Katherine

Long-suffering visitors to this humble Yorkshire blog may recall that from time to time I like to investigate obscure places with the help of my buddy Professor Google and his Streetview imagery. Just yesterday, it occurred to me that I had not paid any such visit in a long while.

My mind can be like a randomising tombola drum and what has been coughed up today is a place called Katherine in Australia's Northern Territory.  I admit that until I decided to embark on this virtual journey, the only places in The Northern Territory that I was aware of were Alice Springs and the capital of the territory - Darwin.

So where is Katherine? Two hundred miles south east of Darwin, Katherine is at the crossroads of the Savannah Way that runs east–west from Cairns to Broome and the Explorer's Way that runs north–south from Darwin to Adelaide through Alice Springs. 

Established as recently as 1926, Katherine and its satellite communities has a population of about 10000. The settlement is mostly there because of gold-mining, farming, horticulture and more recently - tourism. Furthermore, quite nearby is a Royal Australian Airforce base called RAAF Tindall.

Whenever I think about Australia, I find myself contemplating the indigenous aboriginal people who occupied their island continent for 50,000 years before white Europeans arrived. Indeed, in Katherine there is still a significant aboriginal population - mostly Walpiri people who mostly live in Katherine East. 

Let's go to that area of the town in the Streetview car... There I came across this place. It is part of Callistemon House which accommodates young people from more remote parts of The Northern Territory. It gives them the opportunity to live in a safe and happy environment  while engaged in formal education in one of Katherine's secondary schools...

In the Callistemon House website gallery, I found these two residents and friends. The girl on the right is holding something that her ancestors could never have imagined - a smartphone...

Back in the main town, this is one of the hotels that is available to visitors. It is on Giles Street and it is called The K Town Hotel. If you were to stay there on Monday night,  a double room would cost you £132 (US$178)...

Also on Giles Street is this business - "Rod and Rifle" that may give you a clue about popular local leisure activities...

Just out of town is the Katherine River Gorge shown below but be careful if you are boating or fishing there because there are crocodiles around!

I was a little surprised to discover that average temperatures in subtropical Katherine are on a par with northern Florida so the heat is rarely unbearable.  There is a lot of greenery in the area - including native trees. Though there can be dry periods, the average annual rainfall is 44.72 inches compared with 36.4 inches here in Sheffield, England, 60.0 inches in Tallahassee, Florida and 25.5 inches in Melbourne, Australia.

Finally, a map and a shout out to Katherine. If you guys pay my airfare and accommodation fees, I will be happy to visit you to make more blogposts that extol the virtues of your  lovely town and its environs.

Balance

On Wednesday, I sang the praises of Barack Obama. I also included a few quotations that would give a proper sense of the man in his own words. Being fair-minded and in the interests of political balance, I thought it only right and proper that I should give Number 47 the same opportunity. So here, in his own words, I give you Donald John Trump:-

The sagacity, sensitivity, vision and political astuteness contained in such quotations  gives you a real handle for understanding why so many ordinary Americans voted for this incredible self-proclaimed "very stable genius" last November.

Biscuits

 

Hurray! Hurray! It's National Biscuit Day! Here's to all the biscuits I  have ever eaten! The custard creams, the milk chocolate digestives, the hobnobs, the malted milks, the bourbons, the jammy dodgers, the garibaldis, the oreos, the shortbread, the ginger nuts and the rich teas! I guess that Americans would call them "cookies" but to British people cookies are  small text files that websites store on your computer or mobile device when you visit them. They help websites remember information about you, like your login details, preferences, and browsing history. 

Meantime, over at the neighbourhood nursery school, what was little Margot - aged eighteen months - up to this morning? Making biscuits of course! See the happiness and the concentration below... She's in biscuit heaven!

Big sister Phoebe - aged four - was with us all day so we took her up to "The Three Merry Lads" for lunch. However, she was keen to get out to the children's play area so of course that is where we went. Wheeee!

Later, she had a chocolate biscuit to celebrate National Biscuit Day.

Barack

What an erudite and charming man Barack Obama is and always was. He lived and breathed humanity and democracy and probably still does. Academically, he was a shining star and completed his formal education at Harvard Law School. As you may agree, he also had great teeth.

He was the 44th president of The United States, a role that he occupied with wisdom and dignity.

When you compare President Obama with the 45th/47th president, the contrast is quite remarkable. The current president usually emphasises Mr Obama's middle name whenever he mentions him.  Thus it is rarely simply "Barack Obama", it's "Barack Hussein Obama" as though to imply that second name is loaded with evidence of foreignness or otherness. It is an incredibly rude thing to do - the sort of thing you expect adolescent bully boys to say.

The name "Hussein" was given to baby Barack by his father who had converted to Islam some years before the birth. By the way, there are around 4.5 million Muslims in the USA and their numbers once included the great Muhammad Ali. Although Barack Obama is not and never has been a Muslim, shouldn't the President of the USA be respectful of other people's faiths and differences anyway? I think so.

As day by day the world reads or listens to the ignorant, often cruel, fallacious and egotistical words of the current president, it's nice to be reminded that presidents don't have to be like that or talk like that. Here's a character reference for Barack Obama in four quotations...

Beans

The Milky Way

I was up the garden today, planting runner beans as I have done for many years. I grew the bean plants  from seed in little pots in our front bedroom and then hardened them off outside for two or three days. It is possible to experience frosts in South Yorkshire right up to the end of May and baby runner bean plants are very tender so it's best to wait until this particular  time until you plant them outside.

After six weeks of dry and mainly sunny weather, today has been quite rainy and I had to dodge the showers to do my business with the beans. First I erected a wigwam of ten long bamboo canes on ground that I had previously  dug over with well-rotted manure before sprinkling a couple of handfuls of chicken pellets on top. I used a couple of long plastic ties to secure the canes, standing on a little step ladder to reach the topmost point. The presence of rain in the air meant that I did not need to water the beans in. God was doing it for me - unless of course God delegates this menial task to his angels.

Two weeks ago I was up the garden installing a new wooden gate. I had made the previous one myself over thirty years ago but this time I got a fencing company to make the new gate to my measurements for the very reasonable sum of £32 ( $AUS 67   $US 43  Indian rupees 3,689).

The new gate is considerably heavier than the old one. During the installation process, I had it propped up on bricks before I screwed in the hinges. Maybe there was a gust of wind or something but anyway, when my back was turned the gate fell on my left calf. It was one of the pointed filials that hit me and it was quite a blow - like being stabbed with a wooden sword.

I was very glad that I had chosen to wear long trousers that morning for even through my trousers the gate managed to cause bleeding and the wound hurt like hell. 

Over two weeks later and I am still conscious of the injury.  Just over a week ago, the bruising migrated to my ankle and toes but that seems to have gone now and gradually I think my body is dealing with the matter as it has so often done with past injuries.  Isn't that wonderful about these ape-like vessels that we live  and move around in - they are so good at self-healing - especially when you are young.

I wanted to make this a simple, "domestic" blogpost without politics, poems or promenades in nearby countryside. Just a little window upon my little life in  a little house on a long street in the suburbs of a northern city, in the month of May, in the county of Yorkshire, in a country called England, on the edge of a continent named Europe, on a planet called Earth in a faraway galaxy that we call The Milky Way.

P.S. The Milky Way we live in is 105,700 light years in diameter and contains between 100 billion and 400 billion stars. But hey, who's counting?

Once...

This evening I watched "Once Upon A Time in America". I had bought it as a DVD several years ago but never got round to watching it. It was the last film that Sergio Leone ever directed and for him it was a genuine labour of love.

I first saw this film in a cinema in 1985 and was absolutely wowed by it. That was forty years ago and ever since I had frequently referred to it as the best film I had ever seen - even though the mobster genre does not normally appeal to me.

Starring Robert De Niro and James Woods , "Once Upon A Time In America" is three hours and forty nine minutes long. However, it was meant to be much longer but objections by film distributors forced Sergio Leone  to re-edit it. Some critics feel that that was  an unforgivable act of artistic vandalism.

Moving to and fro between 1920s New York City, the 1960s and beyond the film focuses upon a group of Jewish hoodlums who have an appetite for violence and money. Their moral code is to do with loyalty to each other but you can damn everybody else.

The film has a haunting, almost fairytale quality about it  as the "Once Upon A Time..." title might suggest.  The musical soundtrack adds to that mysterious  atmosphere. And throughout  Robert De Niro demonstrates what a fine film actor he is. Maybe David "Noodles" Aaronson will be remembered as his finest role.

It was strange watching a film that I rated so very highly forty  years ago. I had forgotten most of the detail of it and in a way this second viewing was like experiencing a brand new film but I was again absorbed by it and pleased that at last I gave up an entire evening to watch it for the second time.

Robert De Niro as David "Noodles" Aaronson

Lescar

No need for me to prepare a family Sunday dinner today. Frances, Stew and the two little angels are away in Scarborough this weekend - partly to celebrate Stew's thirty sixth birthday.

Shirley wanted to go out somewhere for our Sunday meal so I booked a table at "The Lescar" on Sharrowvale Road. I had not been in there in years but when I first came to Sheffield in 1978 I knew it well as I lived just around the corner in a rental house with five women.

Anyway, I wasn't quite sure what to expect with the Sunday dinner. We arrived quite early and the first signs were good. The waiting staff greeted us warmly  and we were led to our table in the lounge.

I noticed several things. There was a posy of fresh flowers in a small glass vase and a carafe of water with a few lumps of ice floating within. They sparkled in a shaft of sunlight. The paper menus were fresh and clean and did not contain any spelling or grammatical errors - unlike some blogs I could mention!

Our drinks were brought to us by a Russian waitress called Olga. From the main menu, I picked the special lamb roast "recommended by Aaron, our chef" but Shirley chose the vegetarian nut roast option.

A five minute wait and our meals appeared - looking very inviting upon  white plates. The vegetables were piled centrally - roasted carrots, parsnips and potatoes with cabbage leaves and we each had a homemade Yorkshire pudding. There was also "jus" in tiny saucepans though I call that culinary brown lubricant - gravy. It was all delightful.

Afterwards, I had room for a traditional apple and rhubarb crumble - again clearly homemade - with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. 

At the bar, as I was paying the bill, the young barman asked how our meals had been and I said, "Surprisingly very good!" which he laughed about. I explained that I had not been in "The Lescar" in years. However, as we drove away in The Clintmobile, Shirley and I agreed that we will be back before long.

It was so nice to have a faultless Sunday meal, prepared with "love" by a capable chef and to drive away feeling  more than satisfied. Inside, "The Lescar" has hardly changed in the forty seven years since I first stepped over its threshold. It was named after a mill wheel that once turned very close-by on The River Porter which is really just a stream.

Blogger

Although I have been using "Blogger" to host this blog for the past twenty years, I don't know much about it. I do know that it is an arm of Google and that Google is a highly profitable company. However, I have no idea how Google make money from Blogger or why indeed they choose to provide this incredible facility.

Another thing I know about Blogger is that it is almost impossible to get in touch with those who presumably oversee it and maintain it. If something goes wrong then there's nobody to complain to. Take trolls for example. They can apparently dish out their toxins with impunity because "Blogger" is not set up to block or restrain them.

A year or so ago, most bloggers were irritated by Blogger's growing tendency to send wholesome comments to "Spam".  Sometimes they would send dozens of legitimate comments there without explanation. I am not the only blogger who found some of my own comments from long ago dumped in my Spam folder. There was just no logic to the activity.

Fortunately, the spam issue died down and now we seem to be back to normal on that one.

Now some new issues are arising. For example, you might click on a link to somebody else's blog and instead of simply connecting you may be asked if you  want to be redirected to a given blog address.

I have also noticed some issues with blog profiles.  A few minutes ago I took a screenshot of part of my profile. There I see some blogs listed that do not in fact belong to me. They were never there before and though I know of these blogs they are certainly not mine. Their "selection" seems quite random...

"The Headland" is mine and perhaps surprisingly so is "Yorkshire Pudding" but "Occupied Country" is now defunct. It was created by Ian Rhodes in Manchester and I used to follow it avidly. "Bangkok Boothys" belonged to my friend and former teaching colleague Jonathan who now lives and works in Shanghai, China. I can't remember any details of "Life Is All Cobblers".

Anyway, I don't want to moan overmuch about Blogger. After all, its hosting service has always been free and on balance things have been far more right than wrong. I guess I should be grateful.

One thing that sometimes crosses my mind is the possibility that at some stage in the future, Google could simply pull the plug on "Blogger" and send  all of our blogs with their attached archives into a  whirlpool called "The End". That is certainly within the realm of possibilities. After all, they did it to the "Panoramio" photo mapping project that spanned the globe. Go here.

Schlep

What remains - dead hawthorn tree on the path to Win Hill

The word "schlep" was unknown to me until I noticed blogging chum Steve Reed using it. "Schlep" can mean a few things to do with tedium and heaviness but for some reason I think it works nicely when describing a long uphill walk that never seems to end.

Today I needed a physical workout so for some reason I decided that I would head for the summit of Win Hill which I had not surmounted in a long while. I planned to approach it from the hamlet of Aston and knew there'd be a two mile incline - upwards all the way. Yes it was a good old schlep.

Being on my own, I knew that I could stop to rest whenever I wanted. No need for apology or explanation.

Half way up, I said "hello" to a young Asian woman when our paths converged. At the top, we met again and  had a nice conversation.

Wild rhododendron blooms by the path to Win Hill

She was from Reading west of London and had never been to The Peak District before. Standing on the top of Win Hill, I was able to explain several features of the landscape to her. I take my intimate knowledge of the area for granted. During our conversation, I used the term "schlep" and had to explain it to her as she had also never heard it before. Thus the  candle flame of schlepping lit in England by Steve Reed has been passed on to the leafy suburbs of Reading.

My descent was less arduous than the ascent and I hardly stopped at all. I guess that I wasn't schlepping then but even so I was pleasantly weary when I got back to my silver machine (a.k.a. Clint).

It was after six o clock when I got back home to make my "partner" her tea. It was Spaghetti YP. This involves frying up chopped bacon and onions with slices of courgette and mixing that in with wholewheat spaghetti and  a big handful of grated parmesan cheese. There were also two baked ciabatta rolls. Thankfully, she seemed satisfied.

On the summit of Win Hill looking to Ladybower Reservoir

19

 

That's me at the age of nineteen. I was 9605 miles from here. The picture was taken in early October 1972 by my late friend Richard from Minneapolis USA.

It was one tropical Sunday on the island of Rotuma between Fiji and The Ellice Islands which are now known as Tuvalu. We had walked to another coastal village and I was asked to play a few songs for a bunch of islanders - sitting beneath a breadfruit tree.

It was a happy, carefree afternoon - far from home. Pacific waves crashed upon the rim of the coral reef and coconut palms swayed above the village. Some of the local children danced in laughter.

The island was dreamlike - as though it truly belonged in a work of fiction. What I experienced there, what I saw and felt there have remained with me for the past 53 years. In a sense, it was all quite beyond understanding. It certainly had a big influence upon the character of the man I became.

Anyway, the living island fantasy was battered on October 23rd, 1972 when Hurricane Bebe tracked south from The Ellice Islands. Its eye passed right over Rotuma and I watched houses being torn apart by the raging wind as rain lashed down and the ocean boiled. Incredibly - but only as far as I know -  only one person was killed on Rotuma in those terrible twenty four hours.

Wikipedia is amazing. It even has a page for "Cyclone Bebe". For your information, I have copied and pasted the following paragraph:- 

During October 23, the system passed over the Fijian Dependency of Rotuma, with hurricane-force wind speeds of around 275 km/h (170 mph) had been recorded on the island. As a result, widespread damage was reported on the island, with various houses and other buildings either destroyed or extensively damaged. The island also lost the majority of its crops, with coconut palms, copra and citrus trees damaged or destroyed. As a result, it was estimated that between 60%-90% of the population would be dependent on relief supplies for the next three to six months.

I have blogged about Bebe before. If you are interested, go here .

Mirage

Something strange happened last night. At least, I think it happened - it was possibly a mirage but I don't think so.

At about 8.30 pm, I went out into our garden (American: yard) in order to put away my electric "Bosch" lawnmower and its associated cable reel for I had been cutting grass in the afternoon. Items safely stored away, I then came back into the house to wallop the keys on this very keyboard.

It must have been about half an hour later that some water fell down from the sky. Not much of it but enough to wet the cars, the pavement and the lawn. I asked Shirley what it was and she googled it. Apparently it was what is commonly called "rain". Anyway, the "rain" lasted less than ten minutes and it was not particularly heavy.

It was the first rain we had seen in six weeks in what has been Yorkshire's driest ever spring - well the driest on record anyway. It seems that more of this rainwater could fall in the next few days. Farmers and gardeners will be very happy if the land gets a damned good soaking.

The unpredictability of our weather is something I love about England. We never really know what we are going to get the whole year round. This is largely because of the influence that The Atlantic Ocean has upon our climate.

With the changeability, it is no wonder that British people tend to talk about the weather more than most nationalities.

Anyway, today we were back to what has become our new normal - a dry, sunny day with not a hint of rain. Last night's smattering of water had had next to no impact.

I went up the garden to our vegetable plot to do some digging ready for putting in my runner beans and courgettes (American: zucchini). The ground is so hard and dry that it was like digging for rocks in the Gobi Desert. I couldn't spend too long up there as we were looking after Little Margot all day and I didn't want Shirley to have to do it all.

It's nice to share the "load" even though Margot is such a delightful and "easy" child to look after. If she cries - which is pretty rare - you know that there's a very good reason for it.

She makes me laugh when she spots her colourful wellingtons (American: rain boots) in our kitchen. She immediately sits on the floor to take her shoes off ready to get outside for she associates those rubber boots with the garden and she loves being outside. Tomorrow, Phoebe will be with us all day. The prospect of any more water falling from the sky is very slim indeed. However, on Saturday, a spell of proper rain seems certain. Hallelujah!

Quiztime

Looking back to the sixties and early seventies, this quiz is all about musical acts. There are ten to consider. As usual, the answers will be given in the "Comments" section. 

⦿

1. The lead singer in the middle was called Peter Noone but what was the name of the group? Their biggest hits were "There's A Kind of Hush All Over The World" and "I'm Into Something Good".

2. This fellow's name is Allan Clarke and he was the lead singer of a Manchester-based band that included Graham Nash but what was the band's name? One of their biggest hits was a version of "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother".

3.  Born in Jamaica in 1947, she only had one notable hit. That was in 1964 and the title of the song was "My Boy Lollipop" but what was her name?

(a) Jennifer (b) Millie (c) Thelma (d) JayCee

4. Formed in Birmingham, England in 1964 this progressive band were more about making albums than singles but they had one noteworthy singles chart hit with "Nights In White Satin". Who were they?

5. Her real name was Mary O'Brien but what was her stage name? Two of her greatest hits were "I Only Want To Be With You" and  "You Don't Have To Say You Love Me".

6. An American folk singer, born in Chicago in 1937, he wrote many protest songs but perhaps his most memorable composition was titled "The Last Thing On My Mind" about a troubled relationship. T** P****n

7) He died too young - shot dead by his father during a family row. Perhaps best known for his seminal album "What's Going On" and his well-known single, "I Heard It Through The Grapevine". Who was he?

8) Can you name this girl group:

(a) The Supremes (b) The Ronettes 

(c) Martha Reeves and The Vandellas (d) The Marvelettes

9) That's Ian Anderson on the flute. He was the leader of this band - named after the man who invented the  horse-drawn seed drill.

10) Finally - a songwriter and performer who was born in New Rochelle, New York in 1945. One of his most famous songs was about the artist Vincent Van Gogh.

⦿

That's it! I hope it wasn't too hard. How did you do?

Pigeon

My quizzing buddies are called Mick and Mike. We had accumulated £240 in quiz prize money (US$320) and as it is Mick's 68th birthday today,  we decided to go out and spend some of it.

We descended upon "The Rising Sun" at Nether Green and bought pints of local beer. Not something I am used to doing on a Monday lunchtime. Then we sat down to peruse the menu.

Being less sophisticated than me, the other guys picked meals fit for factory workers - (a) pie of the day with chips (American: fries) and (b) burger with chips. However, I was in the mood for something special and memorable so I went for pan-seared pigeon breast, leg lollipop, pea puree, boulangere potatoes, pigeon jus and wild garlic oil. I followed this with a dessert of white chocolate mousse with honeycomb, strawberry gel and shortbread crumb.

My meal was delicious. I hadn't eaten pigeon in decades and I had forgotten how earthy and tender it was - a real taste sensation. From now on those wood pigeons that descend upon our garden had better watch out. I will have my catapult ready.

As usual Mike, Mick and I conversed merrily for the full two hours we were in "The Rising Sun". How many words have we exchanged in the past thirty years? Thousands of them - like a vast shoal of sardines. 

It's nice to know other humans with whom you feel wholly relaxed. No need to prove anything. No need to show off or feel nervous about getting a word in edgeways. We can just be ourselves until the next time we meet up and the shoal of silvery sardines grows even bigger.

"The Rising Sun" at Nether Green

Awful

I hope that I am still allowed to express my opinions in this humble Yorkshire blog. After all, I do not want to be "cancelled" or "blacklisted" or whatever is done to curmudgeonly old fellows  these days.

Last night, the 69th Eurovision Song contest was held in Basel, Switzerland. I must admit that I always greet Eurovision with a degree of revulsion. I scorn the razzmatazz  but above all I dislike the shallow, forgettable songs and have zero respect for the second rate performers who broadcast them to the world. The whole thing induces a kind of nausea.

Sad really when songs can be so meaningful and memorable and simply good for us - but not Eurovision songs. They are all and have always been utter rubbish.

This year's winning song came from Austria and was performed by a young man called Johannes Pietsch under the stage name "JJ". The title of the winning song was "Wasted  Love" and in my opinion it was bloody awful. You are entitled to your opinion but I repeat that I found it terrible. For your aural reckoning, here it is. Get your ear plugs ready...

If I never hear or see JJ singing "Wasted Love" again I shall be immensely grateful.

Eddie

We said goodbye to Eddie yesterday in the Lincolnshire village where Shirley and I got married. The ancient church was so packed with mourners that when we arrived we had to pull out some spare chairs from behind velveteen curtains that conceal the base of the bell tower.

Eddie - or Uncle Eddie - as Shirley called him was her mother's only brother. Born in 1939, he grew up with six sisters. Two other siblings died from diphtheria when they were little. In recent months, Eddie had been battling lung cancer but his demise was not really long and drawn out. He drifted away at the end of April.

I liked Eddie and always enjoyed talking with him. He showed interest in others be they high and mighty or lowly serfs. He himself had no academic qualifications to his name. He worked in farming and farm machinery and later at a big brick and tile works east of Doncaster. I don't know exactly what he did there but it did not matter because I liked him for he was - not for how he earned money.

Eddie was mischievous and had a sparkle in his eye. A lifelong football fan, he supported Scunthorpe United but whenever he saw me we would first talk about how Hull City were doing for he could easily relate to my club allegiance.

He had two daughters and two marriages. Though his first marriage disintegrated, his second marriage to a nice woman called Carol was very happy and long-lasting. He embraced Carol's daughter as though she were his own child.

The vicar did a fine job of researching the warm eulogy that Eddie deserved. There was the singing of three well-known hymns - "We plough the fields and scatter", "He who would valiant be" and "Jerusalem". Then there was the "commital" at the church door where the coffin waited before being driven to Scunthorpe for cremation.

The image of the commital will remain with me. The vicar in his ceremonial robes looking back into the church and behind him the sunlit greenery of Maytime. In front of him the polished beechwood coffin with a simple wreath of roses on top, then Eddie's immediate family. His daughters, his remaining sister, his wife and his grandchildren.

It was a lovely way to say goodbye to Eddie...

Then fancies flee away! I'll fear not what men say,

I'll labour night and day to be a pilgrim.

Fragments

Two

Swimming in the harbour at Gorran Haven in Cornwall on a lovely summer's afternoon. After Dad dives in like an Olympic champion, he comes up for air on the beach and announces that he has lost his top denture. The harbour waters are deep but crystal clear. Even with the assistance of a local fisherman in a rowing boat the precious denture cannot be found.

Three

The New Forest, Hampshire,  We were staying in a small touring caravan site. I cannot remember the exact details of my annoyance but my parents had been getting at me for some reason and the frustration had built up inside me like a balloon that was ready to explode. I was perhaps five years old but I stormed out of our caravan (American: trailer) and told them I was running away and would never come back. I was gone for a couple of hours - stumbling across nearby heathland that was tall with summer bracken. I created a hollow where I lay down still angry with the nameless injustice of it all. However, slowly I came to the obvious conclusion that I was just a little boy and that I was in fact incapable of fending for myself, Sheepishly, I decided to swallow my pride and find my way back to the caravan. Little fuss was made of my return. I guess they were just relieved to have me back.

Four

Sitting in the entrance lobby of the village school in my white underpants and vest. It is warm because of the big black coal stove. All of the other children from my class are also sitting in their underwear - girls and boys alike. We are all equally embarrassed for though we are perhaps six years old we have budding dignity and pride. Medical examinations are being conducted by a doctor with a nurse. He squeezes my testicles and then looks inside my mouth. He has an ice cold stethoscope.  Notes are written down. We were just little kids so why should our embarrassment matter? Imagine twenty five adults of a similar age having to sit in a doctor's waiting room in their underwear!

Five

I am an inquisitive little so-and-so. Gradually, I have become aware that girls are physically different from boys and my curiosity about this has increased but I do not have any sisters. Over a period of days, I have been quizzing my mother about this matter. I have even asked her about how babies are made. Shockingly, she has told me that girls have special holes that babies come from. One morning Mum is in the bathroom getting washed and dressed. Sweet smelling talcum powder hangs in the air like a mist and there is a rubberised corset with clips at the bottom for stockings. I pluck up the courage to ask if I can see her special hole. Mum was never one to be flummoxed but at that moment she was. She went bright pink and refused my simple request which, at the time, I found most puzzling. Clearly it was not just a special hole - it was an extra special hole to be concealed like jewellery in a safe. "Why won't you show me it?" She was lost for words.

Six

A midsummer's evening and I am trying to get to sleep but it's hard as daylight is still filtering into the room. I am studying the swirling patterns on the blue-white wallpaper and as usual I am seeing things there. Sea waves breaking, monsters of the deep, distant snow-capped mountains, a land of legend and mystery and then a strange thought comes to my mind. It is not the kind of thought that I have ever had before. Essentially, I am asking myself a "What if?" question and that question is "What if my parents die?". I knew that such a thing might be possible but who would look after me and where would I find the feeling of being secure and loved any more? The prospect was heartbreaking and I began to weep. In fact, I wept myself to sleep that night and the next day things were never quite the same again.

Childhood

The road junction where Robin's life-changing accident happened - Google Streetview

With each passing year, we all move further and further away from our childhoods and the recollections we have of those crucial years become blurrier. The store of vivid memories shrinks. Some names get forgotten.

Anyway, anyway, I have set myself the task of recording a few of my childhood memories. Things that still stand out for whatever reason. I am pinning them down before they entirely dissolve. And before I begin I might ask: Is there any logic in the business of remembering? It doesn't seem so to me but the psychology of memory is no doubt complicated like the electrical wiring on an ocean liner.

Before I begin, let me just say that mine was an unremarkable but generally happy, healthy childhood. I wasn't sexually or physically abused and I did not have to battle with some awful ailment or physical condition.

There was Mum and Dad and their four sons of which I was the third. We lived in a late Victorian schoolhouse attached to the village school where Dad was the headmaster. It was in the middle of The East Riding of Yorkshire...

One

One chilly morning before school started, I was playing football  in the school playground. I would have been seven years old at the time. A hundred yards away, a service bus had just disgorged several pupils near the T junction outside "The New Inn" pub. They came from a nearby smaller village called Catwick which did not have a village school of its own.

Normally, these children would just walk up to the village school without fuss but on that morning they came racing along, their excited breaths visible in the cold morning air. A couple of them headed straight for me. 

"Your Robin's been knocked over! He might be dead!"

Hurriedly, I went to the pavement in front of the school gates and looked down to the T junction. Cars had stopped, people were gathering. Something had clearly happened just as the Catwick bus had arrived. 

"Go and tell your mum!"

I ran to our house and pushed open the front door. Mum was still upstairs. I yelled up to her and she came to the top of the staircase in her nightie.

"It's our Robin Mum! He's been knocked over!"

Robin had mounted his bicycle that morning and pedalled up to the cafe at the far end of a road called High Stile. His mission had been to buy a packet of sherbet with a lollipop inside. But he did not get back home for he had made an almost fatal error at the T junction and had been hit by a car overtaking the stationary bus.

Mum quickly donned her slippers and her nylon housecoat and ran out of the house like an Olympic sprinter.

There were no words. It was as if I had lit the blue touchpaper of a firework rocket. It did not matter that she was still in her nightwear and had not performed her habitual morning ablutions. She was running across the playground and down the road. One of her beloved boys was hurt and she had to get to him as soon as she possibly could. No forethought - just instinct.

⦿

Robin was unconscious. An ambulance with a flashing blue light came to take him to hospital but I do not remember any of that nor any of the weeks he spent in hospital. He had a badly fractured skull from which he took ages to recover.

The medication he was given and his inactive recuperation period made him put on weight. He became fat and lethargic with his brain power diminished. That accident changed him but happily he fought back. Though he did not do well at secondary school, he possessed many practical skills and had a talent for engineering and fixing things.

Robin and Suzie in France - Summer of 2007

He was a damned good worker and partly in spite of the road accident he was very motivated to make a success of his life and that's what he did. He had earned enough money by the age of 52 to buy a French farmhouse in sight of The Pyrenees and retire there with his cats, his motorbikes, his campervan, his cars and Suzie - his girlfriend of many years.

It wasn't long ago that I shared my memory of that awful morning with him. He had no idea that I possessed it. He was moved to hear what I said.

And still, after all these years, I can picture our Mum, flying out of our house in her nightgown to be with Robin as though it was just yesterday but it was probably 1960 - sixty five years ago.