Anyone who has ever spent any time with me will know one thing. I am my daughter Jo’s number 1 fan. Now Jo is many things but at the centre of her life, since she has been little girl, are horses. She is at her happiest when in their company and the joys her four legged friends have brought her I suspect few of us have experienced in a more conventional lifestyle.

I will get this bit over quickly but having horses in your life, because their life span is shorter than ours, will on occasion bring great sadness. Of course that sadness, whilst never going away, will in time give way to the joy of acquiring and caring for a new friend.

It was 2003 and we were living in The Old Rectory in Northeligh and Jo had recently embarked on her Police career. Sadly a beautiful grey horse called Chase had left us and of course Jo was dealing with her loss and I, whilst sad myself, was desperately trying to fond a way to cheer her up.

Writing this piece reminds me of the need to record all about life in Northleigh and the wonderful time we had with our friends George and Angela. George was a great mate of mine but he was given to having ideas that would lead anyone who was prepared to listen into distinctly un-chartered waters. I used to drink wine with George, a lot of it, and often his ‘ideas’ would coincide with the level of intoxication we had mutually achieved. It was a Friday evening and George told me that at farm in the neighbouring valley a woman was selling some miniature horses. I seem to remember he said they were Shetlands. Returning home we met with Jo who had returned home for the weekend from her college. I of course told her of the news of the horses and of course she was interested in seeing them.

The following morning Jo and I drove into the farmyard in the next valley and their in a pen was the most delightful sight. A grey bundle of fluff. It is impossible to express just how this little man made me feel. He was friendly and yet nervous. He seemingly begged me to take him home. I don’t know why but the sight of the horse’s Mum did not register with me. She was in fact about up to my waist in height and she looked very ‘solid’. The woman who owned the horse informed us that the breeding line of the horses was such that in ‘showing competitions’ they were almost certain to win. Indeed she took us into a small hut like structure off the stables and their on the walls were dozens of rosettes.

I had long wished to develop a meaningful relationship with Jo’s horses but if you have read my experience with Frank (the riding school horror) you will understand that a conventional relations ship, owning and riding together was unlikely to make the cut. So it was we returned home and I started to research all about ‘showing’. As we had left the yard I had secretly asked the woman to give us the option on buying the horse after her necessary weening period. Jo did not know this and went off to college probably assuming her Dad’s latest idea to be a non starter.

I think it was two weeks later that I went to get the ‘boy’. He was a bit bigger now and a bit skittish but oh my good ness he was just beautiful. He was tiny maybe a foot tall but perfectly proportioned. I seem to remember that putting him in a horse box was a non starter and somehow I placed him in the back of a landcover with cushions. Back at Northleigh the horse was ‘home’. I put the little chap in a stable. Looking over the stable door was a tear jerking experience. In the gloom of the stable he stood in the corner.

Later that evening, for the umpteenth time that day, I went to check him. He looked so small and vulnerable so I entered the stable and in the corner, in the hay bed I snuggled down with the ball of fluff and soon we were both asleep. I awoke around 3 in a state of shock. Where was I what was going on but the nuzzle of the horse reassured me and I stayed till the morning when i reentered the house with straw coming out of every fold in my clothing. I could scarcely wait as Jo was due down for the weekend. When she arrived she knew something was up and I took her down to the yard to show her ‘the boy’. She was of course delighted and instantly, horses seem to know, this chap bounded over to her for some affection. The next few hours were full of joy and chat. I had developed a plan of joining Jo at shows. She would ride and I would ‘show’. Perfect. one thing was needed though as you will have guessed, a name. He was called Bradley, or Bradders on a good day.

To begin with all was fine. iItook Bradley for walks on a lead rope. He looked like a dog and no-one could pass us by without stopping and enquiring about the little chap. He was on occasion a little tricky to control as he would rear up and his ‘little hoofs’ would sort of cuff me. After a few months or so Bradders had grown. he had also developed a surprising level of strength and how best to say this, ‘a certain attitude’. Corralling him in the field became a challenge and my determination to develop my ‘bond’ with this animal resulted in all sorts of mishaps. His pailful ‘cuffs’ soon became out right brooks and his powerful hind quarters became an area to be very wary of. he would sort of line me up and then without warning lash out. I once used a hosepipe to art of wrap him up so as I could move him to another field. he broke down temporary paddocks with out efforts and he even developed a sort of look. It was tangible. It simply said ‘don’t mess with me’.

Now despite some rising concerns I was still dreaming of showing Bradley. George announced The Honiton show was due and produced a brochure with a large red dot on the class ‘Showing-minature Coloureds’. I had my shirt and waistcoat ready but when I tried to walk Bradders around the field it did not go well. We had paid the entry so Jo decided it would be best if she take control. We all readily agreed. Normally he was as good as gold with her. On the day of the event Bradley was groomed, oiled and all the rest. Jo wore jodhpurs,a white shirt with chequers waist coat and a flat cap. Oh my good ness what a site they made the rosette was surely coming home.

Now just to warn you this is where it all gets a bit sensitive. Bradley was ‘entire’ and as he was now probably a yearling his natural instincts were coming into play. The class of miniature horses numbered around 20 and I distinctly noticed the woman from whom we had bought the boy walking round with an immaculately behaved horse. It could i suppose have been Bradders Mum. Anyway the crowd was huge as Mums and daughters flocked from all corners of the ground to se the miniature horses. Oos and ahs all-around the place. Most horses were in the ring by the time the clock signalled the entrance of the judged. From my vantage point in the stands I was somewhat alarmed to see Jo locked in a battle with Bradley in the approach lane to the show ring itself. George appeared from nowhere and gave Jo a more substantial lead rein than the one she has but Bradley was by this time working up some steam. Up on his hind legs he pawed the air. Jo would not give in and at last, watched by an increasingly impatient head judge Bradly entered the ring and what an entrance it was. To be honest I am not sure how these things work but at certain time in the year lady horses become attracted to men horses and they give off an odour.This odour, apparently, is a signal to the male horse to ‘prepare for action’. Well clearly at least one of the lady horses was ‘up for it’ and soon so was Bradley. He was in truth a ‘fine figure of a horse’ as they say. Jo fought with the rampant beast. Men laughed and cheered and toasted Bradley with their cider and Mums hurriedly drew their daughters aside offering varied explanations as to why the horse’s appearance had changed in such way. What happened next was remarkable. indeed I was later assured it was the only time at The Honiton Show it had happened. The head judge was forced to invite Jo and Bradley to withdraw due to his amorous condition and the disturbance it was creating. Jo left the ring With Bradley strutting his stuff to wild cheers. As left my seat in the stands to join Jo and George and the boy I looked back into the ring. The winning rosette was being pinned on Bradleys Mum or whoever she was as clearly the woman had been right the breeding line was a near certainty.

This was Bradleys last show although he was clearly the best looking horse in the ring. He soon had his bits removed which marginally improved his behaviour. I must however record in my case it is ‘marginal’.

It would be easy for someone to say that all of this was fantasy. It was not. Indeed I have a film of the whole thing which in the interests of peoples sensitivities had better stay in the box. Today Bradley is 20years old. He is a delight and still looks as if butter would not melt in his mouth but let me assure you if he decides you are not his type he can still show who is boss. He is 10.2 hands tall and he is officially a miniature spot. Happy Birthday Bradders.

What is a friend you may ask. Broad question and lots of different possible answers. What is life you may occasionally consider. I have an answer to that. Someone once gave me this line and it works for me in terms of how things have played out. ‘Life is series of adventures and friends are people you share them with’!

Good friends are precious as they add an extra perspective to things. Value them highly. Friends allow you to plan adventures. They allow you to be brave, bold, carefree. The adventure will be coloured by their presence as they will be the reflection of your experience. They will be the mood music. When the adventure is done the sharing of the same will be a fusion of yours and their experience. The memory is best if it can be shared and relived.

This week I have an onerous task to perform. I will be carrying a good friend on his ‘last journey’. It makes me achingly sad to reflect on his passing but as I do I can recall some very special memories that I will carry myself through the rest of my life. Phil Bayliss shared many days of cycling with me and Liz. We swam in the sea with him from the most perfect of beach huts he owned on the Devon coast. This was no ordinary athlete in fact as a runner when he was young he was a race winner. It was, however, in later life that our mutual adventures gelled.

Phil and I, along with some other friends, completed Ironman Barcelona. We finished the race within 10 minutes of each other (due in truth to an injury he was carrying) The memory I have of the meal we shared at the finish line I can almost reach out and touch. In the bliss of exhaustion and achievement we looked each other in the eyes. I probably shed tear, as I do. We raised a glass to each other in toast of a major achievement.

Some years later Phil was there agin. Different friends but maybe a bigger challenge. 185 miles of cycling along the famous Milan San Remo bike race. That we took part at all was maybe a mistake. When we got toMilan at the start we realised just what challenge we faced. However we group of friends faced the thing down and we made it. In an alley in San Remo another toast and other look of mutual praise.

Not everyone races in ironman or takes on bike challenges. We each have our own set of priorities and challenges to take on. However what ever you do I expect that you too have a special friend of if you are very lucky friends. If you do treasure these people because they are worth many times the others. Hold them close. Care for them and remember to tell them how much they mean to you. You can’t overdo it.

I would dearly love to have said a special thank you to Phil but I did not get the chance. Perhaps on Wednesday I will whisper my thanks into the coffin. I hope he hears me wherever he is.

Every day we all make decisions that affect the course of our lives. A simple decision can result in a chain of actions and reactions that would be completely different if we had chosen a different course. Football commentators often say things like ‘if the referee had allowed that goal ‘Team x’ would surely have won’. But the whole game, if the goal had been allowed, would have followed a different route, who knows who would have won.

Normally when we are out driving and we take a wrong turn we decide, quite sensibly, to turn around and retrace our steps and rejoin our original route. But what if you don’t?

Nearly thirty years ago now I was on a weekend ski trip with my good friend David Lis and his stepson Ben. Suffice it to say tension was in the air. Ben had lost his ski pass and had also fallen asleep on his hotel bed with a lit ciggie in his mouth. By some fluke of circumstance we discovered the dear boy sound asleep ignorant of the smouldering blanket he was trying to ignite.

The day after this incident there was tension in the air and David suggested we take the Mont Blanc Tunnel to Italy in order to ski in Aosta and maybe enjoy a pasta lunch.

I now know the Chamonix valley really well but on that day, as driver, I completely missed the turn for the tunnel and we arrived in the valley floor leading to Geneva. Instead of turning round we decided to explore a bit further and we ended up in La Fayette. There were signs directing people to a spa and we were delighted to sight a rack and pinion railway clawing its way up the hill.

It would appear that La Fayette had a reputation with wealthy Parisians back in the day and its healing waters and spa became a place to visit. The rack and pinion railway, which was originally intended to reach the peak of Mont Blanc, had failed in its ambition. It had instead opened up a nearby town some 2 or 3 miles up hill which attracted wealthy Parisians who would take the main line train from Paris before changing to the small railway which deposited them, at its first stop, in St Gervais Les Bains. They would then make daily trips down to the spa to take the waters and rejuvenate themselves.

Another side show of this railway was that a field nearby was soon equipped with a horse pulled chairlift and the first ‘ski resort’ in the world was established. St Gervais was set for growth!

We abandoned the idea of Aosta on that day and followed the road up to St Gervais. At the entrance to the village a short ‘carriage ride’ from the station three magnificent buildings stand. They were former hotels, now converted into apartments. Two of them were designed by a famous architect and they attract much interest to this day. The third building ,La Residence, is much less grand but it sits effectively on the clifftop overlooking the valley and in doing so commands wonderful vistas as the seasons turn.

We drove into the square at the centre of this beautiful small town. David ordered a stop and he made a statement, maybe it was an order. ‘This place is wonderful you must buy a place here’ he said. Where we actually skied that day I do not remember but there were no dramas I can recall.

3 months later I decided to leave UBS, thank God, and join BZW. I had one months gardening leave and having decided to explore and improve my understanding of modern computing of the day I enrolled on a 5 day course. I tell you this because it is part of another tale.

Liz, as usual was very supportive of my mad idea to buy a ski place and she did as much research as she could via the limited technology of the day and she managed to arrange a series of viewing for the day we had earmarked as our ‘French flat buying day’. It was all rather exciting getting up early taking a car to Heathrow and a plane to Geneva before hiring a car and getting to St G. Liz fell in love with the place as soon as she saw it. The next few hours were, however, a huge disappointment as the flats we were shown were just desparate. The town shut for lunch and we sat in a street side cafe munching a cheese roll Liz noticed across the street an Estate Agent who had not appeared on her list so when we saw the shutters rise shortly after 2pm we went in.

What a shock we received. A man of around our age presented himself. Something very bad had happened to him. His nose had clearly been sown back on his face. His poorly positioned glasses revealed non seeing eyes and his hairpiece was perched on his head in anything but the right position.

‘Hello’ he said in perfect English. ‘I am Pasqual and I am the finest Estate Agent in the valley’. We were both confused as honestly it was very difficult to look at the man. After a while he turned to Liz, well almost, and he asked her exactly what she was looking for. Liz response was something like ‘high ceilings, French double doors and maybe a balcony with a view’. Pasqual paused drummed the table and made the following announcement. ‘I know the one’. ‘I will first of all show you two apartments,which you will like, but when you see the third you will know’. Powerful stuff!.

He rang a bell and an impossibly pretty French woman appeared who could speak no English, she was his wife. She took us to see the two flats Pasqual had mentioned and both of them were superb. To this day we still look at them from the outside and smile. She then drove us to the front of the aforementioned La Residence. A ride up in a small rickety lift to the third floor, three locks to undo and we walked in. It was less than a second I recall before Liz and I turned to each other grinning from ear to ear. The flat was light airy with high ceilings it had four large separate rooms a bathroom and kitchen. Magnificent double French doors opening on to not one balcony, but five, each with its own spectacular view. Just stunning.

Back at the office Pasqual was waiting. ‘Well’ he said ‘I know what you think’. We conformed his suspicion. I declared an instant wish to buy the place. We had a plane to catch so Pasqual, with the aid of his wife, produced the 14 page French property transaction form that we duly filled in. At the end of the form is a box which has ‘Prix’ (price) alongside it. The asking price of the property was 75,000 francs and with the exchange rate of 10 to 1 we were contemplating buying this magnificent piece of France for £75,000, a bargain. Pasqual was not done.’ You leave the box Prix open. I’m the estate agent and my job is to establish the price. I will ‘touch’ the seller and let you know what you will be paying’. He then offered another interesting comment ‘being English you will probably want a survey but that is stupid!’ he scoffed ‘That building has stood for 150 years and it will still be there for many years to come, dont waste your money”!! ‘I will call you next Tuesday after I have ‘touched’ the seller at 7 pm London time, have a good journey home’.

We did, we were in something of a whirl in truth as we contemplated what would happen next and what the final price would be. The following Tuesday at 7pm the phone rang. It was Pasqual. ‘I have touched the seller the price is set’ he announced. He then proceeded to tell us the ‘signing would be in two weeks at the Notaires office’ and as we had filled out the forms we were in effect ‘good to go’. He was about to say good bye when I plucked up the courage to ask him what the price would be. Somewhat dismissively he announced ‘63,000’, the phone went dead.

Two weeks later there was an air traffic controllers strike in Europe so Liz and I elected to drive down for the signing. I was coming to the end of my gardening leave and time was tight. Liz arranged for Jo and Tom to be looked after for the day and very early in the morning we climbed into our wonderful Mercedes coupe and we set off. We arrived in St Gervais shortly after lunch having driven at a constant speed well in excess of any limits. We changed in the underground car park that is today both a parking lot and an art gallery. We completed the signing, met the sellers who were delightful, climbed back in the car and headed home. Around midnight a champagne cork popped on the outskirts of Harpenden. We had bought a French apartment.

The tale does not end here as more good news was shortly to come. Harpenden is a short distance from Luton airport and a Greek man called Helios decided to start a ‘budget airline’. It was called Easy jet and you know the rest. Its original service was between Luton and Scotland. The solitary former Brittania Airways 737 that comprised the original ‘fleet’ flew from Luton to Edinburgh back to Luton then up to Glasgow and back and so on.

I spent lot of time in Scotland for work at the time and this new service was a godsend as it meant the commute to and from Heathrow was no longer a necessity. I was one of its first passengers and with a wonderful man called Howard Seymour we took the first flight to Edinburgh. The flight was all but empty and we positioned ourselves at the rear of the plane. It was so noisy and the whole thing rattled in an alarming fashion as with very few passengers the plane was very light. It was all rather concerning to be honest. We got the last flight back on the day and this time we chose the ‘front’ of the almost deserted plane. No frills on this airline but for some reason they served coffee. I agreed to a cup but when the steaming brew was poured into my cup the tray gave way and scalding black coffee was deposited in my lap. I screamed and jumped up. The scene that followed was ridiculous two aircrew, a young woman and a ‘very gay’ man, jumped into emergency mode. The produced a wet cloth and mercifully, in front of only a few passengers they proceeded to sponge the front of my pants. It was necessary of course cos it was burning but the vigour with which the young man addressed his task was a little disconcerting. My suit on the day was light grey and Howard Seymour nearly died with laughter as I walked down the aircraft steps with my briefcase clapped closely to my loins in order to conceal the huge stain. Easy jet offered to pay for my dry cleaning which was nice but three months later Easy jet delivered to our family a wonderful gift. A regular service from Luton to Geneva. The prices were low. Liz once went midweek for a few days with Tom over half term for £12 each way. We were able to visit St Gervais almost at will and the pleasure we derived from owning that property knows no bounds. Laughter, exhilaration and an appreciation of the beauty of the earth are gifts it has bought us.Of course subsequently we left Harpenden as our children grew and proceeded on their own pathways. We have discovered the Alps in the summer and many a bike ride has started and finished in that wonderful apartment we are so blessed to own.

There are many morals in this tale. Maybe don’t wear a light get suit if you are on a rickety plane don’t judge an estate agent by its cover etc. Perhaps the biggest message is this, sometimes the road we are on will not lead where we intended but maybe the course we find our selves on will result in something very very special happening that will change our lives in a big way. So before you turn around maybe go on a bit and see what happens.

Pasqual has retired now and his son has taken over the business. Like his father he is charming and very capable. When the sad day comes we will use him to sell our flat. Maybe one day it will be appropriate to ask exactly what did happen to his Dad.

St Gervais has over the years grown into an absolute gem, it always was but the improvements we have witnessed are beyond our wildest dreams. As we look out of one of our bedrooms in the apartment we can see Mont Blanc. It looks down on the world and has been constant presence in the ups and downs of our existence. It offers a a sense of permanence and Liz and I love it.

As I was growing up, every other year or so, my father would announce he was not feeling right. He was an active sort who loved to walk fast. On the occasion of his ‘poorliness’ he would often announce he felt ‘all of a dither’. The pattern was normal, he would take himself off to the local doctor, describe his symptoms and return home with some iron tablets. ‘The doctor thinks I am anaemic’ he would announce. Three or four days later after religiously consuming the pills he would announce that he was back to his best and all was well.

Now I don’t know if he ever had a test to check his iron levels but the experience of watching this apparent transformation from ‘ditheriness’ to ‘full power’ obviously made a mark on me.

I don’t often go to Holland and Barrett or the like. Usually it is for something obscure for a recipe or something. I have at times bought multi vitamins of course although I seldom finish the bottle. Every now and again I have bought Iron tablets too. Not because I was ‘dithering’ but just because I could and perhaps, somewhere in my subconscious, I was making sure that I was not suffering a hereditary condition. One thing is definitely for sure is I have never ever taken iron tablets for more than 3 days as usually, and I always forget this feature, they block me up!

A number of years ago now Liz and I became vegetarian and perhaps 5 years ago we moved to a ‘plant based’ diet. When we did this we read with interest the dire warnings available re various vitamin deficiencies that veganism can create. For a while we supplemented our daily regime with a whole variety of tablets. In the end they made my breakfasts a chore as trying to consume some oversized tablets alongside my toast became an annoyance I was happy to forgo. So I stopped.

This last summer I found myself in Helsinki. Covid had done its thing and I was desperate to get back ‘doing things’. I had entered a Half Iron man race in the land of the midnight sun. In fact the race was staged such that the finish line was closed bang on midnight and those who failed to make the cut off time would not collect a medal. Now Finland is a long way North of here and it was something of a surprise to discover the daily temperatures were in excess of 30 degrees. Also, because the sun does not set, the evenings too are very warm. I contemplated the fact, as I sat in the stylish Scandinavian Apartment, that the race would start at around 3 pm, which was just about the hottest time of the day.

Pre race nerves are a thing and as the day of the event came closer I began to feel some concerns. I at last put my finger on the main sensation I was experiencing, I was feeling dithery! I took myself off Ito the local pharmacy which was quite superb, full of all sorts of drugs that seems to be available over the counter. A person approached me and like all Finns I had met to date, was very friendly. Not that this matters in any way but I was not sure whether he was male or female or maybe something else. In my desire to recognise what ever pronoun ‘he’ ‘she’ or ‘it’ was represented by, I became super friendly myself and announced that I need some Iron tablets. ‘How did you know you needed Iron tablets’? you may ask. Well it was obvious, I was all of a dither! The person, can you say that?, brought me the very best Iron tablets they had. He, she, it (?) announced they were a ‘new product’. Very good and as consequence very expensive. In my ‘dithery’ state of mind the boxes were all ticked and I gladly paid out 64 euros for a months supply!!! Well of course I started with a double dose, to get my level up. For the next three days I followed the regime as per the packet and on the day of the race I of course had an ‘extra’ to be sure. However I must tell you that taking the Iron tablets obviously did something as I began to feel properly unwell. Sick with stomach cramps would be a good description.

The race start was quite a sight. Alongside a beautiful lake we ‘racers’ stood clad in wetsuits. The only thing was the temperature was 36 degrees and lying face down in the water for half an hour or so allowed the sun to attack the back of ones neck which I seem to remember can cause ‘issues’.

Having completed the swim in a reasonable time I set off on my bike and I soon realised all was not well. I put it down to my age and even contemplated ‘my end’ for a while. I reassured myself that if indeed I did die on the racecourse it would make for a fitting finale to my life and I pictured various old friends turning to one another and announcing ‘at least he went doing what he loved’! The thing is I was not loving it and I soon realised I was dreadfully dehydrated.

At the first water stop I tried to get some water down my neck but alas it made me very sick and the problem got worse. I tried at the various feed stations to replenish my water content but all failed. Somehow I got to the finish of the bike leg. Although to be honest this was more because I could not find anyone to ‘retire to’ along the way. There were loads of marshals but they just kept shouting ‘encouraging words’I assume, as of course they were all locals. Anyway when I got to the finish of the bike course I was very happy to stop. To be honest the idea of dragging round my body for 13 odd miles was a non starter in the evening heat. I managed to drink about a gallon of water at last from a fountain thing and I soon began to feel better and was able to ‘support’ my friend who manfully got himself round the course despite the conditions.It was delightful to see hm finish the race a smile from ear to ear.

Race done I of course made sure that I rebuilt my resources and the iron tablets became central to my regime. The plane journey home was uncomfortable as my stomach griped away. The following few days did not improve my condition and I began to fear my exposure to the overhead sun had done me a damage. I sought out sympathy and most people confirmed that I had probably ‘overdone it’ and I should take more care.

One person did not offer much sympathy. I was moaning away on the Thursday when Liz asked me if I was still taking my Iron tablets. ‘Of course’ was my reply. She then offered the view that the symptoms I had been experiencing coincided with my drug regime and just maybe, the Iron Tablets had not fulfilled their intended purpose. Reading the packet she established that in fact I was taking large doses of the stuff. Well, yes you have guessed it. I stopped taking the iron and within 24 hours I was feeling fine. Oops.

The inquest that Liz then proceeded to establish suggested that my ‘dithery feeling’ in Finland could well have been a phenomenon known as ‘pre race nerves’!! She decided that my body had in fact been confronted with something it did not need and indeed, given the dosage I was imbibing, was very keen to get rid of.

The moral of the story is obvious. If you think you may need Iron tablets then do get a test first to see if your iron levels are in deficit. Feeling ‘dithery’ may well not be a reliable indicator as it turns out. Of course if anyone reads this who knows me and is familiar with my race history you will discern another example of my unerring ability to give others wise advice whilst managing to shoot myself in the foot. I am currently training for IM Venice, what possibly could go wrong?

Of course it is easy and natural to pick out those very special expriences in your life. The ‘big bang’ ones that stay fixed in your memory. Easy to report on and probably easy to understand. But there are those other days that somehow go missing in your memory that when reminded inform the owner of why they are the way they are. Thing is I like every one else have had hundreds if not thousands of these days and for most of the time they are missing. So it is I decided to record, in short form, some of them. For myself really but who knows if ever anyone else reads this it just might encourage them to recall a few special days of their own.

Meeting Liz for lunch one day. We were still new to each other and I recall in great detail what she was wearing how lovley her hair was cut and just how happy I felt.

Getting my first ever ‘proper’ haircut at Vidal Sasoon by a man called John. It was just amzing I looked good honest.

The day I bought my Rolex watch,because I could, and because a dear colleagues Mum had passed away and somehow money did not seem to matter quite so much.

The day at A club Med where the Chef du Village took a liking to me and every night I had to performa song nd dance on the stage in front of other holiday makers. Wince making but oh so funny.

The day I nearly drowned learnig how not to windsurf on a beach in The SOuth of France and being the ‘star show’ for hundreds of laughing French men and women.

The day I was in vited to take part in a panel on international investing and found myself sitting ona stage in front of around a thousand people in New York and somehow bluffing some good answers to good questions.

Sevral times when as senior ranking UBS executive flying around the USA when the hotel I had chosen made a play for future business. UBS was the worlds most powerful bank at the time that was expanding rapidly in the US. I got upgraded to ‘The Presidential Suite’ on at least 4 occasions. One in chicago comes to mind, a duplex with a grand piano.

The time a French Mountain guide took me so far out of my comfort zone I literally froze on an exposed peak. He literally had to step me down an icy precipice ofr over an hour-quite horrendous.

Driving a Lotus Elan S3 convertable, mine, in 1973 up the M1 at 125 miles an hour.

I am the grandson of a coal miner remember so occasionally in life I have spent money on things that embarras me now. Drving my Porche Cayemnne with DGE1 through London and being stopped by the Police because they loved the look of the car and wanted to see more!

The day Jo passed out of Police collge with an award-oh my days!

Liz and I getting the keys to our first Flat. The keys were it we literally had nothing else.

At the other end of the scale driving my Massy tractor down the lanes of Devon from the magnificent Old Rectory we owned.

Picking up my first ever made to measure suit. It looked awesome and made me feel fantastic.

The day I left UBS returning froma lunch with my new employers. Receiving a pubic bollocking from the Odius Rudi Muller for my tardy return and then as if by some heavanly magic securing one of the biggest deals ever seen in the history of the firm to that date. Watching Muller trying to recover lost ground was just priceless. Two hours later I walked out for the last time what a way to go.

Watching Jo finish her first event on Max. Galloping down the finishing shute tears streaming from her eyes.

The day I got contact lenses and scored 93 with my new vision. I chased a bewildered opticin from the cricket ground as he was passing on his way homw and kissed him. He was a bit shocked.

Watching Liz take part in her first World Championships in London and seeing her godson Dan Stewart turn up to support her-have not seen him since.

The picture of a brother and sister taking part in The Milan SAn Remo bike ride. Liz and Pete were just awesome.

Being rung up in a hotel in A magnificent hotel in Hong Kong overlooking the harbour to be told my Mum had died.

Riding my Fat bike in The BAttle on The Beach.

Rding white horses in Andalucia in the mountains in Analucia. Galloping on the beach.

Buyng my Spanish farm and all that followed.

Selling the thing.

Skiing and winnning the sliver medal in a race in Obergurgl witha broken arm.

An evening at George and Angelas where we all dressed up with masks and danced the night away.

A party at the Old Rec when friends of G and A decided to Feng Suei our house in the middle of the night.

The day Murphy was sick on a white rug.

The day I stopped working formally

The day Dudley came to stay.

Falling in love with Jacko.

Realising that I had the best luck of all in meeting Liz.

The day my father was buried and I watched the coffin being carried form the crematorium to the tune ‘my way’!!

Seeing Tom read a lesson in the carol service at Oundle.

Buying my first oild painting.

Opening Art Connections.

Riding a mountain stage of the Tour De France.

Paying a cheque into the bank for 1.4 million pounds.

Liz’s Dad Brian ‘helping me’ install a flag pole.

Abseilling down a cliff-durr!

Watching The Red Arrows from my home in Sidmouth

Being made a member of The London STock Exchange

The day some share optons I owned appreciated £360,000 and I could not tell anyone. I did smile though.

Flying under the 59th street bridge in New York in a sea plane

Walking past a woman inNew York who lookled beyond fabulous and realising she was my wife.

Listening to the Welsh National anthem at the start of IM Wales

Crossing the finish line and hearing the words Dennis Elliott you are an Ironman-4 times!

Standing to attention in BInny PArk Old Greenwich on Independance day and hearing the locals sing the star spangled banner.

Visiting the Houses of Parliament with DAvid Evans MP after hours and seeing inside the chamber.

Playing Rugby for Manhattan on Reikers Island with the sky scrapers of the city as a backdrop

By the time Liz and I moved to Devon we had experienced all sorts of running challenges. We had completed the London Marathon, together, The New York marathon, together and loads of other half marathons 10kms and adventure races. Liz occasionally got on the podium, her major achievement was to win a 10 km race outright in Massachusetts which was staged and organised by a group whose name will never leave me. Mothers Against Drunk Driving or MADD for short!!

Anyway on our first weekend in East Devon we went for a drive and ended up in Seaton. A race was obviously going on as roads were closed and the seafront was adorned with finishing banners and unusually a fire tender was standing by. We looked around and asked questions and shortly we had an outline of what was going on. The ‘Grizzly’ is an extreme cross country event staged annually over 20 plus miles, although the distance varies according to the course. It is as tough as any race of its sort in the world. Indeed people come from all over the globe to experience it. Each year the race will be given a theme and a name and a superbly colourful finisher tee shirt will be created. Many people count their collection of these trophies as the pinnacle of thei running careers. The race takes on ultra steep climbs and scrambles. It features a section through muddy bogs where ropes are needed to make headway. Teams of hefty Rugby players man this element of the race to rescue runners who have become ‘stuck’. At the end of the bogs a box of running shoes is waiting for those who have had their own footwear pulled off by the cloying mud. There is a shrine where runners can pause to remember a departed love one and where ribbons of remembrance are attached. There are multiple bands on the course and perhaps every fifty yards or so runners will have the chance to read a motivational message hung from a tree or on a gate on white boards. ‘Pain is temporary achievement is for ever’. ‘All good things are born out of pain’. ‘What ever you do in life never ever ever give in’ So they go on. The main point of the thing is the back drop of some of the best countryside and sea scapes available on the planet, -no exaggeration. The race is in all honesty as special an experience as any athlete or runner can ever imagine.

The crowds are huge as all the local communities come out to shout their encouragement. bands play, a lone piper hails the runners as they mount the high point of the course and for many years a didgeree doo player was in place to grunt his celebration of the event.

All of these comments do not begin to do the event justice and on that morning we were to see why because as we stood on the shingle beach at Seaton a murmur grew into cheers as the first runner came into sight. He was covered from head to foot in mud. His face creased with the agony of effort but as he came closer his blazing eyes signalled that feeling of achievement that only the top runners know. He crossed the finishing line exhausted and a remarkable sight followed. The firemen stepped forward with their hoses and washed the man down. Out of the mud a supreme athlete appeared to celebrate his victory. We stayed at the finish for the next 3 hours and watched as the remaining elite athletes finished. Then came the weekend warriors representing their various clubs. Finally the waves of ‘fun runners’ ( a singularly inappropriate title in my opinion) crossed the line. Some limping many utterly exhausted but all wearing the face of achievement. Over the years we both became involved with AVR , AXE Valley Runners, and even joined the committee and race organising group. We both completed the race a number of times and when we moved on to triathlons we prided ourselves in staging the best feed station in the world somewhere on its route.

When we joined AVR a few weeks after this first discovery of all thing Grizzly we were welcomed by the then Chairman Paul Morgan. A back ground in elite cycling he was and is a delight of a man. Exuding positivity he would greet and encourage all. He did not have a negative bone in his body he moved mountains when the requirement for sponsors or charity donations was called for. The club staged a number of other events including a 10 km race for local charities, a half marathon and almost as famous as the Grizzly, The Midsummer Dream. Now here was another race with a difference. Staged on or close to midsummer day this race of around 22 miles was circular in nature. The course was marked by tiny orange dots on trees which made for many to loose their way. Alcohol stops were optional and many runners actually carried tankards around their waists on their belts, The race direction was also ‘optional’ such that the start line involved half the 1000 or so runners facing each other. On the gun the first few minutes would involve a chaotic “Morris Dance’ as each made their way though the opposite crowd. Beer barrels were ‘hidden’ in woods to supplement those who were enjoying the pub stops. Perhaps the greatest feature of the race was the ‘feed station’ half way round the course where a full cream tea was served. Ridiculous but wonderful. I am not sure a winner was ever declared but many took pride in ‘making a day of it’. Sadly health and safety and indeed intolerant human kind have rendered the staging of many of these events impractical.

Shortly after we joined the club a new chairman took over, Garry Perratt. Gary was and is a superb runner and athlete. Highly intelligent and somewhat ‘alternative’ in the best way. Garry was always trying to push the boundaries of what AVR was capable of and what its members could enjoy. He worked tirelessly to take the Grizzly to new levels he made sure that all events the club staged met the highest standards and in doing so the clubs ‘athletes’ grew in number. Garry himself understood the reason why effort and challenge is such an inspiring and satisfying experience for the human soul. He, in truth, had no interest in commercial possibilities and if he had had his way all races would be free to enter. Over the years I have gathered a huge respect for Garry. As a person he is deep and challenging to engage with, shy some might say, but make the effort to know him and you will gain so much knowledge not only about running but about the condition of the human mind and soul. In time I became Treasurer of AVR and whilst I know I was not the most popular of people I managed to encourage Garry to raise the cost of entry of The Grizzly which was to have important consequences. In all honesty Garry would have kept the entry fee at a nominal rate as even though the race entry sells out each year in minutes his belief is that the best athletic experiences are free and involve the contemplation of ones self and the nature that one runs through. On one hand I totally agree with him but on the other hand the Grizzly now coasts around £25 to enter and many queue to sponsor the event as TV cameras from around the world frequently appear to record the event. The entry fee and sponsorship means that every year AVR are able to support local charities and organisations and over the past number of years huge sums have been given to ensure charities survive, can be started, and those who need support can be helped. There is something wonderful in my opinion about very fit people enjoying a spectacular experience giving back to the less fortunate. I certainly don’t want to take credit for changing the financial approach of the Grizzly as I had many supporters, as indeed I had many doubts about the wisdom of the change but on balance I do think it was good thing.

The characters in AVR the we met and ran with were too many to mention. A man called Dave Kelf who was champion of good ideas and fun. Dave Mutter a local man of Beer and respectful non respecter of new ideas. Jinxie Jenkins a jockey who could not stop smiling. Eleanor Wood a female athlete with incredible endurance.Many superb athletes too. However one man stands out in my memory as being really special. Tom Scriven, it was he who played the didgeree doo. He was Irish with a huge personality. Everybody knew him and loved to be recognised by him. He was very funny delivery quips in his Irish accent and he had a bad temper that would flare if someone acted out of line. He loved the ‘alternative’. He became a close friend and we would often meditate together. He would demonstrate running using the Alexander technique and some times he would get the whole club to run ‘barefoot’ so we could ‘listen’ to our running!

Above all Tom loved a drink and whilst many did not know this he was perhaps what I would call a serious enthusiast of Guinness which he refereed to as ‘Vitamin G’. The Midsummer Dream was his favoured race as by the end his various running techniques could be used to ensure his advanced inebriation did not hamper his progress-he literally ‘rolled’ along the road.

I think he was around 74 years if age when he turned up at my house, as he often did for a natter. Tom did not ‘do’ age and he believed that human kind is capable of things that most people would deny. Especially in an athletic sense. He scoffed at people who sat in front of the TV bemoaning their lot. As his body aged rather than giving in he sought alternatives to make sure he could continue taking on challenge. Anyway he announced to me he had entered a race somewhere in Germany. The challenge was to run a many marathons in seven days as you could around a running track! The runners would sleep between their efforts in their own tent in the middle of the track and each runner would have a ‘second’ whose job would be to make sure supplies were topped up. Tom invited me to be his second almost as if he was conferring great honour on me. ‘Scriven’ I responded ‘what on earth makes you think I would come to Germany and stand by the side of a track watching you plodding round for seven days, sod off’. He looked disappointed told me I was a wanker but resolved to find someone else who would do a ‘better job than me’. I don’t know who that was but a few weeks later Tom came round to my home to ‘tell the tale’. I think he completed 12 marathons in the week I am not sure but it does not matter. Of course he became locally famous for his achievement and was all over local papers and TV news channels. This amazing 74 year old filled many column inches wondering at his achievement. Any way as I suspected the final tally of marathons was not the whole tale as Tom described his personal recipe for conquering this Everest. After completing a marathon Tom would repair to his tent and quaff a few cans of Guinness as his Primus stove heated some food. Copious amounts of red wine would wash the grub dome which would ensure he fell into a deep sleep (coma) for a couple of hours,. Now here is the trick, when he awoke and started the next marathon he was still heavily under the influence and as result the first 10 miles or so would pass in a haze. there would be a few miles of struggle before the enticement of fresh supplies of Vitamin G were to encourage him onward. He confessed to not having counted his ‘units’ for the week, what I know is they were substantial but few people would have appreciated the complexity of this man and his wonderful way of being. On his eightieth birthday Garry Perratt organised a run for Tom around a Rugby pitch. I think it was 30 miles or so but it does not matter. Friends came from all over the area to accompany Tom on his birthday run for a lap or two and many chose to stop off at the Refreshment tent that was duly set up at the corner of the pitch serving vitamin G

Tom was I am afraid to say somewhat accident prone. he was also wonderfully stubborn so if he got lost say as he often did, he would refuse to admit it and make assertions to all who would listen as to the ‘right way to go”. One day at the start of a Grizzly race Tom arrived late at the start to loud cheers as many held this man in high regard. For some reason he stood on an elevated kerb to wave to the many runners lined up and offer them a few words of encouragement, Scriven style. As he did so he lost his balance fell over and dislocated his shoulder. He was furious as it meant he could not take part in the race. In later years Tom became ill with cancer but he fought the thing with typical determination, resolution and on occasion disdain. I think it was 2016 when I got a telephone call from Garry Perratt telling me that the feed station we were manning on the Grizzly course was to have a special feature. Tom Scriven would be there to play his ‘didge’. The sighting of the feed station was way up in the woods and difficult to reach. I was so looking forward to seeing Tom but as the day wore on it became clear he was a ‘no show’. I rang him in the evening and he reluctantly admitted to ‘getting lost’. It would have been so good to have Tom playing on that day because as men go he was amongst the finest I have ever met. Sad to say his own race was nearly run and I never saw him again.

AVR has gone from strength to strength. Garry still has some involvement but not full-time now. When we started the Triathlon Club Garry was a huge supporter and even completed a Half Ironman race himself although the shock of the huge entry fee was very troubling to him given the roads and lakes we used were all ‘free’. He has inspired many young athletes and I am sure that the current ‘wunderkind’ of GB distance running Jake Smith a member of AVR would tip his cap to Garry and all those other wonderful characters that make up AVR.

I have written this phrase in many press reports and indeed articles I have written. The human spirit thrives on athletic challenge. The greater the challenge the greater the sense of achievement generated. To all at AVR,especially Garry Perratt a very special thanks.

I am not sure when it was I first became aware of the fact I dont like heights. It could have been when I climbed up to the top of St Pauls Cathedral as a small boy with my Dad. I hated it and I vividly rmeber the urge to throw myself down into the void. Ona cathedral theme I climbed to the top of Ulm Cthedral in Germany. It is very high and I had a complete panic attack. My good friend Dennis Hay recognised my predicament and led me down so that I did not have to look throught the stone windows with no glass to ‘prevent a fall’.

I used to hate going up many of the skyscapers in New York, particularly The World Trade Centre. I once was talked into facing the Eiffel Tower by a client and I nearly died with panic. I also discovered that helicopters fail to offer the sense of support planes do and whilst I often used to take the quick route from JFK to New York city centre I hated it.

For some reason, given the opportunity I will try and overcome my fears. Ona family holiday in Switzerland I signed up for a tandem parachute flight. It was hell on earth as the prapente got in a spiral of rising air and we seemed to go ever upwards with just a canvas strap supporting my body. I seem to be able to manage the London Eye until ten to two and then I go and I have to sit down and grip the seat and count away the fears until ten past arrives and I can breathe normally again.

I wa once taken by a friend on a ski touring day out and found myself on a peak overlooking a precipitous slope. I lost it so badly it took the guide around half an hour to lower me down small steps at a time.

I have two further particular examples of my fears come to memory. Firstly I was in Steamboat Springs on a ski trip with some American friends. Dean Allen,as always, had sought out adventure and we two families boarded a hot air balloon. I cannot tell you hwo much I hated it. I sat in the middle with my arms locked around the cross strutts of the basket. Every expulsion of hot gases that sent the thing ever upward filled me with an impssible panic. The children looked at me with confusion in their eyes. The ‘driver’ said ‘many people are like you’. God knows how high we went up but it was hell. I have never felt so good to be back on the ground. It was in Las Vegas after a ‘few’ beers that it seemed a good idea to go up the Eiffel Tower with Liz. Whilst only a third of the size of the real one emerging on to the observation deck from the lifet immediately neutered the effects of alcohol. I asked th guard if I could go back down but he said I needed to join the queue which went 180 degrees arundthe central lift shaft. It was here I realised I was not alone as I was to join sweaty hands with others. we each confessed to our neighbours our fears,it did not help, but while Liz looked over the edge admiring the strip and all that LAs Vegas has to offer I along with the other sadoes sidestepped my way around the tower until at last I was back in the lift.

I have been up post office towers in Kuwait,Toronto, and a very tall thing in Chicago. After all this time I have finally decided that I have had enough and keeping my feet on the ground is my avoud priority.

The subject of personalised number plates tends to provoke strong opinions. Some people love them and others literally hate anyone who is ‘stupid enough’ or ‘vane enough’ to want one.

Many years ago now, in 1993 I think,I was working in the City of London in the middle of a large trading floor of an Investment Bank. The place was a sea of flashing lights and computer screens. My job involved transacting share sales and purchases for large Investment Institutions and the ‘traders’ who sat around the edge of the floor either accessed the broader market or took specific risk on to their own books. If I did a deal it would be my initials that would signal the counter party, not my client. As such many times in a day DGE (Dennis George Elliott) would be inscribed as part of electronic record keeping.

One trader, whose name I have forgotten but who is guilty of provoking my interest in motor bikes approached me one day. ‘Have you seen The Sunday Times’ he said. ‘Err maybe what are you referring to’ I responded. ‘The number plate section’ he said ‘your number is there you must buy it’!! I looked in the paper he was holding and there it was DGE 1 £2000. I was at first amused but I resolved not to buy it. Why be flash I thought. Any way after badgering me for the best part of a week I finally picked up the phone and made a bid, £1700 I think it was. The deal was done.

Amazingly the following day the person who had sold it to me called up and told me someone else was interested and would pay £5000 for the plate as he had just bought a new Porsche. The man was totally honourable as he stuck to the deal he had done with me and I wondered what to do next as the prospective buyer’s telephone number had been given to me. I took advice and rang the man asking £7500 for the plate. ‘Too much’ he said and that was that.

I was unsure what to do with the plate as I was not ‘brave enough’ to put it on my main car. Instead I bought a totally dilapidated Land Rover, which I henceforth called ‘my station car’ and put the plate on that. It was green, battered with moss growing in the window runners. It smoked and belched but it never let me down and I felt that having a personalised plate on such an old banger was fine.

A year or two later the land rover was upgraded to a better one and the plate found its way on to that vehicle. This time it did not feel quite right.

Several years later I had a proper mid life crisis. I am ashamed to admit this but I bought myself a Porsche 911. The number plate did not go on this vehicle of course! However proving all sense had left me I bought a second Porsche one of the first Cayennes. In some ways the car was amazing but in others it was utter rubbish but I am afraid to say that I put DGE1 on the car. Oh dear!. I was stopped in central London soon after buying the car by Police for no other reason that they wanted to have a close look at this monstrous looking vehicle. They were very nice about my car and apologised for stopping me. What could I say?

Shortly after purchasing the car, which was incidentally a death trap in snow on normal road tyres, I went up to London with Liz to watch a friend racing in The London Marathon. Now for some reason we got a cheap weekend package in the Savoy Hotel, parking included. For those who do not know the approach road to The Savoy is the only road in GB where you drive on the right. The short approach to the front door allows visitors to park close to the door. I drove up in a highly polished Porsche Cayenne with DGE1 on the front and guess what. There was much commotion. The head doorman summoned extra aides and a great fuss was made of us both-excruciatingly embarrassing. ‘We will park your car” the doorman offered and I fumbled in my pocket for an appropriate note.

Later in the evening Liz and I set off for dinner in a nearby Covent Garden restaurant and as we left the hotel there, on a sort of dais to the left of the front door, was my car. Facing forward and looking very smart. I was honestly mortified. Out to dinner and few glasses of wine shaped my opinion such that when we turned into the approach road I was looking expectantly for my car. A picture was planned. It had gone!

Time and the loss of a small fortune on both my Porsches cause me to see sense and I next put the number plate on a Citroen 2CV van i owned. Everyone loves a 2 CV, well nearly everyone, but on this dark Blue van it looked right. Thing was I hardly used the van instead it sat under a tree gathering mould and moss. One day I thought I really must put this plate ‘on retention’ before the van rotted. Unfortunately the MOT had expired on the van and The DVLA told me the only way to retain the number was to get the van running and tested. Nightmare as no-one was interested in the work and most said it was hopeless anyway. Fortunately one day I found a man in Seaton, near where we lived, who was a Citroen enthusiast and he undertook to refurbish the vehicle which he did for a reasonable price and after passing the MOT my plate was safe and retained at The DVLA where it sat for many years.

We are probably talking 2007/8 now and one day a woman from a company that specialises in ‘treasured plates’ rang me up asking me if I was interested in selling my plate. I said yes but only at a very high price I won’t mention it here cos it might make those reading rather jealous regarding my fortune. Anyway every year from then on she would ring me. Sometimes with a bid for the plate or sometimes just to ask if I was still keen to sell. I was hoping that a Premier League footballer would appear with the appropriate initials. No luck. DGE is the Stock Exchange symbol for Diageo one of the worlds largest drinks groups. I wrote to them trying to convince them just how good their corporate limousine would look when it picked up dignitaries at Heathrow Airport but they were not interested.

Last week a call came again from the same woman who I have spoken to every year who asked me was I still keen to sell at my price. I felt I ought to be a gentleman and so I said ‘Yes’. The plate had in fact found its way on to my very smart VW Transporter in recent years as I felt the my old age allowed me to be as flash as I liked. I am sure it provoked many a negative comment. One man loved it. He is called Dougie and he works at the local recycling centre. His initials are DGE and he loves Transporters so when ever I visit the tip we have a chat, he is a delightful young man. One day I heard myself telling him that if no-one came to buy my plate in time I would give it to him. He was delighted of course but I am afraid he is going to be very disappointed. You have guessed it some one has offered the full price for the number plate and the transaction is going through. I imagine the buyer will be Russian as thinking about it a lot of Russians have names beginning with D or G. I have probably given the thing away but no point being greedy.

DGE 1 has been a good friend. On occasions it has made me feel good, on others utterly embarrassed but I am grateful for all the emotions it has generated. Good bye old friend I wonder if i will see you again one day on the road.

Over time it has become clear to me that the emotions of fear and excitement are closely linked. Ride a roller coaster, ski a black run, fly in a helicopter for the first time etc. In such cases the feelings are extreme, adrenaline I suppose and one or two other chemicals course through your body. Your mind decides, in the end, whether the experience is good or awful. Fear or excitement.

This little article is the first about my sailing experiences in later life. I wrote earlier about the first boat we owned, Tenacity, in the USA but these articles are linked to my more senior ‘considered’ years.

Having both been brought up by the sea Liz and I have a sort of affinity for the thing. In our fifties we owned a lovely sailing boat called Offchance. It was around 30 feet long and of the Moody Class, we used to sail it off the Devon coast where we lived. The boat was usually kept on the River Axe which is notorious for its demanding entrance into the sea, only accessed via a twice daily window of around 90 minutes due to the tide. We also had a mooring in Dawlish Warren on The Exe and we would often sail between the two places enjoying the Jurassic coast scenery. Over time we decided to enhance our skills and get as many qualifications as we could. Various radio, engine maintenance courses in Plymouth before both of us embarked on a Yacht Master qualification.

Half way through our course we took ourselves off to Greece, to the Southern Ionian to be precise, and we chartered a Sunsail yacht. It was probably around 40 feet long. It was obvious from the start that the set up of the boat was such that its usual passengers were people of little or no experience. Lots of the features of the yacht were in poor working order. We were disappointed. After several days sailing around the Southern Ionian (fellow charterers seemed to motor around and spend most of their time moored close to bars etc) we set off for the Northern Ionian. The link between the two seas is via a canal which has a lock system. We arrived in the Northern Ionian and set sail for Paxos, a beautiful island perhaps 30 miles to the north of Preveza. We made a fatal error as we contacted the ‘Sunsail’ base to ask for a weather forecast. Light winds and calm seas was the prevailing message.

After about an hour the wind stated to pick up and with it the sea conditions deteriorated. Soon the sky clouded over and we started to get concerned. We had every reason to as a storm appeared from nowhere. We donned our life jackets and life lines and took down our sales as we were effectively pointed into the teeth of the gale.Instead we started our motor and sitting together in the stern of the boat we scanned the horizon. Before long a helicopter came overhead, low down, with the markings of the Greek Coast guard on its side. We of course accessed the emergency channel on our radio but what ever they were trying to say to us was lost in the noise of the helicopter engines and the static on the radio. I gave them a thumbs up sign as I could not think of anything else to do. The helicopter departed and we were alone again. Suddenly Liz noticed some black smoke coming up from the bow of the boat. We were bucking up and down wildly as the boat bashed through the waves. Undoing my life line I went down below and discovered the self furling jib winch was smoking apparently not able to cut its self off after we had downed our sales. Frantically I searched for the fuse box and having found it I pulled out a number of unmarked fuses before finally getting the right one and stopping the winch from frying.

Liz and I finally got to a harbour in a place called Ante Paxos and we were at last in smooth water. The leader of a flotilla came across to see us and enquire as to how we were. ‘My goodness’ he said ‘ what on earth were you doing out in that’?. We explained re the ‘wrong weather forecast’. You made a big mistake he said the Northern and Southern Ionian seas can have totally different weather patterns. I am afraid that Sunsail gave you the wrong weather forecast. We were of course cross but we reminded ourselves that the responsibility of getting correct forecast was ours alone. Sunsail were suitably concerned. They even sent a motor launch to come and see us and fix the fault on our boat and they gifted us champagne when we returned to port. None of that stuff would ever make us use them again though.

Anyway back to the point, sailing in rough seas, safety harnesses, rescue helicopters and spray crashing over the decks. Fear or excitement? yes you have guessed Fear.

Back in the Uk we redoubled our training and as part of the exercise we hired a man whose business was training ‘wannabe’ yachtsmen. Indeed as part of the way the military returns those into ‘normal life’ from a conflict situation this man would take teams of paratroopers across The Atlantic in a sailing boat. In short he was as good as you can find and the man from ‘Red Mango sailing’ was a delight to boot.

We charted a boat from Salcombe for 3 days. It was fantastic piece of kit. An Arcona which is a Scandinavian design and about 40 feet in length. Sleek and well made it would tolerate almost any conditions nature could throw at us. We set sail from Salome to Dartmouth and over the next couple of days we were educated on a whole range of subjects. We became adept at mooring the boat, turning it on a sixpence, setting the sales in the optimum position and how to use the various charts whilst out on the sea and also how to employ all the electronic gadgetry. We knew most of this in theory of course but plotting a course when a boat is moving up and down is way different from a classroom scenario. The final night in Dartmouth we were enjoying a pub meal when our instructor arrived with some news. ‘I’m afraid the weather is deteriorating We will have to leave at first light. If you want to return by road that is fine I will take the boat back’.

The following morning we nudged out of Dartmouth and headed for the sea. Clouds were building up and the wind was freshening. I am afraid I cannot remember our instructors name but we all put on our safety gear, life lines and the like and set sail for Salcombe. As the weather deteriorated out instructor started the engine of the boat, not normal practice, and with the twin propulsion of wind and power we were flying along. The steering wheel was huge indeed it was almost as big as the person who was steering the boat. I have this vivid memory of Liz steering the thing as it crashed through the waves, spray cascading over us all. It was carnage down below as anything not tied down was on the floor rolling around. The wind built even higher and soon we began to appreciate fully the power of nature and what it was like to be in control in a top level sailing craft. Finally we arrived at Salcombe. I remember as we came up the river the effect of the incoming tide driven by the wind caused a series of tidal waves and the Arcona sort of surfed along. Several people were sitting in safety on their moored boots. I decided the looks they were giving us were those of admiration. ‘My goodness’ one shouted ‘that must have been an experience’ or similar. Liz and I were soon to learn we had passed the course although our instructor confessed that maybe we had gone outside the tolerance of a normal RYA practical experience.

Fear or excitement. Well on this white knuckle ride excitement of course, an Arcona and a trans Atlantic sailor for support. Bring it on.

Probably our final sailing experience was about ten years ago now. It was the end of the season and we were moving ‘Offchance’ from Dawlish Warren where she had spent most of the summer to our home club. The local council rules meant it was the very last day we were allowed to have our boat on the River Axe as the following day it was to be craned ashore for the winter. Liz dropped me off at the boat and with my rubber dinghy trailing behind I sailed down the river Exe into the sea. It was a lovely day with a fresh breeze and soon the various sites of Exmouth, Budleigh, Sidmouth etc were off the port bow. I had a radio on and I felt quite content. I dropped anchor in late afternoon in Beer and soon Liz appeared. She was training for an event and she had run to Beer to meet me. I got in the dinghy and went ashore to pick her up. The tides were such that the window in which we could enter The Axe was not until 9:30 at night when it would be dark. We heated some tomato soup and we decided to wait where we were. Unfortunately the weather changed and the southerly breeze stiffened and hitting the outgoing tide the effect was to toss Offchance up and down. We were pretty experienced by now but the one thing the South west Coast of England does not have is many places in which to seek shelter in the vent of a storm. Putting it bluntly the only option is to ride the thing out. Soon we were very uncomfortable and we stated our motor and moved along to the more open space of Seaton Bay. No shelter of course so we just moved around for about 3 hours. It was just miserable as the wind was blowing and we were cold.

Now there is one thing in the instructions of Axe yacht Club which essentially says ‘do not enter the harbour in rough seas’ the river entrance is only about ten feet wide it is very dangerous with concrete retaining wall waiting for any badly positioned craft. Soon it ws pitch dark. We could see the lights in the club house of course and we weighed up what to do. We had a GPS on the boat (Global Positioning System) but the instructions, yes I had read them, informed the user that accuracy was only good down to one meter. With an entry space of barely 3 this meant that it was important to be able to see where you were. At long long last 9 :30 arrived and we set up to enter the river. The sea was boiling around the river most. Liz was strapped on in the bow seeming going up and down like a giant see saw. Just as I was about to make my final approach’ a bright torch light came on. It blinded me and ruined my night vision. It was a fisherman on the harbour wall trying to help us. I turned the boat round and tried to recover my vision. The second approach we were confronted by not one but several torches as people had come out from the club house. It was like looking into a search light. Liz waved frantically, her shouts were drowned by the hiss of the foaming sea. Again I turned around. What to do? Obviously the people on the shore were trying to help but it made seeing the tiny entrance all but impossible. I took the decision to risk it. Staying out all night was not on my list of things to do. I looked down at the green lights of the flicking GPS and saw the red light of our boat identifying our position and also showing the entrance to the harbour. I tracked the centre line hardly daring to breathe. The lights from ashore blinding soon we came to the crucial moment and there on our port side perhaps a meter away was the harbour wall. Offchance lurched and we were in. Liz shouted with relief. “well done boy”.!

We moored up and were soon surrounded by Axe Yacht Club members who were keen to know what we were doing and why we had performed our manoeuvres. The lighting issues explained a pint of beer was produced and let me tell you it tasted wonderful.

Fear or excitement? Well let’s put it this way sailing a 30 foot boat off the South west Coast of England is not the luxury most would perceive. We sold the boat the following Spring. We were sorry to do so in many ways but we now enjoy the water by swimming or in our kayaks and at least if the weather deteriorates getting to shore is immediate.

Another serious piece here but the message has been entirely true for me in my life.

It was the spring of 1972 and I was 22 years old. I was working as a dealer, buying and selling shares for clients, on the floor of The Liverpool Stock Exchange. I had a wonderful boss called George Robinson who had been blown out of the water, literally, twice in convoys in the North Atlantic in the 2nd world war. He was an immaculately dressed man with a love of whisky and he became my ‘champion’ and taught me all he knew. He had no children of his own and maybe I was like a surrogate son to him. Having received little or no advice from my own father it was really good to have someone who was there to support and direct me.

Now on the Stock Exchange in those days were some remarkable characters. Men who had real tales to tell. Of tragedy, conflict and fear. Amongst these men was a Jewish man who went by the name of Topalian. I know not what his first name was but he worked for the very Jewish firm of Blankstone Singstone. He always wore a black 3 piece suit with a white shirt stiff collar and black tie. He was bald with straggly grey hair and his love of cigarettes left him with a tawny complexion and nicotine stained fingers. On the journey to and from work or walking around the City he would always wear a homburgh hat. He was very witty but had an acid tongue and those who were foolish enough to cross him would receive a withering ‘put down’ that demonstrated his intellect. Of course he was universally known as ‘Toppy’.

It was a time of my life when uncertainty was everywhere. What was I doing, what was I to become?. Would I find a wife and would I have a family. One day George told me that Toppy would like to get to know me better and he was keen to buy me a drink. (Drinking and Stock Exchange business were as one back then). Thinking about it I would make George laugh a lot and he probably wanted one of his ‘drinking buddies’ to share in the fun of a younger man. Anyway I went to the back room of ‘The Bodegga” pub in order to rendezvous with the man. This was my first conversation with him of any note. ‘Hello’ he said ‘what can I get you to drink’?. ‘the same as you’ I said. He smiled and returned from the bar with two huge pink gins-no ice. I sipped the thing and gulped my eyes popping. The effect of the elixir was of course to loosen my tongue and soon we were chatting away. I can see the smile on his stained teeth now along with the flash of the odd gold filling. Before long our conversation became serious and for some reason I confessed to him that I was struggling with my emotional life and how on occasions I had become very depressed as not being able to see a future was very difficult for me, as because of my education, my internal goals had been set very high.

Toppy gave me some of the best advice I have ever received and for me any way what he told me was so true. “There are many sorts of people’ he said ‘some people have almost no emotion they live their life on a basis of low highs and low lows. They are reasoned and practical and in truth are seldom fun to be around.’ ‘At the other end of the spectrum are people who experience high highs, they have the ability to soar mentally and appreciate life on a level that only people wit similar make up will understand’. Those people however will also experience low lows, the polar opposite of their joys’. All in all Toppy called this ‘The Iron Cold Law of Equal Opposites’. How ever high you go be assured the lows will follow and vice versa. On those days when you feel just ‘going on’ is all but impossible you can rely on one thing and that is a brighter day will come and if you wait long enough and if you open your heart then the joy that will be forthcoming will compensate for all you have been through-until the next cycle comes around that is.

Now I have no idea how other people see me. What is true is I am someone who can experience life, on occasion, in ‘another worldly’ way. Enough to make me shed tears of joy and to experience ecstatic feelings. You will also have guessed that I have also known deep dark ‘downs’ although most may struggle to accept this fact I assure you it is true.

The message of this tale is that as I have gone through my life that drink with Toppy, the only pink gin I have ever consumed, has given me some blessed wisdom. It has given me warnings not to expect perfection and joy as a condition of existing and maybe better still it has allowed me to weather the darkest of days because I was able to promise myself a brighter future awaits.

Looking back I cannot say why I was blessed with a variety of older men giving me help and advice, there was more than one. Maybe it was ‘an equal opposite’ for all I had missed with my own father. What I do know is I owe those wise men lot. For those reading this I sure you the rule works think about your own personality and experience and see if it makes sense to you and your life too.