Mountain Moonshine

I realise that to write one’s travel blog from the comfort of the kitchen table at home is not quite in the spirit of travel journalism, but the truth is that, when you are paying an annual visit to so many people for such a short time in such a country as Bosnia, and you also have the responsibility for doing all the driving, some of the cooking and looking after your 95 year old Father, the available time for blogging is somewhat limited! Before I proceed with the tales, a quick report for those of you who may have been concerned about the A.P.’s welfare and the wisdom of taking him on such a trip. The first night we spent in the camper at the farm at home was a success. We both were warm and slept well. The small plastic B and Q paint kettle under the bed came in handy a couple of times a night, and neither of us snored, Father because he doesn’t, and me because Father takes his deaf aid out at night. The mornings started fairly early as neither of us are used to sleeping in much, and while Father got washed, I folded his bed away and converted it back to a dining area, and made the essential breakfast which he has eaten all his life, the porridge. Then, while he got dressed, I washed and dressed and we both sat down for breakfast. While actually with the families we visit in Bosnia, with the exception of breakfast, we ate all meals together with them. Meals in Bosnia are basic, but wholesome, and he put on ¾ stone in weight, and is almost back to his pre-illness weight. He stayed very well and his spirits soared. In company he was his usual bubbly self again, talking with the old Bosnians, often both sides at once in their own languages, whether there was an interpreter or not! In general a brilliant trip together and surprisingly, for the first time ever, he did not tell them all that he didn’t expect to see them again next year! The Archer may not have any more arrows to fire from his quiver, but it seems he’s not intending to let go of the First arrow he shot just yet.
So, back to the story. When we arrived, we were greeted by the self elected leader of “the five old pioneers”, who I had first met in 1999. Jefto is a remarkable man of 80 distinguished by his Stalinesque moustache. He never changes; same looking clothes, same cap, same twinkle in his eyes. He is tanned and wirey and always cheeky, mischievous and fun. He greeted us both with hugs and kisses and a lot of “Oyoy yoyoy” noises, “Moy doctore,moy doctore…moy Jon, moy Jon”. His wife Jela soon joined him with similar expressions of greetings and delight, particularly at Father’s arrival. She has always treated him as a very special guest, ensuring that he has cushions all around him and the best little bits of food. Neither they nor we speak each other’s tongue, although I know a few words of Serbo-Croat now, and yet their welcome needed no real language and our delight in seeing them, none either. Jefto grabbed Father’s arm and escorted us to their house and into the main room of their house, the kitchen. This is still much the same as it was in 2000 when I first returned. It is almost always hot in there from the wood burning stove/cooker. There is a corner bench with blanket and cushion covering and a small table with stools on the other two sides. The walls are furnished with photographs of them and their family, many of them doing agricultural jobs, but this year I noted last year’s and this year’s calendars were on the wall, the annual President Tito Calendars. Jefto in particular was a staunch admirer and supporter of the late President, the only man who has been able to unite the Balkans into a single republic under a liberal communism, and after whose death, the successful former Yugoslavia fell apart in civil war.
It was not long before the coffee was on and Jefto was getting out the Slivovic, motioning to me, out of Father’s gaze, by a gesture with his thumb towards his mouth that we should step outside with our coffee and neck a few! “Oy Paul, moy Paul, moy doctore….Kaffa?.....slivo? I slipped outside with him to the bench in the garden. Father was chattering and gesturing to Jela who was making him a milk coffee from the huge pan of milk simmering on the stove. Him in English, she in Serbian, both deaf and both communicating on some level. She bundled some more cushions behing his back and set a mug of Turkish coffee with milk and some of the special hot skin cram off the top, the Kymac. I sat down with Jefto, having a similar multilingual conversation, but with cigarettes, black Kaffa, and a full tot glass of Slivovic. “Givoli”, Jefto toasted, clinking my glass. “Givoli, cheers” I responded, and we both drained the glass. ( Now, once again, a word to the would be tourists amongst you. The average Bosnian mountain male drinks a very large amount of Slivovic ( pronounced ‘slivovitch’), and a considerable number of daily Pivos (‘peevo’) or beers. Slivo is a home made brandy made from either plums or apples or a mixture of both. It is lethal stuff, and if like me, you really only drink it once a year, the first one, especially if knocked back in a drain-the-glass toast, hits you like a red hot poker down the throat. First, the familiar slightly scenty taste, then the slight warm on your palate. This is followed by a sensation of heat spreading down your gullet and the warmth dribbling into your stomach. The heat dies down again from the throat and you become aware of the warm puddle of almost neat alcohol settled over the plug hole of your stomach waiting to pass your pylorus and then into the painless sensationless drainpipe of your duodenum. By this stage the glass has been filled for the second round! The only way to stop this vicious circle of social alcoholic downward spiralling collapse is to replace your glass upside down on the table, but at this early stage in the proceedings, this would be very rude, and besides, isn’t this ritual part of what I love about Bosnia? It’s quite controllable when you know how to control it, but very difficult to control on your first one or two visits!)
Soon after we have started the ritual, Jefto’s son Zarko arrives and he speaks a little, a very little English. The greetings repeat themselves, the ritual recommences with a Pivo or two added and a second round of cigarettes. Finally about 5 slivos down, a couple of beers and a about 4 expresso coffees, our real interpreter arrives. Ranka is now 20, a lovely girl who I first met as a 12 year old when she was still exciled from home in a squat with Zarko her father and Milka her mother, in Mrkonjic Grad. She is Jefto’s granddaughter and even at 12 spoke some English and it was clear that she was intelligent, ambitious and had a lot of potential. Ranka is a kind, caring, eclectic young woman; a fair, open minded person who, despite all that happened to her as a child during the war, maintains a willingness to see Serbians, Bosniacs and Croatians in equal light. Ranka is my hope for the future in Bosnia and is now at the university studying Law. Father and I have both looked forward to seeing her again. Ranka bubbles into English, rapidly trying to translate all that her grandparents and Father and ourselves are trying to say to each other. These few days with the family are exhausting for her, but her language skills have become excellent, and she copes very well with all but the most demanding of our vocabulary.( Yes….dear reader…I DO occasionally have some extended and demanding vocabulary…especially after my first 5 slivos for the last 18 months). Finally, Ranka's mother arrived from work. Her name is Milka. She has a degree in agriculture and works as an adviser to the local community in such matters. Zarko has a degree in Forestry management, but since the British Army left and the United Nations have reduced their input, he has lost his U.N. Forestry advisory job and is again looking for work, which, in Bosnia, is rather like hunting for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Jefto and Jela live on about £70.00 a month in national support pension.

One thing that is always in good supply is potatoes, (krompir) and that evening we had a dish of roasted potatoes wedges with lumps of roasted lamb bits. It is eaten with a lot of home made bread , often dipped into the roasting pan, together with kymac, this being the skimmings from the constant warmed milk on the stove which are then drained through a seive and concentrated into a more solid form. The result, after several days drying out and being put into large pots, is something like a cross between clotted cream and a light cheese and is used instead of butter. It is a staple food, and appears at almost every meal. Do not even contemplate cholesterol! The first night, as I was enjoying the dinner , I was tugging at a piece of the crust of one of Jela's home made breads and pulled a tooth of my top denture plate. So infuriating, and, although most of the locals have missing or carious teeth, to me, it was embarrassing. I tried to stick it back on in the next 24 hours with superglue, then with Araldite and finally with some Plastic Padding I had in the camper. Each time it came off again. What the hell do they attach teeth to plates with? Are they welded? Anyway, resigned to being toothless for the next 10 to 14 days, I accepted it in good grace; Bosnia puts life and priorities into perspective very rapidly.

We slept soundly and woke to our porridge as usual. As we left the camper at 7.30, Jefto had already been up at least an hour milking the cow. About 2 gallons of fresh milk were in the big pan on the stove. Jela dragged Father inside and stuck him on the corner bench amidst his cushions, and Jefto dragged me outside and the Kaffa and Slivo routine started all over again. Another day dawns in Bosnia. Soon after we are called in for breakfast. Father protests that he has already eaten and can't eat any more, but in vain. He is presented with a fired egg and bread and kymac and a milk coffee. I am presented with 3 eggs, bread and kymac. Definitely DO start to contemplate cholesterol. Ranka has taken a few days off from Uni, but is not yet up and so our protests about being stuffed would be in vain. ( Ranka, like my own daughter, likes to "mong" when she is at home. She knows how to chill out and a long lie in is the order of the day. I can't blame her. When she is up and not at Uni, granny expects her to do a lot of the chores. Later today for example, she has to clean the entire house, bathroom, toilet, floors, and the washing up. Men do little to help. It is like pre-Second World War roles in England. When British women were burning their bras and wearing hot pants in the 60's, Yugoslav women were dressed in canvas bras and boiler suits. Now they are dressed in "western 1980's style" mostly, but their job roles haven't changed much. The men have the drinking to do and the women have the clearing up and support role to do. Granny pretty much rules the roost, both Ranka and her mother, Milka, do a lot in the house to support Jela and the men folk. Now, today, Friday, Zarko, is not going to go to work because he has a job to do here. Milka has already left for her work. Zarko is expecting a vist from the travelling "Moonshine man"!

Soon after 8 o'clock, a tractor pulls onto the croft with a trailer and some large container inside.This is a chap from 500 metres up the road. His name is Branko and he owns.........a still. Yes, it's April, it's "Moonshine time" and they have planned it for us to join in! I hardly dared mention it to Father. He is a strict teetotaller and even Jefto has got the message that he tries to avoid letting Father see when he is plying me with Slico or Pivo. I broke the news gently. Father takes it in his stride and it is just another different thing of interest here. We are taken down to the old house, the house which used to be lived in by Jefto's uncle and aunt until they died. It is a traditional Bosnian peasant house, made of logs, like a Western block house, interlocked by tenon joints at each corner. The roof likewise is made of wooden tiles and even the guttering is mad from trunks, hacked out with an adze and supported on natural shaped bent branches which for the roof timbers. Underneath is the old cow shed and inside are 5, 25 gallon oil drums lined with polythene bags, in which we are shown a foul smelling mash of apples and plums which have been maturing there since they were picked last autumn. Gradually, Branko, Jefto, Zarko and I assemble the wonderful piece of kit which would of course be totally illegal here in this country. It consisted of a large steel burner with a door in the side and grate underneath in which was set a beautifully shaped copper boiling vat with acollecting funnel all hand beaten to shap. This vessel had a large screw down opening into it at the side and a large pipe from the lower side which came to a shut handle door on the outside of the steel burner. From the top of the funnel a pipe, almsost 6 feet in the air ran some 12 feet to another large steel vessel, about 50 gallons with what looked like a large silencer box in it. Inside the 'silencer', the connecting pipe joined a tight copper coil which came to a tap at the bottom which came out through the side of the large tank. Branko takes a tin from his tractor and inside it is a mixture of white and brown wholemeal flour. He adds some water from the cistern and proceeds to mould it with his fingers into a very dry dough and this is used as the fire cement to seal all the pipes. Jela id around with a large polythene sheet collecting all the pieces of plum tree prunings and bringing them over. Branko lights the fire in the big burner under the copper vessel. Smoke wisps into the warm sunny morning air and the flames start to lap out of the door. Zarko and Jefto get buckets of the mash and start to pour it into the lock down opening in the top of the vessel.. It takes about 15 gallons of the thick stinking mash. The fire gets hotter. Zarko puts a pump down the deep water storage cistern. Water starts to fill the other tank around the outside of the 'silencer box'. Jefto sits himself down on a chair alongside the boiling vessel and starts to turn a big handle in the side which turns a ratchet inside which moves three paddles round inside to keep the mash from sticking to it. The process is underway. It lasts for the next 48 hours! Gradually the mash boils, the alcoholic steam passes along the funnel and the collecting pipe into the silencer condenser. The cold water jacket condenses the distillate and it comes out through the tap at the bottom into a bucket, which is periodically emptied into other large containers. When the mash is very thick and difficult to stir, the process is over. It is checked by testing the tap liquid with a hygrometer. When the alcohol concentration drops back, the process is stopped. The lever on the side of the boiling vessel is opened and boiling hot diarrhoea issue forthe with a wonderful scent of apples and plums. Steam and smoke rise together. The sludge is collected in a vast wooden trough and then taken for feeding to the pigs and cows. At the end, when all the mash had been boiled, the vessel wash washed out with fresh water and then the distillate was put in for a second go. Now the alcohol content of the first distillate was 42% proof. The second time round it was 78% alcohol! Bloody rocket fuel! Branko demonstrated that the stuff bursts into flame if it is thrown on the top of the boiling vessel!. The buckets have to be kept clear of the burner when being moved...they are explosive...it's as flammable as petrol...you could drive a car on it! He chattily related the story of the men who had been badly burned by exploding buckets of Slivovic when passing the boiler!

Sorry...am tired and have gone to bed.......more to come in next few days. This Saturday I have to finish chucking things out at Evesham and tidying up the house. Wait for the results of the distilling, the trip to Zavidivici, the visit to Al and Sanja in Strasburg to see their new baby, and the cherry on top of the cake...the top of the Eiffel Tower.

Best wishes, Doc.

Pilgrims (a)Way

Saturday 7^th April was a very special day in our family, Father’s 95^th birthday. Sister A, brother N and myself had arranged with the Warden/Manager of the sheltered accommodation in Windermere, where he lives, to have a buffet lunch with him and the other residents, and apart from believing that A and I were joining him for lunch he did not know that Son and New daughter, A and A’s husband P and her children were all coming too. In fact N and his wife were due to fly over from Germany but in the last week N has been unwell after a fairly routine angiogram which left him with a large bruise and femoral artery swelling which needed some small but uncomfortable inguinal surgery at short notice, so sadly he was unable to come over for the event. S,the manager at the House, had arranged a fancy dress party and had made all the lady residents nurses’ aprons and caps and all the men had a white coat on and there were lots of dolls in baby clothes all around representing Father’s previous career in Obstetrics. It was a wonderful party with lots of fun and leg pulling from the residents and all enjoyed it immensely.

After the lunch, we all returned to our respective home, and Father, who was coming with me to Bosnia the next day came back with us. That night, in the farm yard, in safety, we tried out the camper van to see whether Father and I could indeed manage in there, and he had a good night’s sleep and we prepared breakfast in the morning and we up and dressed by the time everyone else was stirring, so the experiment was a success. After lunch on Sunday 8^th April, we departed from Yorkshire en route for Dover.

We were fortunate in the weather and surprisingly little traffic on the M1,M25 and M20 and made good progress, arriving outside Gravesend about 1900hrs where we stopped in a lorry park for the night, had a good supper and slept well. The intention had been to spend a little time in Canterbury on Monday morning before our ferry at 1430hrs. That worked well, and we parked in Canterbury at 0845 and walked very slowly and gently into Canterbury where we visited the cathedral and saw the holy site where St Thomas a Becket was slaughtered and walked into the monastery garden behind, which is beautiful. I was surprised F made it so well, despite the fact that I have brought a wheelchair in case he needed it. The only blight on this Holy diversion was that some “Jobsworth” parking attendant had decided to give us a ticket, because despite there being no obvious signs to the contrary and no height barrier, and even with Father’s disabled badge clearly in the window, the plonker decided that we were in contravention because we occupied more than one space. In fact all four wheels were inside a space, but the camper has a six foot bum, which like many others, protrudes rather into other people’s space! More of this later perhaps when I have had a gentle remonstration with Canterbury Council on my return.(Although by that time, no doubt, there will be a Court summons because I have been unable to contact them to pay the £60-00 parking fine.) I also find it offensive that so many of our holy sites now find it necessary to charge for entry, as indeed does Canterbury Cathedral. They have a small notice to explain their charging policy, and why they feel it is necessary, but I cannot help feel that, even though they might need the money for the fabric of the building, it is hardly in the spirit of the Lord whom they embody and whose policy was to cast out traders from the temple and state clearly that God’s house should not be profaned by trade. I wonder whether they will similarly expect to pay to enter the Great Temple of Valhalla because God will have a little notice that says that he needs the income for the maintenance of the universe? “Consider the Lilies of the field…..”

Having left Canterbury we went down to Dover and arrived an hour early and were lucky to be put on the earlier ferry, so we sailed at 1345 and arrived at 1515 European time. The Satnav device took us straight across France and Belgium into Germany where we spent the night with brother N in Monchengladbach, with the slight ridiculous problem that I programmed the right name of the street with a single number difference in the postcode, so we arrived at the wrong house first off and spent the next half hour along very small lanes getting to the correct place. Technology is only as good as the programmer! It was nice to see N and A and their son, N who is soon to go off to South Africa, where the family used to live, to do a training course to become a Game Reserve warden. N has fortunately recovered well from his operation and illness. After an overnight stay, with the family also working early, we left at 0830 and had a brilliant, staged 600 mile run from Monchengladbach to Graz in Austria. The weather was perfect, and we enjoyed the trip, stopping about every 150 miles for a walk and a drink, and to make lunch in the camper. About 100 miles outside Graz however we hit a slight problem as the fuel light came on and I drove to try to get a fill up but, with only 3km left to go, ran dry inside the 3km tunnel at Sasstadt, just south of Wels. All’s well that ends well however, and I started the flasher lights, took out the Hazard triangles and accessed the spare can of diesel from the garage of the camper. Apart from the incredible noise and the almighty wind created by the large lorries overtaking us, it was all going relatively well until I tried to start again and then remembered an occasion whre I had helped a similar diesel van in the same circumstances and the engine just doesn’t fire up from a fuel pump, it needs priming first after running dry. Well, I hadn’t got a clue where to prime it. When I had helped before, I had towed the other vehicle into a bump start, but nobody was stopping here unless they were mad…….or Police. The tunnel patrol Police vehicle came screaming down the tunnel and pulled up in front of us. A very kind police officer spoke in excellent English and said to get the hazard triangles, get in the van and they would tow us out. Perfect, and at just the right minute. Father sat sombre at my side, certain that I was going to get either a hefty fine or imprisonment and was beginning to make suggestions as to where I might leave him until I was released! Nothing could have been further from the truth. The officers were very polite, very friendly and amazingly helpful. They opened a gate at the end of the tunnel which lead to an emergency access road and thence off the autobahn to a petrol station. They would not even accept a gift for a drink or two. It was all part of their service they said and they had been pleased to help having had us reported by a CCTV camera. ( Obviously by someone who was as good as their technology.) The whole delay- 25 minutes! Now that is some service! Vielen danke!

I paid a little homage to the guardian angel, and smiled at the small child’s bootee on the camper wall,a reminder from the time that we did this trip and turned over a trailer in a jacknife incident in the middle of a 3 lane downhill stretch of the E3 autobahn, south of Frankfurt…..and survived!

The night spent outside Graz on a lorry park alongside the autobahn does not go down in memory as one of the best nights for sleep. It rather rivals the holiday we spent camping on a Municipal campsite outside Paris in the 1980’s. That was situated alongside a railway station, between two main roads and under the flight path of Charles de Gaulle airport. This Rastplatz was apparently perfect, very large and open with good parking about 60 metres back from the road. During the night however it was clear, that one could not have seen the railway line behind the embankment at the rear, and although the sensible lorry drivers were asleep in their cabs alongside us, from about midnight, the traffic picked up on the autobahn and with the thunder of double HGVs with trailers at 70m.p.h.all night, and the express trains behind, the noise was deafening and the ground literally shook as a small earthquake might. Father, without his deaf aid in, slept like a log.

On Thursday morning, 12^th, we decided that we could make it into Bosnia easily in the day, having really broken the back of the journey, and we cruised in beautiful sunshine from Graz into Slovenia, to Maribor, and thence to Croatia and Zagreb, to Okučani and then south off cracked concrete autobahn, which is the E70, heading for the border crossing at Bosanska Gradiska. Now, for those of you, (who are probably in the majority at this moment in time), who venture into Bosnia as civilian tourists, a few words of advice. Do not be too phased by this place! It is rather like stepping back into a 1960’s James Bond film, old, tatty, narrow, congested, and manned by armed, very authoritarian police and border guards. One approaches it across a two lane iron bridge, which crosses the River Sava, the northern border between Croatia and Bosnia. Actually coming out of Croatia involves an encounter with Croatian officialdom as well, who are always interested and concerned about, not what you might have been running in Croatia, or with what you may have taken whilst there, but what are you going into Bosnia for and why you want to go there, and what goods might you be taking their erstwhile neighbour enemies. A full search can take place at either of these delightful tourist traps, but this time we were lucky and everyone seemed, at least, to be taking life in a slightly more chilled fashion. This could be related to their anticipated membership of the enlarging European Union of course, and the possibility that, since the vast majority of eastern Europeans seem to head for us, we may be the interviewee they meet when looking for their new work permit? ( Only kidding of course…..who needs work permits when you have a Home Office like ours?

The River Sava is the place where, in 1995, refugees fleeing Bosnia who tried to swim across, died when they were shot by the opposing forces. The river ran red for a week.

And so, the first part of the pilgrimage is almost at an end. We drove down through the small townships on the rough roads into the outskirts of Banja Luka. The motorway link that was being started 18 months ago is in much the same state as it was then, in fact it does not look to have made any progress whatsover from the approximately two miles of optimistic three carriageway compacted dirt that was there then. However, many more of the houses have been repaired and the townships look poor but vibrant. The driving is still as maniacal and the roadside shrines are developing small satellite shrines of their own. The drinking of copious amounts of beer and plum brandy, and the lack of any real insistence of roadworthiness of the vehicles are predominantly responsible for the accidents, although the traffic police seem to have got hold of more hand held laser cameras and some breathalyser kits. (I was reliably assured by Zarko yesterday, that they are not capable of picking up the alcohol on the breath after drinking Slivovic or Vodka, so one can safely drink those with impunity, although I think he may realise that that is unlikely to be the case one day)

The final run in is from Banja Luka to Mrkonic Grad, and involves trip up one of the most scenic gorges I have ever seen. Father and remark on it together everytime we have driven it. The pictures give some slight idea of its beauty, but only getting out and looking can really explain what I would want to express. (Yes…the camper does just go under the overhang on the left but it is a blind right hand bend…actually not the best place to try to take a photograph, and definitely illegal to do so at the wheel except perhaps here!)

The final run climbs up to the Glamoc plateau out of Mrkonjic Grad. The road, on the edge of the mountain with precipitaous drops and little in the way of guard rails is again a spectacular trip, worthy of any tourist route of the future. Sadly the poverty, the war damage and the mines which are still in many parts of the forst and hillsides are likely to prevent this for a long time to come, but I think so often, that this is a cross between Switzerland and Austria, it has wonderful hills, mountains, rivers and valleys, magnificent and vast forests, superb summer climate and heavy snows in winter, and ideal all year round resort area which could bring rapid prosperity to an otherwise impecunious, scantily industrialised, country.

We phoned ahead. Yes, we could come in anytime, a day early, no matter, everyone is waiting to see us. We climbed the last ridge and then turned the last bend to see the plateau of Glamoc Polje spread out southwards in the distance, a vast flat fertile volcanic crater. Small smoke wisps arose from the areas where they were burning off the old grass on the fields and lower mountain slopes. On the western edge, snuggled under the hill side, we could glimpse the small white dots which was the village of Sumnjajce, our destination.

Bosnia or bust….well here we are, Archer and Arrow, 1380 miles and nothing’s bust. So far, so good.

Best wishes, Doc.

Time is of an essence here in Bosnia, so probably no more will get published for a few days; there are many old friends to see, and that usually involves a considerable amount of time over Turkish style coffee, Slivovic, and beers, but watch out for next issue… “Moonshine Mountain”

A week off before Bosnia and D.I.Y.Blog lesson.

Well, the last couple of days have been lovely weather and so the camper has been cleaned ready to get dirty again on the drive to Bosnia! Wife had another indeterminate birthday yesterday and we went out to Gibbon Bridge in The Forest of Bowland for dinner, and this morning is cold and overcast again, so not much fun playing out. The old Peugeot 205 which Wife has refused to believe would ever die and leave her, has almost died with so many oil leaks that she rivals the Torre Canyon. In the process of teaching Wife a bit more about how to use her newly acquired laptop, we browsed e-bay for a "new to us" car to replace the 205, and have begun a gentle bid on a tidy dark green diesel 206 for which the bidding closes on Wednesday night. Checking our winning bid this morning and sat in dressing gown unwilling to face the slightly unpleasant morning, I strayed to the Blogger edit area and actually read it! I really ought to learn after so many years of just picking stuff up and playing with it, that the best way to get the best out of things is to read the instructions. (Reminder to actually read instructions for mobile phone which I keep moaning about as so complicated I don't understand it)

So, now, new layout, new colours AND photo. I have also found out how those of you that may want to can make a comment may do so by just clicking on "comment" at the end of the blog, without having to be a blogger yourself. It does allow me to edit anything wicked or more vulgar than I myself might write however, and it IS readable by others, so remember that and please respect and keep the anonymity of each other by referring to people that I mention in the same manner. There is also a hyperlink to my specific blog e-mail for other messages too, so I hope that old and new friends may be able to chat with me more easily than before. We are almost into the realm of a "glossy" rag mag now. Watch this space!

Best wishes, Doc

What’s up Doc?......Tits, for a start!

Well, of course it’s April 1^st, and something was bound to go wrong. In terms of planning for the Great Trip, things have not got much further advanced. I have been working at the Barracks until Friday night and have now finished the locum appointment for a month off during which Father and I are going to Bosnia. I attended my first ride-out with the Aire Valley Harley Owners Group last weekend, a good but slightly chilly trip from the dealership in Leeds back to the Dales where I had come from! Anyway, it was a good ride, well organised and marshalled and there were approximately 60 of us thundering up Wharfedale, into Nidderdale and out of Pately Bridge, on to the giant golf balls at Menwith Hill Radio station and then to the Hooper Lane Hotel for lunch. It was a very enjoyable run, although seeing the scenery when riding in such large convoy is always hard as it requires a lot of riding concentration. It was a very friendly group, most welcoming and when I got home and told Wife, who normally is none too keen to ride pillion, that there was a further ride-out this Sunday to Blackpool, she was quite enthusiastic to come too. This took a little special preparation on her part as she had to sort out the sheep and feed the spare lambs before we left, as well as digging out her leathers from the back of the cupboard and suitably adjusting her jeans and chaps (does my bum look big in this?) etc. Then we couldn’t find her helmet, so after a quick panic, I found one that fitted in the garage, but with a certain amount of mildew on the lining which I hastily brushed off, though I hardly like to mention that there may be a few spores left in the hair and it could turn green spotted over the next few days. Yesterday, I spent a considerable number of hours happily ensconced, keeping my head down, out of the way in the garage cleaning the bike. Although I rode out on her last week, she has seen action most of the winter, so had not had a decent spring clean. Of course, the battery was a bit flat, because it has been for a while and does not hold its charge very well, and I should have changed it, but a few hours on the battery charger got her going and she looked as good as I can get her by 7.00 o’clock. I decided that I would fill up with petrol on the way in the morning. Finally, I proudly placed the new logo, which my talented designer nephew has done for me to promote the blog when I am in the U.S., on the back of the top box. Ready for the show, ready for Blackpool, ready for a pillion.

Back to this morning. The Chapter meets at the dealership in Leeds, so, since they were due to ride an hour before they even arrived near us, I e-mailed to warn the Road Captain that I would pick them up in Burnley. I wouldn’t have minded really going over to Leeds first, it’s not at all a bad trip and the weather was absolutely glorious, but that would have meant the farmer(Wife) getting up at 5.30 rather than 7.30, and there may not have been enough time to get the bum to look O.K. in those jeans and chaps. The ride was due to pass through Burnley around 10.00, so we left at 9.25, allowing 10 minutes to get petrol and 15 minutes to get to Burnley, perfect timing. Popped in to garage, pulled up at pump, loaded petrol, removed Wife’s helmet, (no growth on hair yet) to remove stud earrings which should have been changed to rings but were left with butterfly back clips which pressed into skull inside helmet, got back on bike and fired her up(bike, not Wife.) ……..or not!

The battery was stone dead. Now just a technical aside for those of you who do not know much about bikes, or Harleys. ( This is for benefit of those on this side of the Atlantic, rather than those in the U.S.A.(North America) The Harley has a "big V-twin" engine, and I mean BIG! 1500cc of throbbing growl which comes from just two massive cylinders which is why they make such an evocative noise. The downside of that is that it takes a whopping heavy duty battery to kick it into life. There is no kick start, which, in any case, if there was, would almost certainly break your leg or dislocate your hip, and it is only possible to bump start if you are on a 1 in 5 hill or if you have the England rugby scrum pushing you. My immediate thought was a jump start, but I had taken my jump leads out of the pannier when I cleaned her yesterday, so desperate, as the time clicked by, and with Pillion trying to look forlorn at side of the bike, I went back inside and bought yet another pair (my sixth!) for nine quid. I grappled with the ridiculously small screw under the top box to release the seats and access the battery, cutting my index finger in the process and bleeding over newly cleaned and polished Harley. Then, of course, the crocodile clips were so big they would hardly clip on the terminals and would need Wife to hold then in place while I pressed the ignition, rather like doing cardiac defibrillation on a motorcycle. ( I pictured the scene in a small brain bubble, as I shout “charge 350….STAND CLEAR” and fire, converting the asystole into a throbbing regular pulse.) I then proceeded to ask everybody on the forecourt if they could please allow me to jump start off their battery. Sod the bloody lot of them! “In a hurry, am already late for football.” “I have to be in Burnley in 5 minutes!” (So do bloody I!), “No, sorry, I’m on my way to golf” (SO?) “I don’t know how to open the bonnet”, “No, I’m running late already”. Finally, at just on 10.00, a kind lady with a VW Golf and a young daughter offered to help, but, like I said, it needs a whopping battery and what will start a 1500cc four cylinder Golf, wouldn’t even begin to turn the big V-twin. With thanks for her letting me try, and a final feeling of despair, I watched her leave the forecourt. Just as I was thinking that we would have to get the bus in all the clobber (only runs two trips in the morning anyway, although a helmet is advisable, and the leather chaps protect your jeans from the chewing gum left on the seats from the school run the day before) a silver diesel Vectra pulled up alongside Forlorn Pillion and I realised she had pulled! This driver, had passed the forecourt on his way somewhere local and had come back because he “had seen a motorcycle in distress”. Thank you God! More thank you’s to this man, Ian, who it turns out was off to do some work on a motor tricycle he is building. Phenomenal!..not only has he stopped but Ian knows all about motor bikes, AND has his own professional jump leads, AND the diesel Vectra has a walloping lump of a battery, and very soon the patient is out of intensive care and ready to leave. (The only thing he didn’t have with him was a plaster for my finger, which was by then congealing inside my glove, the leather of which was turning into a skin graft). It turned out that Ian, our guardian biker angel is a member of the “Silsden Sewer Rats” (no shit?) and so I hereby nominate him to the Chapter Director for their Golden Turd Award for Kind Hearted Generosity for 2007. Unlike me, who can just talk the talk, this guy can walk the walk as well. Thanks so much Ian. Perhaps I can return the favour sometime when you are needing help with a bit of tinkering yourself, maybe a free vasectomy at home or chopping out your verrucas or something more up my street? In the meantime, when I get back from the States, perhaps I will look up the Sewer Rats and bore them to death with a picture show over a bevy or two?

So, dejected after what seemed like, and reads like, 20 minutes, but actually took place in 10, the time was 10.10 and 15 minutes away in Burnley, unless they were running late, the Ride-out would have been on the way out of town at least 25 minutes ahead of me. We decided that, since we had got ready for it, and at last the bike was running again, we might as well set off and do the ride, which is what we did. I knew the route, or at least 90% of it, and I knew that they were parking up at a hotel for lunch at…?…Well it was at a hotel at either the extreme north end of the prom or the extreme south. Never mind, we were en route again and had a lovely ride through the back lanes of Lancashire in beautiful sunshine with sheep and lambs in the fields, daffodils in the hedgerows, flowering cherries forsythia and gorse in open bud and a faint hint of bursting leaf buds on the trees and in the hedges. The Harley bubbled with enthusiasm, the Pillion likewise, my mobile rang in vain in my jacket, and we arrived rather miraculously in Blackpool, after I had spotted a few names I remembered from the itinerary and kept the sun behind and slightly to the left of me!

We arrived on the promenade, almost opposite the North Pier, and swung left to cruise down to the far South end. All the time, I had expected to suddenly be absorbed in a throbbing mass of Harleys enveloping us from behind, or to suddenly spot the tail end Charlie Marshall’s orange vest in front, and so here, now, rider’s and Pillion’s eyes were peeled as we cruised down the Prom past the myriad slot machine halls, cheap holiday shops and boarding houses. At the far end are a lot of hotels with large parking areas in front, and indeed, it would have to be quite large to park up almost 100 bikes which would have probably been on the ride. Not a whistle of them, not a Harley in sight, even as we drew into Lytham St.Annes. It definitely wasn’t down here. 100 Harleys thundering down the High Street here would probably have caused Lancashire Health Authority a major headache as their A and E beds filled up with the “older than me oldies” of this elite Blackpool dormitory, dropping with coronaries as the “Rockers” hit town in force. The only yellow vest would have been lines of paramedics. No, definitely not here, so we turned round in the forecourt of The Eventide Care Home, gunned the throttle to still feel alive and help a few residents on their way, and roared back up to Blackpool again. It was now about 12.45, and apart from anything else, we both needed a wee. The extreme south end of the Prom by the sand dunes, is actually about the best of Blackpool as far as I am concerned. Here, on the left, past Maplins’ Holiday park on the right, is a coach park, virtually empty today and smothered in blown sand, but it pointed to a toilet, so we slithered in and parked up. Couldn’t turn off the engine of course, as we may not have had the good fortune to encounter a second Sewer Rat had it failed to start again, so we went in turns, me first, because, although I have a longer valve, Wife has a stronger bladder. I was astonished to find a row of cubicles with stainless steel doors in what I had previously thought was an old red brick, flat concrete roofed, deckchair store. Adjacent to these doors, embedded in the walls of this building, crafted lovingly in elegant mock brick shithouse style, were coin meters, for 20 pence pieces….I mean 20 pee a wee! Those of you whom I can now count amongst my five fans, will recall my comparisons with real money( old money) when I recounted the cost of my cowboy gun, but a wee in a public loo used to be free for men, and sadly both men and women who wished to use a cubicle, (the latter who, despite burning their bras and becoming “emancipated” in the 60’s never managed to get the hang of hitting a projecting porcelain butter dish from the wall) had to pay 1 penny, which, of course, is how we gained the metaphor expression of “spending a penny”. Now 1d, or 1 penny, was 1/240 of a pound, by today’s prices, the equivalent of just less than ¼ P! This loo therefore represents an inflation rate of 8000%, or in income terms, this would mean that the average income in this country, had it kept pace with the inflation cost of a pee, would be about £80,000 p.a. Had I been on my own, I would probably have wet the sand dunes, but with wife present too, I spent the 20pence and then, gentleman that I am, held the door open and shouted to her to come over and inherit the throne!. That way we reduced our personal inflation rate and made an old man very happy in the loss of the equivalent of four shillings! While I waited by the still running bike, I checked to see who had phoned me in vain earlier. It was Daughter, so I phoned her back. She’s had a good week, made her targets, and had good day yesterday at the Rugby in Twickenham with some mates from work. Wife returned and took over conversation. She finished call and hung up and then checked her phone. First thing she noticed was the date, 1^st April. No surely, I thought suddenly, it must be the 31^st, ‘cos Tuesday, 2^nd, is Wife’s birthday. Aagh!!! No, it’s tomorrow, Monday. That was the day I was going to creep out and get card and present. Too late. Missed it, got date wrong, admit it there and then or pass it off nonchalantly. Pass it off nonchalantly! Discretion is the better part of valour. Still a chance to get card at petrol station and think hard about sudden off the cuff pressie. The time was now 1.00 o’clock. We were both feeling hungry and decided to make one more effort and go to the far north end of the prom and hunt for the battalion of Harleys and lunch.

I regret that we passed the whole front again, right up to The Norbreck Castle Hotel and beyond, and still saw no other Harley anywhere. We arrived at the right turn which takes one East, away from the beach and towards the M55 and M6. Pillion suggested that we should not go back to town centre as we could not leave the engine running while we ate there, so we should set off and find a road house en route back to Home. As we were leaving the outskirts of Blackpool, in Kirkham, we saw on our left a nice looking hostelry, called The Blue Anchor. What particularly caught my eye was the food sign and the fact that there were some tables and umbrellas outside, so we could park up, engine running and eat at the table on the verandah. This seemd like a great idea, and we went in, finding an extraordinarily friendly welcome from the owner staff, to whom we explained the plight and our need to eat out at the table to stay close to the bike. They were very helpful , despite the fact that nobody felt it was warm enough to sit out, and very soon, several had been out to admire the bike, and we had our meals delivered and were talking with the owner, Lorraine, and two members of staff on the balcony overlooking the main road. We had just started to eat our fish and chips(really good by the way) when there seemed to be a rumble of thunder in the West rolling around in the clear skies somewhere. Suddenly, the whole of the bloody Light Brigade “rode into the valley of death” the thundering Harley hooves flying past and waving at us and hooting their horns. The Chapter was on it’s way home to Leeds after lunch, so even though we never spoke to any of them, they finally caught us up! It was quite a spectacular ride past, which was enjoyed by the staff and patrons at the pub. They however, had their own little rumble of thunder, it’s V-twin heart still beating gently, right under their verandah, and we stayed and chatted for almost an hour about all sorts of things. An incredibly friendly family, lovely food and a really nice place to have stopped. So, the April 1^st Ride-out went tits up. We didn’t ride in gloriously noisy convoy and companionship together, but we did have time to see and enjoy the countryside; we didn’t meet the members and discuss the ride and the bikes over lunch in a hotel overlooking either the north or south end of the prom, but we found a lovely pub and friendly welcome in Kirkham, and we didn’t get off to a good start and had to keep the engine running for over 5 hours, but we got all the way, rode 84 miles and got back to the farm without needing the RAC. Incidentally, when we arrived we were both dying for a cuppa,we parked up in the yard before putting the Iron Lady to bed, and switched off the engine….. Don’t ask!

Best wishes, Doc