘bullshit free’. And apart from that, all those knobs and dials would send me stir crazy. Now if it was just a case of putting a 45 on..

Time moves on, the toast and coffee had hit the spot and we decide to go and see if Pat is out of the bank and looking for us. He’s nowhere to be seen. Right opposite the bank was a doorway and we stand there continuing our chat about live radio, wondering if Pat is ever going to emerge from the building. People are going in and out so somebody is in there, we ascertain. Has Pat been kidnapped? Is he being interrogated? Two hours are nearly up and finally Pat comes back out into the sunshine. Face like a smacked arse.

“Ignorant bastards” is his opening shot. “They couldn’t understand a word I was saying. They had to get an interpreter. I’m sure they were being racist! I told them all the bills set up in this bank had been paid. They claim there was still some outstanding which resulted in the water company turning the tap off.”

All sounded confusing, cross wires and all that. Bottom line was, it was sorted but we would have to wait for the bank to confirm to the water people all is well and that it could be 24 or even 48 hours before they got round to giving us water again. 

At that we headed back to the cafe for a beer.

Next stop it was agreed, was a supermarket. Get some goods in. Four two gallon bottles of water were purchased. Boil the kettle, add some water and we can have a wash and a shave Pat informs us. “Yes” I say, “I don’t ming minging for a day or two but you get fed up of feeling like a grub.”

Felt as if we were getting somewhere now. Settled finally in the flat, bacon, eggs, a few cans of beer

"get the kettle on Pat"

, bread and milk stored away, and my packet of nuts, which had Dave looking at me sort of bemused. ‘Good for you, these are” I tell him, “walnuts”. “Why?” he asks. “Don’t know really” I reply, “somebody told me!” 

“So is steak” 

So as juvenile as you can be, my nuts were referred to as steak for the rest of the week! 

Back on the road, Pat takes us on a trip to the nearest resort which is Guardamar, doing a wonderful job as a tour guide. A quiet reserved looking place but then again, you don’t get many people hanging around in January I figured. 
It had been arranged that we would meet up with Mick and Lorraine, and Ali and Rachel, for an Indian meal so it was time to get back to scrub up best we could. Nice evening it turned out to be. Much joviality, few beers, nice meal, yap, almost like we were carrying on from the previous day’s activities. 

Pat had chilled proper now. We walked back through the deserted streets, stopping every few yards while Pat explained the lay out of the town. 

‘The Square is bustling in the summer, all the bars open, crowds of punters milling around, music, buskers, having fun, getting drunk, it’s brilliant’. Could imagine it would be. Traversing down the myriad of side streets he pointed out various restaurants. Italian, Chinese, Spanish, an ‘English’ shop, and a dentist. Which immediately had us telling Dave a tale about our friend Danny who Pat was trying to persuade to have his apartment for a week, one night in our local the ‘Rock’. After extolling the virtues of Algorfa, all the above as mentioned, how far it is from the coast, the accessories in his flat, TV, community swimming pool, kettle, barbecue on his roof…Dan looking serious, interrupted.. “Is there a dentist there?”

Our friend Wilf was with us at the time as well. Dan’s question threw Pat. Stopped him in his tracks! Me and Wilf look as befuddled as Pat. “Do you think you’ll get toothache or something there?” I ask Dan. “Well, you might” he says!

Course we fell over laughing, who the hell asks that sort of question when you’re booking a holiday! Only Dan!

Back on home turf, we put some music on, from my mobile, had a few beers, and Pat’s Remy Martin which I had noticed in his cabinet. 2.30am I called it a day, or night. Retired to my bed and left Pat and Dave to reminisce about the old days working in the Corby nightclubs. 

Two hours later they were still rabbiting away…woke me up!

What was that about talking the hind legs off a donkey..