Monthly Archives: January 2020

MORE Co2, OR LESS?

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MORE Co2, OR LESS?

RAIN AT LAST in Queensland and New South Wales, Australia……..we’re happy, but does it change the gloomy long-term forecast?

From a parochial observation, until now the writer has missed-out on the joy of a breaking drought, but last night the clouds came this way for a change, and inches of rain poured down the cavernous cracks in the soil: ah, at last, the drought has broken. A lucky drop, though; just local, and not affecting the overall situation.  Too late for many farmers, of course, and great tracts of the country keep missing the cloud-belts.

Tempting to relax with the relief of good rain, washing away the dry gloom. Tempting to hope that the aquifers are re-filling. Tempting to watch the green shoots colouring the brown wastes, and hope that the land will return to fecundity.

The inches of rain that lighten the hearts of the lucky recipients are a bitter irony to the majority that miss out, particularly those burned-out. The horror of a charred ruin that was once a home, now soaked, the black charcoal sprouting green shoots, the insidious gums reviving amongst the desolation they have caused.

I can only imagine the pain of those pitiable householders and farmers watching the too-late rain falling on their wrecked endeavours so soon. Such awful irony. Even to state the obvious in print is insulting: ‘this rain, had it fallen two weeks ago, would have changed our futures from destitution to viability.’

The national hope is for a return to a climate that we can cope with, despite its awful disasters interrupting isolated ventures. It is obvious that local rain would inevitably lift the spirits, but we must constantly be aware of the overall situation, and watch the national rain-gauge with close attention, and plan accordingly. The lucky  majority of folk in our major cities, soaked with rain, must not influence the vital action to protect the unlucky majority of farm-land presently under threat of extinction.

Farm-land which has become unviable, threatening the survival of our vital productive communities. The land supports the cities: not vice versa. Long-term planning must go ahead no matter how reassuring the local rainfall. Farmers and farm-land must be kept operational at all costs, if possible. The alternative is depopulation of vast areas of rural Australia, a situation which would be ruinous.

More Co2, or less? All eyes must be on the national rain-gauge. Where is our climate headed? Is it ‘business as usual’, or ‘prepare for the worst’? The science of the weather is all-important; we are fortunate to have enabled research recently which is far-reaching in its discoveries on a global scale. International climate models become more sophisticated by the day, and long-held beliefs are being relinquished.

More Co2, or less? The on-going preoccupation with the dangers of fossil-fuel burning is on the brink of being revealed as a furphy. Current science is advising the opposite view; we need more carbon dioxide in our atmosphere, not less, it is said. The vast store of carbon in land and ocean is undeniable: this at the depletion in our atmosphere, the weather-maker.

How is it possible that the science,  which has created a whole-world outlook, could suddenly be reversed? Are we being duped by vested interests? Is fossil-fuel the danger or the saviour? We have known for generations that the climate which created the vast coal and oil deposits was staggeringly wet; only constant rainfall and copious Co2 engendered such fecund growth. Science is now suggesting we need to burn more of this stored carbon, not keep it in the ground. For the benefit of the climate, and for us.

Buteyko-beathing! Increasing carbon dioxide levels in the body, with vital effect on health. The victims of nervous trauma, breathing their own Co2 from paper bags. Is the fear of increasing carbon in the atmosphere unfounded?

Greenhouses have been gassed with growth-promoting Co2 for some time now. It is a conundrum: why not, therefore, promote more Co2 in the atmosphere? There is still plenty of oxygen for the creatures (us) on the planet. The conflict of information from various fields of research will resolve many questions, attitudes, and beliefs over the coming years; old assurance becomes undermined by new information. Certainly we individuals are following the accelerating accumulation of knowledge with rapt interest; it will affect us directly, and soon, and is fascinating to watch science unfold, opinions to reverse, and world-view reveal!

The question of the effect of more atmospheric Co2  on the oceans (which would become more acid), and the corals, and all ocean creatures, is a debate not yet resolved, and continuing with vigour. The effect on land looks positive, but that debate rages on the Internet: Google yourself into an opinion……it’s all happening right now.

What irony if the oil and coal interests (which appear to be succumbing to popular opinion) were beneficial all along?  What irony if the Green movement has concepts which prove not to be the safeguards of life? No green without rain.  What of the floods and blizzards in other parts of the planet? Science and reality are confusing.  Turning-over a scientific stone reveals so much to be investigated and more importantly, interpreted. It is the interpretation that is vitally important.

If the previous interpretation of climate-science is proving to be misguided, what then?

Here I sit at my keyboard, and the lovely, lovely rain cascades in torrents, filling my senses with delight and my tanks with pure, pure tapwater. It’s been a long time. Hard to be globally-aware when locally gratified! Typical human.

Interesting smells

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Interesting smells, attractive smells, romantic smells…..or,

LED BY THE NOSE!  A nosey, nostril-nuanced narrative.

Have you ever had that ephemeral whiff, just caught in passing, that reminds you of something from long ago, perhaps from childhood? But a whiff that won’t stick around long enough for you to latch on to, and jog your memory? What was that? I KNOW that smell! But what?

Since I moved from city to bush there has been a remarkable nasal improvement: the I-suppose still looks ornery, but its internal equipment now fires on all cylinders, and startles me sometimes. I find myself in sudden pauses, head tilted up, rapid light sniffs……mmm, what IS that? Ah! Rare flower-smell from childhood, coming from, coming from………no. It’s gone. What flower was that? Yes, foxglove! But where? I see no foxgloves.

But somewhere near, behind a house, will be foxgloves. Unseen, but beckoning, and reminding. Children with foxglove fingers. Did you ever do that? My fingers probably too fat now, but I’d like a close-up sniff, get my nose into that memory of old gardens half a planet away.

Every time I cut a small cabbage in half, I have to immediately get my nose into the exposed green convolutions and breathe deeply: a strangely heady feeling of essential cabbage, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, just hypnotic, for an instant.

Roses too, of course. Some varieties positively concussive in their spellbinding head-rush. I am the weird bloke leaning over your fence with his face buried in the flora. No ulterior motive, just drawn irresistibly to the great, soft, luminous petals.

Smoking, alcohol, chemicals, artificial cosmetics,  traffic toxins, industrial waste drifting airbourne through city neighbourhoods; dragging our nostrils through the de-gassing detritus, and the horrendous ubiquitous scenting of everything from toilet-cleaners to toothpaste. No surprise that our sniff-organs have rotted in-situ, barely able to acknowledge the perfume-soaked effluvia of the woman, or man, on the bus.

But lo! A couple of years in the bush and those city-trashed nasal receptors have shed the shield of shite and are once again receiving loud and clear. Who’d have thought!

There’s an experience only motor-cycle riders get to enjoy. At night there are many blossoms exploding with nectar-of-the-dark; moth attractors, bat-tempters. Those in air-conditioned cars would have no idea of the nasal treasures passing by unsmelled, but on a bike, every kilometre is filled with floral delight. At night, other smells seem to be enhanced too; mown grass, hay bale-ready in the paddock, their aromas descriptive, somehow: the first moist and greeny, the second mellow yellowing and foody. No wonder cows love it.

At night, on the bike, a rural road is healthily tar-scented, a passing dairy richly brown with liquid wonderful waste that is not wasted. A bush sawmill of resin and sap and steaming scented stacks of sawdust, and fresh-milled boards releasing their years of xylem and phloem to the still night air. It’s that silent dark that enables smells somehow.

When I was a young innocent hoon in a distant land of field and hedge, on a moonlit night we would ride our motorbikes helmetless and headlightless, at horse-gallop, on winding leaf-hung lanes, through solid cloud-walls of aroma changing with each bend. The true and only motorcycle experience, our exhausts quiet with full-baffled muffles, our hair free, our noses at the ready for pleasure, the moonlight our guide. On today’s city freeways, at a hundred and ten kilometres per hour; where’s the pleasure?

Now, in rural Queensland, we have our horrendous troubles, but at this moment there is a soft rain falling on the cracked dirt that was once a lawn, and the stressed trees are redolent with long-awaited wet.

In Witta, the marvellous, much-missed moisture is right now full of roasting coffee! An unknown neighbour roasts and packs the beans: one day I must call in, say hello, and nose about, truly. For though the smell is moreish and entrancing, (don’t the coffee-shops know it!), I am unfortunately too sensitive to the liquor to drink. It makes my heart beat madly and eyesight flicker and lurch: I must not drive a car.

Beer, though. A love-hate affair. There’s so much atrocious brew out there, and meddling amateurs of no lore or wisdom, or obviously nasal acumen. I will not drink, no, not until I’ve tested. Nose in glass first! Euggh! Stray wild stinking yeast in the brew! Can’t they tell? Don’t they know? Millions of dollars spent on equipment, and no sense of smell………and consequently taste. The nose leads, and success or failure follows. Those wine-buffs understand, but a buff is often mostly bluff. (Double-blind testing always reveals their laughable short-comings; but that’s another story.)

There are so many marvellous smells out there to be enjoyed, and a few to turn your nose up at! Girl with a turned-up nose no insult, ha! We are, sadly, as a race of mostly city-dwellers, losing our sense of smell to the effects of pollution; chemical-overpowering of delicate membranes. A whole sense, one of our only five, is being stifled, obliterated, and most of us can not afford to escape the pollution towards clean air.

My sympathy goes out to those who have lost their nose-power. It’s not a minor affliction. It is a sad loss, and every rose is a reminder. We who retain that sense are lucky. There’s a small loss in language too; have you noticed? The subtle difference between ‘Can you smell?’ and ‘You do smell!’ Enough, already, who knows where the nose goes?

Ah, this too-little rain. Enhancing all scents.  Almost endearing us to the wasteland-creating eucalypts and their released kino; the sharp but pleasant antiseptic oil most noticeable in rain. All too brief, ineffectual, this rain. Too little, totally tantalising; a tease when we need serious soaking. But the smell of the wet bush!

STOP LAUGHING, this is serious. Jerbourg Hotel #2

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No laughing matter, and we tried not to.

I was helping out in the posh private lounge bar of the Jerbourg Hotel one day, a humble servant to the few misguided residents. The boss usually served the bar in here, leaving me (thankfully) to deal with the riotous riff-raff in the huge public lounge, where the money was made.

The Jerbourg hotel was old and rather stylish in those days, say fifty years ago, a bit run-down, and furnished in the dated ‘fifties way; lots of Laminex, vinyl tiles, boring light-fittings, steel-and-plastic furniture. But the rooms were spacious with massive windows, and class that was hard to defile.

The seating was ubiquitous throughout: those steel-and-woven-plastic circular things on thin, splayed, steel legs. Of the Era; once ‘modern’, but convenient hotel-ware because of their stackability. They had round cushions like pancakes which also stacked conveniently.

That day, in the private bar, was a very large woman. I mean big, even by today’s standard. She directed me to carry her cocktail to a nearby table of the matching steel-legged variety. There were a few other customers, looking on with prurient interest at her vastness. I instantly perceived the peril ahead, but was powerless to prevent it, hypnotised by disaster, as humans are.

I couldn’t stop her, and if I had, her outrage would have been unbearable. So she backed up to the seat, lowered herself as far as the tendons in her massive legs would allow and fell the remaining six inches.

And kept falling, the splayed steel legs continued splaying as she descended, wrapping the circular frame tightly around her arms and body in a perfect cage. There she lay, bound and supine, on the shiny vinyl.

We all saw it happen as if in slow motion. The room was soundless and motionless for long seconds. The prurient fascination held us spell-bound and briefly expressionless, until excruciatingly-suppressed laughter took over. The huge woman lay silent, trapped, dignity defiled. The pain of maintaining a straight face unbearable.

There was no getting the chair off her while she was on the ground; her massive weight kept the folded steel in position. It took six blokes to stand her upright, with no safe place to put hands for the effort, or to keep her legs from folding at the knees. Those little battery angle-grinders were not yet invented.

Now vertical, she glared, stony-faced, mute, caged, unengaged. Images of mediaeval torture flashed. And experimental asylum treatment. We paused. Considered the situation from a practical, engineering standpoint, humour dismissed temporarily, while she stood, hating us.

Two men to hold her steady. Two more on each side. One leg each on the floor, one leg each bracing and pushing, two pairs of arms pulling the steel apart.

The enveloping device was straightened.  Released, she staggered wordlessly out of the bar, poor woman, to deafening silence. I did later hear talk of suing the hotel, but such was the laughter finally released (two releases) that I’m sure sense prevailed.

The boss bought a round as the giggling dissipated and I removed the mangled chair from the room.  I kept it for a while to illustrate the story to friends. As red faces returned to their normal colour, a couple of men left the bar and we heard a roar of laughter in the corridor, which set us all off again.

The large person quit the hotel immediately, and I believe no mention was made of an unpaid bill.

MALENY SPARROWS

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MALENY SPARROWS; the last of the breed?

We were having a nosh at the Italian restaurant opposite the post office in that little compound of shops in Maleny, sitting outside, and listening to the cheerful chirping of a few sparrows, whose very distant ancestors had been imported on sailing ships from the Old Country, what, 150 years ago?

These little nondescript brown birds were endemic to the British Isles, tolerated but pests nevertheless, and thrived in their millions around all human endeavour, seemingly unable to survive without us and our buildings. Certainly few if any were ever seen in rural areas, or forests, moors, uninhabited coasts; but every village and city gave them nesting sites.

In fact sparrows nest exclusively in human habitation. Never in a tree, or a hole in a bank, or in a field, but always, with rare exceptions, in a roof of human construction. Needless to say, the roof must have its faults, to allow access to the little birds, and any thatching is open to infestation, which is why modern thatch is now covered with steel mesh.

Any crack or gap, or cracked tile, or vent, or loose fascia, or missing brick, any tiny hole will be found and used by a keen sparrow-pair for their family. The best, and most inviting access, however, was found in Australia: the un-nailed corrugations of roof-iron at the fascia. Now that nail-patterns are now standardised with roof-screws, and every corrugation fixed at the gutter-edge, that sparrow-access has gone, and most sparrows with it.

In fact we are such a wealthy and fastidious lot that our buildings both domestic and industrial, are virtually sparrow-proof. Well-built and maintained, they offer no fortuitous gaps and holes for a nesting pair, and that pair will not choose any natural site for their home; not a tree, or hedge, or earthen bank will be considered.

I have long thought that this lack of nest-sites is responsible for the demise of sparrows. Within the last 50 years our suburbs and cities have been sparrow-proofed. No sites, no nests, no sparrows; it doesn’t take long: they don’t live long.

Likeable as the little mites are, and cheerful in chatter and song, and cute around restaurant tables (to the customers, not the health authorities), there is a condition caused by sparrows that is utterly impossible to live with.

One hot summer night in my VJ lodging, a typical old Queensland house, I woke up as is my wont for my mid-sleep read; around one a.m. The book was propped on the wall, but after a while a curious effect had me staring at the VJs, which appeared to be somehow hard to focus on. Never seen this before; was it tiredness? Eye-strain? The paint seemed to be shifting slightly as I stared at it. I put on my magnifying specs: the wall was crawling with millions of microscopic crab-like creatures.

So was my bed, my clothes, everything. Sparrow-mites.

I had been uncomfortably itchy for a few days, and assumed prickly-heat and the climate was to blame, but no; bloody sparrows were nesting in the roof, and their parasites had invaded my space. All my clothes and bedding had to be washed, the room cleaned and fumigated, the roof off and all nests, and sadly, chicks too thrown out and the spaces sprayed. I used cans of Aerogard……the first available stuff I thought would do the trick, and it did.

I spent the whole day roofing, cleaning, spraying, fumigating and washing clothes and bedding. This is why sparrows are disappearing from our suburbs. Although I was happy to have them around, I had never suffered their parasites before, and never wish to again; the itching and rash took three weeks to dissipate.

Perhaps in cold old Britain the sparrow-mites don’t proliferate to such an extent, for I never heard of the situation over there. I made sure the roof of our rented house was impregnable after that episode though, and perhaps my attitude is causing the demise of those cute little creatures. But where do they live in Maleny, and the few other places where they exist, like Newcastle, NSW?

Well, there must be secret holes and gaps in roofs wherever sparrows are found. And should those be closed, the sparrows will die-out shortly after, for they will not adapt to any other environment, for they belong with us, and if we reject them, it seems they have no place to go.

If we can’t live with sparrows (and I don’t recommend it), perhaps we could give them suitable housing, specially built at some little distance away, exclusively for their use (not mice or rats or humans), for pest as they are, they are OUR pests, and I for one would miss them.

Help save the innocent cheeky sparrow, we’d be lonely without their cheerful chirping, and would have to pick up our own crumbs. Or rats would.

Eucalypts and fire-prone species must be cleared from our suburbs. First essay: see also “The impoverished Australian Environment”.

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EUCALYPT AND FIRE-PRONE SPECIES TO BE CLEARED from our dwellings.

In our hearts we knew that the gum-trees surrounding our housing were a risk, but with the alternative being a naked block of dust, what other option was there? Any trees are better than none, has been the opinion of all. Until now.

We’ve put up with the ever-present  fire-risk; and the occasional eucalypt falling on our houses and power-lines and cars. And ourselves, too. We’ve put up with the danger and inconvenience for the sake of having a bit of ‘nature’ in our suburbs, in our back yards, and the wildlife it attracts.

But the time has come when we must draw the line. The climate is drying, and as it dries the eucalypts and fire-prone species have the upper hand: they win in the game of survival. Thousands of our people are now homeless, many financially ruined, because of this fashion for accommodating eucalypts and fire-prone species in our environment.

Each one of us is now at risk, and the cities no longer immune. Queensland is at present having a lucky respite, compared with the devastation occurring in the south, but unfortunately our luck may run out. I look at the tinder of the parched vegetation all around, and hope; just hope.

Ancient and magnificent rain-forest in our national parks, and on the elevated areas, is finally succumbing to the dry. We never thought it could possibly happen; there’s no way that forest could resist fire now. If those areas hang on, eventual rains will quickly revive the trees and the moist ground-cover, but if fire goes through, the entire biodiversity may be permanently lost.

This is a frightening time for all Australians to be living through. There is no security. The government of the day is introducing schemes which should have been in place months ago when the outcomes of drought became obvious. Better late than never, but what of all those who have lost everything?

Now, perhaps, the eucalypts and fire-prone species will be cleared away, from both the burned and spared communities. For those ravaged and blackened areas, the ruined houses will remain ruins, but the eucalypts will revive almost immediately, ready for the next conflagration. Let us not welcome them back.

Let us bulldoze the stumps, the trash, and eradicate the coming seedlings. Clear the suburbs of further inevitable eucalypt danger, and maintain the gum-free zones until our chosen fire-resistant species take hold, and shade our environment, mulching and moistening and enriching. Swap a gum-tree, that weed which produces no cover, or humus, parching the lanscape, for a forest tree of dense shade.

Surely, surely now, our love-affair with the eucalypts, and fire-prone species, is over? The sparse, straggling bush must for ever be associated with danger, and loss, and tragedy.

Rollo Sherwill

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ROLLO SHERWILL

Carpentry, joinery, cabinet-making and building workshop, Guernsey, Channel Islands.

I was, still am, a potterer. On the beautiful island of Guernsey, fifty-odd years ago, I pottered at cafes and restaurants, and bar-tending (see blog). My pottering had produced a very small excess of funds with which I bought a very small, old carvel fishing boat, with a very small motor, the sort you see in little hire putputs.

In my ignorance I took this little craft and built a little cabin on it, with dreams of a bunk, and a stove, and a mast and sails. Crazy, but I was a kid, and I wanted to sail, and put down crab pots, and fish with spinners for mackerel. 

The jobs were completed; the boat looked so cute with its gaff-rig and jib, and staysail. Innocently, I put down my ten home-made crab pots in the waters around St Peter Port, with marked floats, all secure. The next day all had vanished; cut, or stolen, by real fishermen. But that’s another story, in which I must welcome a treasured friend, Vic Sanderson. In fact, there are dozens of Guernsey stories, encompassing the entire island, from surfing at Vazon, gardening at a French name I forget, a new baby at Les Canichers, a band at Jerbourg, a wreck of copra, me a tour guide of no skill, alcoholic spirits in tea-pots, a Citroen light 15, the awful seizing of two new marine engines, beach parties, a bakery odyssey, The Hairy Mouse; in fact a life of concentrated events., each one of which would run for pages, opening cans of worms on the way.

Back to the plot; one day I was there on the careening-hard, working on my nautical mission, with tools and marine-ply arranged around the tiny craft (named Tea-pot, by the way), when I was approached by a handsome, slightly older stranger. He introduced himself to the semi-naked hippy (always ready for a swim) as Rollo, and politely inquired as to whether I was a carpenter.

A trade! I wish! I was a practical baby, and loved making things; then there was Art School, (but that’s another story, totally). But a trade! A means of employment! I had to admit to Rollo, no, no carpenter. But he persisted: you look like you know what you’re doing……(the tools were lying around).

Would you like a job? He said; well, actually, yes, I would: things had ground to a stop, forcibly ejected, I was, from a most successful cafe I was running whilst the owner was overseas. He claimed his territory back and immediately went broke. Ha! Rollo thought I could handle the job he was working on,so……

It was the conversion of a tunnel, excavated by the invading German army, into an aquarium. Yes…….not a venture that I would have deemed either viable or lucrative, but Work, Employment. I started the next day, keen and capable.

Rollo Sherwill was the most kind of bosses, a mine of knowledge in the trade into which I had been gratefully inducted. His workshop was the most delightful environment, his staff all supportive gentlemen, his work most varied and interesting, and sometimes curious, and esoteric. There was no job of either delicacy, or complexity, or scale, which he wouldn’t tackle. The learning experience for me was the most valuable asset, treasured for the rest of my life.

I was, unfortunately, too young to be aware and suitably grateful for my invaluable experience with Rollo. I should have stayed; possibly have become a fixture in his enterprise, possibly to have achieved residency status on that island paradise, a good job, and maybe good pay later, and and maybe respect. Without doubt, for the rest of my life I owe my small skill to the trust and patience of Rollo Sherwill.

But I met and drank with two Liverpool blokes, who were horrified at my tiny wages, with wife and two children now to support. There was a project on a huge building site, for which they were looking for a cabinet-maker. I applied: it was a doddle, compared with our exacting standards, and got the job. The Scouse lads said I would earn twice as much.

Telling Rollo was awful. I felt, and was, a complete ungrateful prick. He offered to double my wages, but it was too late. I know I should have stayed, but the decision was made. I offered to stay as long as was necessary to finish the work I was on, and while he found a replacement, but it was over. And I both regret and understand my decision today.

Briefly, my new job was a price on making small bedroom drawer units for almost a hundred new units. I was given a unit as workshop, and I supplied a materials list, which was enormous (eight drawers per bedroom, two bedrooms per unit, 100 units). I needed two extra units for storage.

Having experience of mass-production, I set to work cutting every individual part from my huge stock, a job that took weeks, with no pay: the lads were horrified. But once the assembly started the little drawer-units came together at twenty a day, and accelerating, and were carried out of my workshop to be fitted.

My final pay was enormous, beyond all expectation, and salved my conscience slightly with regard to Rollo. But it is to him that I owe my skill at the trade, if I have any, and it is to him that I dedicated my book ‘The Building of the Queensland House’.

And without Rollo’s support we lost our residency status on the island of Guernsey, being just a few months short of the cut-off period of five years. Perhaps we had a case, but we were too young to know. Paradise lost, back to bleak England, then to bright Australia, carrying Rollo’s wonderful tuition with me.

Thanks, Rollo Sherwill, for starting a young idiot on the way to a lifetime of skill, a career, and solvency. (So far……)

John Weysome

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John Weysome, The Jerbourg Hotel, Guernsey.

Long, long ago

THE BOSS AND THE TILL. (A till is now called ‘cash register’)

Every seven years or so, I read, 98% of the cells of our bodies are replaced, except for just a few long-lasting ones in our brains. So John Weysom, my patient boss, and myself, are many times different folk since the days I was his barman. But this memory lingers.

John was a young bloke in those days, and had inherited the old hotel from the family, I believe, but his hopes had been elsewhere, perhaps, when our lives briefly touched. He hired me as a barman for the deserted and enormous lounge, with its huge bar and windows sand-blasted opaque from the driving salt air of that beautiful promontory, on that beautiful island.

I was a strange, annoying child, given to periods of silent introspection, a gloom which settled over me for days, sometimes, when it became painfully difficult to converse normally with people. It was an illness which afflicted me for decades, gradually fading with age. At the time a source of irritation and teasing from my friends: Andy’s in one of his moods.  I’d recover to become normal after a while, usually a day or two. No idea of the cause.

John Weysome gave me a talking-to, one day, when we were doing the barman’s inevitable chore, sorting thousands of empty bottles. He accused me of ‘dumb insolence’, having caught me in one of my ‘periods’. I had no defense to offer, not understanding my condition either. This upset me, and him, considerably, but I became an asset in the bar; it was gratifying to have the responsibility and the freedom to run it as I wished.

But this is a story of a different kind. Time went past. My job at the Jerbourg Hotel was my project, too, and every idea I had attracted more young customers, and I was allowed to choose helpers behind the bar, and bands for the room, and decorations and themes, and design cocktails, and order special beers. It was a great job, and I’m sure the boss was pleased, until one day……..

The five of us barpersons (two were girls) were ordered to assemble, one day before opening time. Bear in mind we were all relative amateurs at the job. Highly successful amateurs. The bar was no doubt the most successful on the island at that time; we had fun, we worked hard, we earned our wages, but, like our boss, we were not trained, we were too busy always to run an orderly business: the empty bottle situation, for example. There was no time or labour to sort, pack, and return them, just a huge heap, and growing daily.

We realised that there was some trouble, some threat, but what? John confronted us: someone was robbing the bar. We had one week to produce the culprit. After which, with no result, we were all sacked, no references.

Well, we were all mates, and good kids, relatively, and we knew none of us was stealing, and had no idea what action to take. It really was a strange situation, and depressing, to be accused, and threatened, and it put a cloud over what had until then been a joyful job. Today, the way we ran that bar would be called a criminal outrage, an accounting nightmare. But there was no bar more successful. For example, shortly after I was hired, John Weysome said, Andy, if you’ve got everything prepared and ready in the bar, don’t try to look busy; sit down, have a drink, read the paper, relax, be ready for the first customers! What? Imagine a boss saying that today! But John, like us, was a gifted amateur.

The dreaded week went past without confrontation or sackings, and we began to relax, though wary. Undoubtedly there was a problem big enough to upset even John’s accounting, but what? We were still sure of our group innocence. Towards the end of the second week after accusation, and after a staggeringly busy night, I was doing my lonely job of emptying the tills of their damp, packed notes and change; such crude accounting: it all went into a bag for John to sort out. The old pub tills were thrashed every night in a hopelessly amateur way, the drawers hard to close, and stay closed, in the frantic rush.

In the empty, now-quiet bar, I had a beer and tried to work out how to make the till-drawers work better; perhaps they needed oiling? Now any normal bar-person would not believe how stupid we all were, how unbelievably dopey, the boss included.

I got on eye-level with one of the tills and worked the drawer. It WAS really hard to close without violent slamming. Somehow there must be a way to get it out to clean and adjust. And of course I found the little recessed knobs on the sides, at the back, that released the drawer, and I found the hundreds and hundreds of tight-packed notes, two-inch thick wads compressed and added to each frantic night. Each till was the same. There were thousands of pounds stacked away in that bar. No-one had ever taken out the drawers.

Before work next day I called John to meet me in the bar early, to tell him I had found the thief. I was behind the counter, he at the bar. Neither of us spoke, he waited for me, I silently sprang the first empty till drawer, put it on the counter, reached into the cavity and gathered the solid block of notes in my fingers and placed it next to the drawer.

Then the second drawer, then the others. The sheer volume of compact cash really was astounding. John was astounded. We packed up the cash, he shook my hand, and with teary eyes said he’d see us all later. He was a romantic bugger, certainly not your typical publican, obviously: didn’t even know the till-drawers were removable.

When the others arrived I told them the story, and that John wanted us to stay behind for a while after the bar closed that night. Apologies, bonuses, and a rise in pay for all of us, and the bar at the Jerbourg Hotel powered on. An enriching experience for all concerned.

RON SHILLABEER

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Ron Shillabeer, good Samaritan.

It was over 55 years ago, and I suppose Ron may well be dead. I had briefly drifted unknowingly into the protection of kind-hearted strangers, and, at that time, had no concept of what was occurring.

I was about eighteen years old, a stupid, unwise child, pottering carelessly about my home town, New Brighton, in the wilderness of Merseyside. I had started at the local Art School, which took the place of my parents, who had moved to the south for work and residence. They kindly supplied me with a small income for rent of one room, food, and art materials: I soon altered the items to beer and art materials, but that’s another story.

It was an exceptionally cold winter, the school (college, posh-speak) was closed for the break, and I decided to hitch-hike to the childhood paradise of Cornwall, for no sensible reason, and with no sensible cash.

I packed my ruck-sack with guessed necessities, including a supply of Savory Ducks from a strange shop, the only place on the planet that sold them. A savory duck was, I suppose, a large, mysterious spiced dumpling, wrapped and cooked in a caul of some entrails, eaten cold or hot. It was very, very cheap, impervious to destruction, long-lasting pemmican.

I hitched from early morning, through the night, in a southerly direction, veering west as lifts dictated. I trusted every driver implicitly, and slept in the cab of a big truck on the way: no entertainment for the driver. When I woke it was black-dark and snowing heavily. The truck stopped. The kindly trucky said this is as far as I go.

He told me the name of the village, but I had no idea where it was. The snow was falling softly, there was no light except the occasional glimpse of a far-off winter moon. There was no alternative but to put on all my clothes and waterproof, and walk, hoping for a lift. There was no traffic. I remember thinking how pleasant life was, and walked for an hour, looking for a sign, a light, a shelter. The snow thickened, a haystack in a field loomed, and I remembered stories of the comfort therein. It was an old-fashioned stack of sheaves, before the days of bales, and I kicked my way in a foot or two off the snowy ground. Kicked and kicked until I was completely cocooned, and not just cosy, but hot. The stack itself was warm, and I slept unseen until well-past the late winter dawn.

Wriggling out of my nest I found myself exposed in a vacant field, with traffic staring at me as it passed, which bothered me not. More lifts, more Ducks eaten, beers and sandwiches in a thatched pub: big fat sandwiches, cheese and onion, and so cheap. I was in Devon, it seemed, there was real cider on the pump too; murky, dry, flat. No more alcoholic than beer, but strangely toxic due to the malic acid, hence the hangover…….

It took all day to get to Cornwall; no sensible folk were on the road as the snow fell steadily. Drifts were building up against the hedges as my last lift dropped me off in a random village as early darkness fell. I had no Idea where I was, but it was at least Cornwall, if not Polperro, and I spent most of my remaining cash on a room for the night, in a tiny cottage, and, feeling weird and with the urge to hibernate, went to my nest and snuggled in.

Morning, late, and ready to set off (such an unsociable boy), was surprised to be offered breakfast: ha, it was bed AND breakfast I’d paid for, lovely, while the snow fell, and fell. Now I wasn’t entirely aimless and stupid, though penniless. It was my intention, at my Polperro destination, to look for work and pay my way, preferably in a pub, where I had experience. In the summers, in New Brighton, I worked on the hot dog vans on the beach for rent and beer money. But this was winter in Cornwall.

I enquired of my nice landlady of the possibility of a temporary job in the village, mentioning the pub as a shining hope, but, she said, we’re all closed-up here m’dear, no-one can get in nor out, there’s no work for anyone til summer, and you won’t get through to Polperro, nor find work there if you do. So, being easily disabused, and callow, I instantly gave up. Now I know better; then I needed cheek, cheerful boldness, and sparkling wit, none of which I possessed.

You won’t be going anywhere in this, m’dear, she said, but I didn’t like to admit I had no cash, so warm and full of food I tramped through the now-deep snow to the busier of the few roads, where amazingly a vehicle with chains picked me up and on to Torquay, and dropped me at a certain cafe. Though I didn’t know it, my life was being planned by total strangers.

At the cafe I admitted to owning a few shillings; what could I get? Now this is weird again. I was brought heaps of food, and milkshake, and pudding, thinking this is marvellous for the price, and stuffed myself. The cafe would accept no money. Where was I going? They said it’s late, and knew of a cheap bed for the night, set off in the morning. A mystery diner in the cafe offered me a lift, well thanks so much, and I was dropped of at a pretty cottage and introduced to Ron Shillabeer. That’s four consecutive Samaritans.

It was as if I had a sign on my head saying, look after this waif, he knows not the world and its ways. Ron Shillabeer welcomed me to his home, and showed me to a perfect little bedroom full of windows and warmth, but, I said, I’m sorry, I can’t pay for this, I must keep going to Merseyside (I still had a few indestructible ducks left).

But he insisted, and said not to worry about payment, and that he would be out early in the morning, and to make myself at home. He invites a total stranger and leaves him in alone with the run of his house.

I slept a dead sleep, and woke early to an empty house. I felt mysteriously honoured, and trusted, and full of wonder. What kind of society had I stumbled upon in Torquay? Where everyone’s aim was to look after me? In fear of breaking the spell, I arranged my room exactly as I found it, erasing all evidence of my existence. I think, I hope, I left a note of thanks, but can’t be sure.

Somehow the blizzard abated as I left the west country, and somehow I got back to New Brighton with my few shillings intact and no ducks.

That was one of the most savage winters in Cornwall and Devon; good choice of season and destination for hitching! I think now how delightful it would have been to have had sufficient funds to stay in that lost Cornish village for the duration of the blizzard, to settle in and be like Ratty and Moley in Moley’s little snow-bound cottage.

It’s a lifetime ago, but I’ll never forget the unsolicited kindness of those saints in Torquay, and of that dear stranger Ron Shillabeer, and all the drivers that picked up a young scruffy boy of little conversation, with no thought of reward, and only one hesitant fondle of my knee……..