Why the Teme's tame for boatman Ike

Considering its beautifully tranquil setting, Ludford Bridge has had a pretty violent past. Battling factions during the Wars of the Roses, batterings from the weather`s worst, and now a mighty thwack from a weighty lorry; it's long been a troubled bridge over Ludlow's waters.

It's not surprising, then, that the locals, inconvenienced by the bridge's complete closure to cars during these latest repairs, have been squeezing past the scaffolding and warning cones on foot to check what's going on. They see the huge gap caused by the collision and the stonemasons' skilled-- but painstaking-- progress on this listed landmark.

And some of them lean over the bridge's 'good' side and spot Ike, bobbing about in his boat. They carry on with their dog walk; return an hour or two later...and find Ike's still there. And the next day, and the day after that.

"What's he doing down there then...health and safety?" chortles one elderly man. The workmen nod and smile and get on with the major task in hand.

But my curiosity gets the better of me, and four days later, I'm back to find the man you almost miss while the clever stuff's going on at road level. I'm in luck. The men are working a safe distance from the gaping hole in the bridge for a while, and so Ike's on dry land for a bit, and has time to talk.

It turns out that yes, Ike's there for 'health and safety'; yes, he's getting used to people asking whether he's caught any fish yet, and yes........nine hours bobbing about in a tethered boat is "the most boring job" he's ever done.

"Basically, yes, I sit in the boat and wait for someone to fall in--but that's not going to happen," he grins.

But it turns out that if it did...this guy's the one you'd want coming to your rescue. After a life on the ocean wave; for Ike, the Teme's tame.

A former commercial diver turned mariner, Ike--Isaac Adam-- spent around 20 years working around North Sea oil rigs on dive support vessels. Conditions were often rough; and occasionally life threatening. In 1998, for instance, his diving partner was trapped for 10 hours, 140 metres below the sea's surface.

The team had been undertaking decommissioning work on old wellheads, using explosives.

"There was a fault in the lifting gear," recalls Ike."A section of the wellhead being lifted, fell off. It just missed me, but hit his section."

It meant vital gas wires were disconnected and that the men had to get back to the diving bell, and after working at that kind of depth, had to spend four days in the ship's decompression chamber. Both were fine.

Four years later, Ike retired from diving,but rather than put his feet up, bought a 12 metre yacht and spent the next seven years sailing round the world with his then wife and son. From the UK, they headed out to Madeira, the Canaries, Cap Verdi, the Caribbean, Venezuela, through the so called ABC (Lesser Antilles) Islands to Panama...and on to the Galapagos Islands.

Their journey took them on to French Polynesia, to Tonga, and to New Zealand, where they stayed for seven months. After that, there was a year in and around Australia, with seven weeks of that stay seeing Ike laid up in hospital.

" We were on a river, and there'd been a flood," he remembers," We'd just cleared customs and were on our way but I got trapped between two yachts and smashed my pelvis."

It wasn't the only drama. Sailing between New Zealand and Australia, their yacht had hit major weather, which disabled the yacht's steering mechanism. They were 300 miles from New Zealand and found themselves having to shut themselves inside the boat, sails down; one keeping watch while the two others tried to sleep.

"But you had to sleep on the floor, not the bunks, " says Ike. "My wife tried it. The sea was so rough, she got flown out of the bunk, over the table on to the floor". When the storm eased, Ike managed to dive in, lash the broken steering system to the boat and continue repairs from the inside, using their supply of spares.

The family's amazing seven year trip also took in East Timor, Sumatra, Mauritius, South Africa--round the Cape to Capetown..on to St Helena and Tobago (a four month rest for the hurricane season there...) up to the Virgin Islands, Bermuda, the Azores and...eventually...to Falmouth.

Ike's been back from that trip for ten years now. These days, he often drives yachts for wealthy private owners. And, from time to time, helps a friend out manning safety boats like the one on the

Teme. So--(hopefully....) without any rescues to attend to, and with no rod and bait to help pass the time...what does he DO all day?

"I just think," says the diver, turned mariner, "I write a bit, so I think about that, too.."

I urge him to write his autobiography, pump him for a bit more information about Tonga, before my own round the world trip this autumn. And reflect on my way home how even people who appear to be doing very "boring" jobs.....are rarely ever boring, themselves......



PS: Why would I want to know about Tonga?! Thought it might make a change from Aberdovey this year. Follow me with fellow empty nester Nigel on www.thetimeofourlives.net as we finalise plans to whiz round the world.

Made a decision today?

What's the biggest decision you've made today?

Maybe you faced a crossroads at work. Applying for promotion, perhaps. Or re-training...trying something new.

There's a chance you've only had to sweat the small stuff today: what shoes to wear. Whether to grab an umbrella on your way out this morning. What to eat for lunch or how to entertain the children while they're off school.

It's part of everyday life, isn't it?

Sometimes...a real biggie comes along, concerning your health. I've often wondered, since my mum died way too early from breast cancer, and Dad died a couple of years ago from Alzheimer's, whether I'd take a test to see if I was likely to develop either of those conditions myself. (I don't think I would, actually...). Then there's political stuff, concerning the way we live; who to vote for; whether to stay in the EU or not.They're pretty key issues, too.

But the point is...one way or another, we're continually making decisions. Some are incredibly tough, but we have to learn how to make them, and how to live with the consequences.

So why on earth....would anybody have the job title...of 'Decision Maker'?

I got a letter today from one of the big high street banks. I'd complained about an endless wait to get through to somebody the other day. They'd just noted my comments, pretty much. But the letter was signed by...(name....)...with the job title of: Decision Maker.

I'm tempted to write and complain about how stupid that sounds.

I might.

Can't really make up my mind......

;)

Stopping a stranger: why it's sometimes a great idea...

They'd travelled the six thousand miles from China to Ludlow without a hitch. But now, beside the train station in this English medieval market town...they appeared to be faltering. A mother and teenage girl, a mound of luggage almost bigger than both of them...a steep hill ahead....and no taxi rank.

As they pored over a map on a phone, I asked if I could help. It turned out that Gloria was 16, and due to start in the sixth form at a local boarding school. The plan was to stay at a local pub, take a cab to the school the next day, and for Gloria's mum to have a quick turn-around before starting her long journey home. I walked them to their accommodation and we exchanged names and numbers. Gloria's mum and I had coffee before she headed back to China. With two daughters of my own, I had a sense of how she might be feeling.

It was that meeting that led to Gloria staying at my place over half term. She had a huge pile of schoolwork and a couple of Skype tutorials with her chemistry teacher back in China, but somehow we found time to go out for walks, to go shopping (best bit: watching Gloria sign her name in intricate Chinese at the till....) to lunch and dinner, and to cook each other some of our favourite

dishes. Incredibly, it turned out that this teenager tackling five tough A' levels in a foreign language (she can play a mean violin, too, by the way, and run an easy 10k...) was also a brilliant cook; insisting on buying incredients, then rustling up fabulous pork, chicken, vegetable and noodle dishes with aplomb..... several nights running.

I'm writing this (with Gloria's permission...) just to say this. If you ever get the chance to welcome guests from a different country or culture into your home...take it.

I learnt about life at a boarding school in rural England through the eyes of a Chinese girl...and about three generational living back home. I got an insight into the now relaxed 'one child only' policy in China...and how to survive (very easily, it seems...) restrictions on social media. I heard how Gloria hopes to try for Oxford or Cambridge....and, personally, how to stop faffing about and use chopsticks confidently. I also learnt how charming and generous a young guest can be.....and why, if you ever see a visitor looking a bit lost in a place you know....it's a great idea to say 'hello...'.

 
PS: Thankyou for reading! I also write for www.thetimeofourlives.net , a travel website tracking preparations for a big trip this autumn....and looking for help from you if you know the places on our itinerary! Please take a look and click on the site's *follow* button (this will automatically enter you into our next prize draw, by the way!) 

Eighteen minutes in Ireland

'Ah...,' they all said, with a knowing smirk. 'If it's your first time in Ireland, it's all about the craic. And the pubs. And the Guinness.'

But here I was, diving into my first ever Irish hostelry, with little expectation of enjoying any of that stuff. There had been no research: this doorway was any old escape from the cloudburst in Howth harbour; an overture to Storm Imogen; shrieking, mocking seagulls the rebellious, discordant string section, drowning out the gentle squelching of our rain-soaked shoes. We were freezing.

Even worse, we had to be in Dublin by midday to meet a man about a ticket, and the train from Howth was leaving in 18 minutes. There was barely time to neck a shot; never mind savouring my first pint of the black stuff and an hour or two of laid back blarney. Anyway. We needed a hot drink.

We blinked at the candlelight. Absorbed the silence. Craned our necks; strained our ears for the crackling fire...or just the craic. Nothing.

Then....a shout from the darkness. 'No--it's OK. Yous can come in if you like. It's just--well--be careful like, because it's twelve minutes past eleven and well, like--we're only insured from eleven thirty.'

Risking razing the place to the ground with no payout, we gently wriggled butts onto barstools in the murky light, without rocking the candle and bottle combo on the table too much and ordered, shamefully, coffees.

'Ah--but will those be straight Americanos?' asked the barman, hopefully--clearly assessing the additional, pre-11.30 risk that a damn good frothing could involve.

Recklessly, we ordered cappuccinos, and discovered that the barista and his equally devil-may-care, cappuccino quaffing friend at the bar, were called Frank, and, possibly for comedic effect, Frank.

They, in turn, heard that we were there not just for the craic, or the Guinness...maybe later....but for the rugby. A speedy, Frank-Frank debate followed about the forthcoming Ireland-Wales match, peppered with questions about our mini-break and indeed...our lives thus far. We were warming up.

As we drank our coffees, their talk turned a new member of staff. 'Ach...see here...and she doesn't make up a fire like Betsy, that's for sure...' said Frank, pulling Frank off his barstool, through to the now smoky snug. Poring over a pall of peatsmoke, they fixed the fire, stepped away, and sighed, partly because the air was clearer now, and partly because it was almost 11.30 and any ensuing smoke damage would, at least, be covered by the insurance.

With the Dublin train about to rumble on to the platform above, we downed the dregs of the wrong kind of froth, said our thankyous and goodbyes, and prepared to leave. At the door, we realised we hadn't paid, and rushed back to the bar. Maybe that's what the craic's all about. Showing up as customers; and; 18 minutes later...feeling, frankly.... like friends.


Like this? Check out my other posts on here: travel, life, health scares, Alzheimer`s, running (badly), loving chocolate and anything else I want to rant about. 

And NOW AVAILABLE..... Preparing for a huge great travel adventure with @nigelridpathx31 and blogging as we go.  Please have a look at:
www.thetimeofourlives.net  

Learner driver: PLEASE pass!

I`m a nosy parker at the best of times. But being two floors up, I have access to a busy view of town.... my eyes often out on stalks; my mind racing about the scenes playing out below.

Most of the drama surrounds a nearby driving test centre. I see learners parking, looking under the bonnet with their instructor for final checks, and going off to meet their maker. Well...examiner.

Sometimes, I see them returning--and if I do, I have to wait until I know whether they've passed or failed. It can take a while. There's stuff to sign. So all I have to go on, is body language. Wringing of hands...or relaxing of shoulders?

It happened just now. A lad came back with the examiner, and I could see quite an animated conversation going on, before the official handed him some paperwork, got out, and walked back to base. The lad sat there, motionless. Five minutes later, he got out of the car and someone, his Dad, probably, approached him from the other side of the street. They hugged. Still wasn't sure. Then the lad peeled the L plates off the car..they both got in...lad at the wheel...and drove off; smiling.


It's two years since youngest daughter Alice passed her test, just five months after her 17th birthday.I remember the mix of pride and relief. No more frozen tweets from dark winter car parks outside rehearsals, or parking tactfully round the corner from late night parties. Sure, you feel anxious for a while. But only months after that, I found myself in the passenger seat with 'baby driver' (by then working as an au pair...) as she negotiated icy hairpin bends through the mountains to take me to lunch and a spa treatment at a Swiss ski resort. And later drove us both, in her own car, to Normandy; motorways, car ferry--no worries.

I`m sure my parents never relaxed.They probably thought they'd be driving me home from parties into their dotage...as my first and second driving tests came and went. Then the third. (Nobody could think of anything reassuring to say to me by this stage. They all looked a bit embarrassed. I think they'd all given up). Then the fourth. (It's OK, I passed fourth time.) I hugged the examiner, then burst into tears. I still had panda, mascara smeared eyes when I got home--and no mobile to call mum in those days--so she took one look at me and put the kettle on ; convinced I'd failed, and was heading for driving test number five.

Yeh, the M25 is still a bitch, and punctures usually only happen in horizontal rain, but there are lots of little things that can make driving pleasurable. First exits on massive roundabouts, for example. Always a joy.

Driving gives you real freedom to go anywhere, any time. Like Aberdovey on a sunny Sunday. Or on a wet Wednesday, really.You can head out on late night chocolate mercy dashes. And sing whatever you choose, at the top of your voice, with nobody complaining. So--well done to anyone in the street below, passing their test today. But if you're the one with the slumped shoulders and the wrong kind of paperwork from the examiner, don't worry. It'll be your turn to peel the plates off soon.

Mary Portas : stirring up those Saturday Girl memories

I`m glued to the new Mary Portas `Secret Shopper` series on Channel 4. She descends on shops which, frankly, `could do better`...and sorts them all out. Last series it was the turn of the Godfrey`s department store in Lowestoft . Toe-curlingly tricky to watch at the start-- but till-ringingly good after Mary`s makeover. The show got Twitter buzzing, too, with some of us recalling our teen days as Saturday girls--Michelle at Marks; resplendant in her crimplene uniform, and me and my friend Carol at Bourne and Hollingsworth in London. This series hasn`t disappointed, either...from the wedding shop where customers said :"I don`t....think so..." to the hardware store with chaotic stock and an offensive turn of phrase at every turn.

We'd started our lives in `retail` at the local florist's shop. Carol was OK, but I kept crashing into the big fat, crysanths. The pay was paltry anyway; even with the odd bunch of blooms to take home to our mums-- so we decided to jump ship and head up to Oxford Street.

 Bourne and Hollingsworth isn't there any more. But as Saturday jobs went, it was quite a coup for Carol and me-- a couple of sixteen year olds from Orpington. We'd meet at the station on a Saturday morning, jump on a fast train to Charing Cross and then leg it through Soho just in time to clock in. With a card machine thing.

We'd clinched the jobs together. I was appointed as a 'Mobile'. Moving to a different department every week suited my restless, curious and persuasive nature. I spent a good ten minutes guiding one Russian customer round our vast seletion of curling tongs and Carmens in `Electrical Beauty` one week, before realising he was after 'egg coddlers', not 'hair curlers'.

Being sent to 'wedding gowns' was quite a prestigious posting. You had to be a bit diplomatic, because this was the place where mothers and daughters could arrive as a team, and leave in tears. You had the challenge of finding 'just the right thing' for two bridesmaids, six dress sizes apart. And the biggest eye opener for a young teen from the Home Counties, the tall, rather muscular `bride` who turned out to have a few surprises  once he'd stripped down to his bra and pants. Never have changing room curtains been swished back into position so swiftly. Never has a Saturday girl blushed more deeply.

No sale that time, but when you clinched one, the possibilities for fun were endless.There were huge cash registers. And when they were full to bursting, you filled out a form and stuffed a wodge of notes in a brass tube, which then got shoved up a pipe; round the building a few times, powered by some mysterious suction device, to the cash office. Sometimes, the empty tube would return with a cheeky note from Barry in accounts, asking me for a night out in somewhere exotic, like Enfield. I never went, because Carol and me usually had other plans. A dark and sweaty disco floor in darkest Chislehurst, usually. Which was why it was always so useful having Carol as a permanent Saturday fixture in `Perfumery`.

This was the pick of all placements .She'd spend eight hours of every Saturday demonstrating the most expensive scents the store had to offer to her potential client base, many of them on the move and not in the least bit interested. They all got a good dousing, regardless, along with most of the staff and stock in the neighbouring `Wallets and Leather Goods`.


Carol had it down to a fine art.As the clock approached 5.30, her spraying aim would become far less random; and more targeted, hitting herself, remarkably, behind the ear; on the back of her wrist, and if brave enough, right down into her delicate teenage decolletage-- with military precision. Mine, too if I rushed past her at exactly the right time with an important message for her department head, and a knowing wink.

Then, reeking of undertones of ylang ylang and heady top notes of freesia, we'd belt back down through the now packed London streets to Charing Cross, ever hopeful that with the most careful of baths, the perfume would sustain us through hours on the Saturday night dance floor. It never did, and so we'd have to top it up with a wildly clashing overlay of Charlie, or Obsession. Not surprisingly, we had plenty of dance floor space at all times. And at least seven quid Saturday girl cash  in our purses for the odd (under age) Martini or two.


On Twitter: 

Kim Wilde ‏@kimwilde

@janemcintyre12 Me and my best buddy Clare used to cycle to the local nursery and dis-bud carnations.Those flowers saw a lot of tears 

Twitter: Take it...to the limit -- then leave it.

So we`re getting to hear about the death of some of our favourite rock and movie stars on Twitter now. The Eagles` Glenn Frey...hard on the heels of Bowie, Lemmy, and Alan Rickman.

Death shocks; softly sandwiched between celebrity recipe shots; whimpering pleas for lost pets in Preston; and raging rants from rail commuters, live; trackside. Every night you get that heady mix of the totally unexpected...and the old favourites, interspersed by the cyclical, triumphal glugging of Grigio -in- glass as yet another 20 parents from Inverness to Exeter make it downstairs after storytime.

It`s a glorious muddle, this Twitter thing: a non stop stream of fast, furious, catastrophically uncurated ramblings from anyone who has something to say or, quite frankly, doesn`t. Because,sometimes, even a little mild derision from a total stranger across the globe about your new shoes can be better than a night in alone with the cat. Although you know, if things ever get really bad, a selfie of you and the Mog will at least keep you in the Twitter mix.

But, for the most part, it`s frenetic.Witty. Pithy. Pacy. Mercilessly brief. 140 characters and you`re out of here. You get the breaking news. The very worst horrors, as they start to unfold; which you can choose to pursue on Twitter, or elsewhere, or ignore. And sometimes the very best news. The latest from our fabulous Tim Peake, way above us, watching us, watching him. And even in short bursts, you get mates; supporting you after a really crap day; high five-ing you for when things go well. You get poetry, from amazing guys like @JimCMackintosh, and you even get to find out if @Gary_Bainbridge has made the last bus home.

But 10,000 characters? Don`t do it, please. Yeh, maybe Wordsworth clocked that many daffodils at a glance, and maybe they were lovely. But I`d hate long messages clogging up our neat little timelines. A limit of 140 forces you to at least ATTEMPT to be succinct.  I mean...does anyone want to see those tottering, teetering, faltering, FaceBookstylee ...`I was just having a think the other day about the kind of books I used to ...`. You`ve lost me.

Listen to Glenn and the guys. Take it to the limit. Keep that limit 140. And leave it there.