And finally...

Before

After

Welcome to my last blog. I had intended to complete my scribblings on my antipodean adventures, but for reasons I shall explain I have changed my mind.

Writing the blog has forced a bit if discipline into my writing and I reckon I have a fund of about 150,000 words now to draw on should I complete my 75,000 word book. To date though there is little interest from the publishing world in a book about some middle aged bloke who takes a year out to do some exciting things. The rejection letters I receive from agents say roughly the same thing -' we feel it will be difficult to place a book of this kind given the current constraints of the market'. Without the hope of being published I need to use the time I have for writing to focus on projects that are more likely to bear fruit. For example, I am in the process of preparing a crime story for submission to a magazine called 'Crimewave'. Not all is lost though with regard to the book and a change of strategy is needed. I am now approaching publishers directly, or more specifically new publishers, as they offer most hope given their need to find new authors.

On a positive note, I recently published on here the first 10,000 words of said book. The same text was then submitted to Hull University as the final part of my Creative Writing Degree. The submission was well received and the mark I obtained was more than sufficient to gain me an award of First Class Honours. I'm not sure what doors such a degree might open, but it looks good on a covering letter when approaching publishers.

Apart from watching the dire World Cup, a lot of my time recently has been taken up with very pleasurable research. The terms of being given a place on their playwright course by Hull Truck Theatre are such that I have until the end of August to submit a play to them to consider and give me feedback on. Just as you can't write without reading so you can't create a play without going to the theatre. Thus, I have been cramming more theatre trips than usual into my schedule. The last was to see 'Cooking with Elvis' at Hull Truck. The advertising blurb didn't make the play sound very appealing, but it was one of the best and the funniest plays I have seen. A great script and a fantastic cast. If you live in or around Hull I urge you to catch this one before it goes. The play closes on Saturday 10th June.

I have also been paying visits to libraries and museums to research my own play. Originally one of the central characters was to be the spirit of a Native American. To create more local interest I have now set my play in Brough, on the shores of the Humber. In AD 71 the Roman Army crossed the Humber and settled in what was they called Petuaria. My new character is a rather randy old chap (well he's not had sex for nearly 2,000 years) called Marcus Ulpius Ianuarius, or Mikey to his mates. In real life Marcus was the magistrate for Petuaria. I am looking forward to bringing Mikey back to life over the next few weeks as I work on my play.

Looking back on the things I have been fortunate to do over the past year it is impossible to pick out a favourite. So many nice memories linger in my mind - the gentle mountain gorillas, the day on The Nile, walking up the Fox Glacier, climbing Sydney Harbour Bridge and of course doing the thing I always said I would never do - the bungee jump.

Do I have any more big adventures planned? Well, not on the scale of my trips to Africa, Australia and New Zealand. My cancelled trip to Hong Kong and Vietnam has left me 2 countries short of my target of visiting 10 countries that are new to me. To correct this I am taking a trip with my two sons next month. We are flying to Copenhagen, having a day out by rail in Malmo and taking the train for a stay in Hamburg. That way I add Denmark and Sweden to my list of 'new' countries.I also have a yen to travel coast to coast across the USA next year.

I am looking forward to cycling from coast to coast across England at the end of August. Following my collapse during the half marathon I have begun to cycle more and run less. It is really good fun and is so much kinder to my knees. I am drooling over a new bike in the local cycle shop.

I was asked recently what I thought was different about me following my year off. I concluded that I was less tolerant. The best thing about my life now is getting up in the morning and being the boss of me. I don't answer to anyone. In a perverse way, having more time has made me appreciate it even more. In the words of The Desiderata, I avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. I also avoid situations that I think will be boring or tedious. I seek out situations that are exciting or which I will learn from. That makes me sound very selfish and self-centred, but I would like to believe that I am simply focussed on making the most of my time on this wonderful planet. Twenty three years ago I had been married for just 5 months when my wife was involved in a dreadful road accident that left her scarred for life and forced her to give up nursing. I learned then that what seems important one second is irrelevant the next. Life can change in the blink of an eye. It is a lesson I have never forgotten. I don't need a heart attack or a cancer scare to remind me to cherish my life.

What has definitely changed is there is less of me and what remains is much fitter and active. I owe it mostly to Tesco Diets, an online slimming and fitness guide. Every week for 18 months I have been weighing in and leaving some comment about how the week has gone. In return I receive an email of support and advice from a nutritionist. Of course, there's more to it than that, but those weekly weigh-in have motivated me to keep going.

I lost a lot of weight and got fitter just to undertake my gap year. Since returning from New Zealand I have been able to lose more weight and train more often. I have reached my goal, which was to lose 3 stones. Tesco seem to be very proud of what I have done (as with most slimming clubs the majority of the clientele are ladies and male losers are rarer) and have made me a 'success story', which affords me free lifetime membership of Tesco Diets. They have also invited me for an all expenses paid day in London for a photo-shoot as one of seven big fat losers. I am quite stunned and thrilled by this.

Finally, thank you to those that have taken the time to follow my inane ramblings on here. If I have left any loose ends or you have any questions please leave a comment or email me at bryan.moiser@googlemail.com.

Live long and prosper,

Bryan and Wainwright.

Waitangi Day (Part 3)

A warm welcome - the young girls in the front row were from various backgrounds. Two of them were English and had only been in NZ for a year. During that time they had learned about Maori culture to then point where they were confident members of this group. In many way ways that is what Waitangi Day is all about.
My new brothers and sisters

Making our way onto the treaty ground I was drawn by the sound of singing and guitars that led me to a large group of Maoris in traditional costumes. They appeared to be suffering from a collective personality disorder. One minute the group were singing melodically, all warm and inviting. The next they were all making threatening gestures and poking their tongues out at me.

The women in particular fascinated me. Maybe it was their sheer beauty or maybe I was simply transfixed by the skilful way they swung their poi balls in time to the music. By the way, ‘poi balls’ is not a rude euphemism, even if they do always appear in pairs. They are balls held together by a piece of cord and swung in rhythmic and sometimes complicated patterns.

As my love affair with the Maori blossomed it was not enough to see them, I wanted to be one. So when the leader of the group invited people to join them on stage to sing and dance I was up there quicker than you can say ‘Waitangi Day’. Mercifully, the singing wasn’t very testing as it was more of a chanted melody and the dance steps were simple enough even for my two left size twelves. Sadly, I didn’t receive any offers of marriage from the beautiful women, but as the men shook my hand and thanked me for joining them I felt a little bit more Maori than I had at the start of the day.

My eagerness to join my new tribe combined with my English reserve robbed me of a one-off opportunity. I returned to my place on the grass in front of the stage and about 10 minutes later the group made a further invitation – they wanted men to join them in the Haka, the traditional Maori dance. The most famous exponents on the Haka are the All Blacks, the New Zealand Rugby Union team, as they perform it to frighten the crap out of their opponents before every match. Theirs is just one version of the dance, each tribe having its own rendition of the thigh slapping, eye bulging, tongue poking ritual.

I desperately wanted to join my new brothers in performing this iconic war dance. But, having already been on stage once, I didn’t want to appear as though I was hogging the limelight and foolishly I stayed put and allowed other middle aged men to steal the show. It was near the start of our trip and I reassuringly told myself that there would be another opportunity. There wasn’t.

After a wander around the treaty grounds and visiting the Treaty House, Pete and I made our way back to our car and drove further along the shore to our rendezvous with Dan, the kayak man.

Dan was a very slim, twenty-something, laid back and affable Kiwi who prepared us for the first of our New Zealand activities. We were joined by a young, Irish girl, whose name I could never catch. Sioboleenough, or something like that. She was 14 months into her world tour, having just spent 6 months in Australia and was about due to head over to South America next.

Suitably instructed and kitted out, the four of us took two double kayaks out into the gentle waters of the bay in the late afternoon sunshine. Our destination was a point about a mile distant where we beached the kayaks and then made a steep trek up through the woods. Waiting for us was Lindon, his dog and his beautiful vineyard.

What followed was an idyllic evening of wine tasting, cheese and biscuits and Lindon’s charming company as the sun set over the rows of vines around us and the bay beneath us. The wine was exquisite, although the vineyard was too small to make enough for export. One of the ‘must-sees’ Pete and I had excluded from our trip was the Marlborough wine region on South Island. Our hour or so with Lindon in his beautiful part of the land made up for the loss.

Lindon explained that this had once been Maori land but they found the soil too poor to produce crops. It was, however, perfect for growing vines and had been bought from the Maori for just two dollars and a couple of blankets. This information tested my loyalties. I liked Lindon and his wine, but here was a living example of the exploitation of my Maori brothers. I was very tempted to begin a protest march around the vines and maybe even crush the odd grape in defiance. Instead I reverted to being a British tourist and followed Lindon into his wine store where he did me a very good deal on a couple of bottles of delicious Pinot Noir.

The Final Challenge

There were more entrants than I had imagined for yesterday's Humber Bridge Half Marathon - just over 2,000. It was hot even before we began the 13 mile gruelling run and contestants sheltered in the shade around the start point.

I got off to a good start, maybe a little too fast, but I had trained for 3 months for this and was feeling confident. That confidence waned as I hauled myself up the first of the hills at about 4 miles. My legs began to feel tired and the temperature was rising.

I reached half-way at just under an hour and was on target for the 2 hour finish I had set myself.

As predicted, the ninth mile was torture. An undulating mile long climb, it tested my stamina to the limit. Many people began to walk. I just pushed on, knowing that if I stopped I would never get going again. Finally, the haul was over and I reached the 10 mile marker. Just three miles to go. What could go wrong?

The heat and the climbs had sapped me and as I reached the final mile I was running on sheer will power. There were just 7 minutes until the 2 hour mark, so it was obvious I was not going to reach my target. Finishing became my objective even though my body screamed at me to stop this madness. I pushed on.

Less than half a mile from the finish was when it happened. I became light headed and then bang! Down I went. Heat exhaustion had taken me.

I don't remember falling. It was as if I had been shot. I couldn't move a muscle. There were people all around me. For some reason I thought I was surrounded by police officers and had been arrested. I began to panic and struggled to breathe.

An ambulance crew arrived and I heard calming, reassuring voices. They strapped me to a board and put me in the ambulance. Hands were all over me - attaching electrodes, inserting oxygen tubes, taking blood, fixing me to a drip. I am fortunate to have been healthy all my life. This was a new and very frightening experience. I know it is a cliché, but I didn't know what day it was. I struggled to remember but it was no good.

My condition stabilised, we made the journey to Hull Royal where I spent the afternoon on a drip and gradually got better.

The local newspaper reports that the race took place on the hottest day of the year, with temperatures peaking at 28 degrees.

So, a task failed. There are other half marathons but I have no intention of entering them. 10k's on cool days for me in the future.

Yet it wasn't all failure. The race epitomised what my gap year has been about. I have been to wonderful places and done exciting things. Wherever I have gone though it has always been the kindness and generosity of people that has shone through. The fact that I am well enough to be typing this is testimony to the legion of people who helped me yesterday. Some of those who came to my aid must have been runners who rather than push on to the finish gave up their race to help me. When I was released from hospital, perhaps a little foolishly, I decided to take a taxi to recover my car.

On arrival back at the bridge I found the field where cars had been parked was secure. There was a note on my windscreen with a number to ring to have the gate opened. As I waited for the gate to be unlocked I was approached by a man and his wife. He turned out to be a retired police officer from a southern force. He was concerned for my safety and insisted that he drove me home whilst his wife followed in their car. I protested but gave in as I knew he was right and I wasn't really fit to drive.


For me, that is what travel and maybe life is about - the total and unexpected kindness of strangers.

It ain't half hot mum

Tomorrow, Sunday 27th June, looks like being one of the hottest days of the year so far in England. Temperatures are forecast to reach 26 degrees Celsius. That's just perfect for drinking cold beer and having a barbie whilst England take on the mighty Germans once more in the World Cup. For me it is a disaster.

In the morning I face the last of my 20 challenges as my gap year officially draws to a close. The challenge is to run a half marathon (13 miles/21km) in under 2 hours. To achieve this I have entered the Humber Bridge Half Marathon.

My training has gone well. I ran the Humber Bridge 10k in just over 50 minutes 3 weeks ago. That's by far my personal best and 6 minutes faster than the same race last year. My training runs have also gone well, the longest being 12 miles, which I ran in 1 hour 45 minutes. So, on paper, I am on target to complete the final challenge successfully. The problem, of course, is the weather. My 10k race was run on a cool day with a lovely light drizzle to keep my temperature down. Once the heat begins to rise the running gets more and more like moving through treacle.

All I can do is turn up for the 10.30 am start fuelled up on pasta, porridge and lucozade sport and enjoy the run, whatever the outcome. Just to finish will be a significant achievement for someone like me who was not built by my creator for long distance anything. I have even slimmed down further for this race and I am now at the target I have been working towards for 18 months. If I don't make it tomorrow then it won't be for the lack of proper training and diet. Maybe being fit enough and healthy enough to enter the race was the real challenge. But a time of 1 hour 59 minutes and 59 seconds will make my gap year complete.

Waitangi Day (Part 2)

As Pete and I drove down the road to Paihia it was with some vague notion of having a wander around the beach and grabbing some lunch. We had booked a sea kayaking trip in the late afternoon. What we found instead was a sea of people and signs and posters pointing to the Waitangi Day celebrations. Parking in one of the designated car parks we had little option but to join the throng as we wondered what the hell was going on. If it was some sort of Maori car boot sale then it was a big one.

Waitangi Day has been commemorated since 1947 and became a national holiday in 1974. But just as I had discovered with Australia Day two weeks earlier it was not a cause for celebration by every resident.

Along the beach traditional war canoes, manned by tattooed Maoris in tribal costumes, beat their way over the waves to challenge a frigate of the New Zealand Navy that was anchored off-shore. On the other side of the road a large field was full of stalls selling all kinds of foods, T shirts and handicrafts. Pete and I grabbed some fast food and a few thirst quenching drinks and then did something that was to prove controversial.

By now we had grasped the fact that we were in the midst of an important celebration and it seemed that the heart of activities was to be found further down the road, on the small outcrop of land where the Treaty House was situated. Between us and the celebrations there was a river, crossed by a bridge that was just about wide enough to let one car across at a time. There was a mass of people on the bridge, some carrying banners and most of them chanting something in Maori. Since there was no other way to get to the where we wanted to be Pete and I joined the crowd and got swept along. Luckily they were going the same way as us. On the bridge I noticed we were being filmed by several camera crews and it dawned on me that we weren’t just ambling over a bridge. We had become part of a protest march.

I fell in step behind a couple of mothers with pushchairs and even when we were off the bridge I was very happy to be part of this band of determined and vociferous marchers. Beside me there was a Maori lady who can’t have been above five feet tall. She wore a fluorescent bib over some kind of Community Warden’s uniform and was clearly there to act as a steward and not as a protester.

‘What are we doing?’ I asked the mini-warden.

‘It’s a special day,’ she replied. ‘On this day the people are allowed to march and air their grievances.’

‘What are they protesting about?’

‘They want change. To put right the wrongs.’

‘What do they want to change?’ I asked. If a man is going to protest it only seems reasonable that he should know what he is protesting about.

‘Lots of things.’

I tried a more direct approach.

‘Okay. So what do you want to change?’

The warden thought for a second and then replied:

‘To be honest, I’m sick of change.’

For a few years after 1840 the treaty worked well. But as more and more settlers arrived so the demand for land increased. Crown land agents purchased Maori land and often used dubious means to do so. Transactions were further complicated by the fact that in Maori culture there was communal, not individual ownership of land. By 1864, 34 million acres of Maori land in the South Island had been purchased for £14,750. That is less than one penny per acre. The Maori now owned only a thousandth of their original land on South Island.

During this time there was also a shift in power as the New Zealand Government was created, but allowed only four seats for Maori representation.

In the North Island in the 1860’s and early 1870’s the government used force to break resistance to land sales and confiscations.

Disputes over land continue to this day and are settled by the Waitangi Tribunal, which was established in 1975 to investigate both historic and contemporary disputes over breaches in the Waitangi Treaty by the British Crown.

Although we did not know it, when Pete and I joined the march we were taking part in a Maori tradition of protest over civil rights and land loss that goes back to nineteenth century. In 1882 a Maori delegation even travelled to England to appeal to Queen Victoria personally. Vicky was not amused and told them to go home and deal the government of the day.

I realise that as a tourist I probably attained a biased view of Maori culture. One that is marketed and promoted by the tourist industry. During our stay Pete and I were greeted with warmth and friendship wherever we went by people of all backgrounds. But the Maori people earned a special place in my affections. Their adherence to their culture and traditions gained my respect and admiration.

There was nothing touristy about the protest march. Indeed, I’m sure it is something the tourist board would have rather did not take place. At the time I found it amusing for a law abiding citizen such as myself to take part in a political protest. Knowing how police forces work, I am sure that some of those cameras pointed at me were owned by Special Branch and my ugly mug shot is now filed on a police computer.

I was proud to have taken part in that march, and as Pete and I continued our tour we would often mention what we did to people we encountered by way of an amusing anecdote. Often, though, our jolly tale would be met with harsh words and a hint of hostility. One elderly white lady even told me:

‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ She then went on to tell me an anecdote of her own that revealed a troubling point of view.

‘The Maoris are always complaining about land loss. There was a lovely golf club that had taken years to build. The greens were beautiful. But the Maori complained that it was on tribal land. So the golf club reached a settlement. They built another golf course and the Maoris took ownership of the land. They let it go to ruin. Weeds and bushes everywhere. It was heartbreaking. I wouldn’t mind, but the Maoris don’t even play golf.’

Waitangi Day (Part 1)

Ka Mate, Ka Mate!

('Tis Death, 'Tis Death!)

Traditional canoe

Planning my trip to Australia had been straightforward. In 12 days I was never going to see much of such a huge country so it was a simple case of deciding on what would be the most adventurous and interesting trip from Sydney. By contrast, making the most of our three weeks in Aotearoa, the land of the long white cloud, proved to be a very difficult task for Pete and me and it took us several attempts to come up with a workable plan.

The population of New Zealand is about 4.3 million, slightly less than the population of the Republic of Ireland. The total land mass, however, is greater than the whole of the United Kingdom. Geographically it is a land of contrasts and diversity that range from the semi-tropical tip of the North Island to the glacial Fiordland on the western coast of the South Island. For a trip of only 21 days it soon became obvious that some of the ‘unmissable’ sights would have to be excluded.

For both of us there was a sense that this was a once-in-a-lifetime trip and we had to squeeze as much out of it as possible. Our original plan was to either hire a camper van to tour both islands or to hire a car and stop at motels along the way. But as we poured over the map and checked the distances it was apparent that trying to see even a limited number of attractions would mean lots of driving and very little time for actually doing any of the numerous exciting activities on offer to the adventurer.

Most people who we spoke to who had been to New Zealand had the same advice to offer – ‘Spend as much time as you can on South Island.’ We contemplated ignoring North Island all together, but the Bay of Islands, in the north east, and Rotorua, in the middle of North Island, both featured high in our list of places we simply could not miss.

In the end it was Air New Zealand that came to our rescue, as we discovered that it was fairly inexpensive to hop from place to place by plane and save hours on the corresponding road journey. What we settled on was an exciting mishmash of short flights, the ferry, scenic railway journeys and hire cars. I was put in charge of accommodation and working to a budget of $120 a day (about £60) I was able to book us into a range of motels, bed and breakfasts and one room, backpacker type accommodations.

Thus it was that on my second full day in New Zealand we made our way back to the airport to take a 40 minute flight to Kerikeri, the airport that serves the Bay of Islands, a journey that would have taken three and half hours by road.

The small car we had hired for our 2 night stay was waiting for us at the airport. Having booked into our motel we immediately set off to explore and headed for Paihia, as this seemed to be the centre of activities. As I’ve said before, serendipity, making fortunate discoveries by accident, is often one of the brilliant by-products of travel. In New Zealand it was a word that was to define our trip and never more so than what was waiting for us as we journeyed to the coastal heart of the Bay of Islands.

New Zealand is one of the most recently settled major land masses. Unlike the Australian Aborigines, the Maori are not truly indigenous as they are the descendents of Polynesian islanders who arrived by canoe about 800 years ago. Also unlike the Aborigines, the Maoris were never a conquered people who had their lands taken from them by force of arms. The signing of a treaty with Great Britain in 1840 has made a big difference to the way in which Maori culture has survived and is evident throughout Aoteaora.

There were about 100,000 Maoris in New Zealand in 1830 and only about 200 Europeans. Drawn mainly by whaling, the number of Europeans, who were mostly British, grew to about 2,000 by 1839. The Maoris were divided into tribes and there were many conflicts. The Europeans brought muskets with them, which the Maoris readily traded for food and flax. An arms race developed as the tribes armed with muskets had an enormous advantage over those with traditional weapons. The so called Musket Wars claimed the lives of about 20,000 Maoris. As with the nuclear arms race of the late 20th Century, it was only when all the tribes had access to the same firepower that peace prevailed.

The Maoris were open to change and welcomed the new ideas brought by the Europeans. The missionaries brought books with them and taught people to read, opening up a new world of learning. Some Maoris travelled the world on the boats that came to their shores. In 1820 two tribal chiefs even travelled to England and met with King George IV.

From the British point of view, trade with the Maoris provided timber for boat building and flax to make rope. It was largely to protect this advantageous trade link that Britain sought to create a treaty with the people of New Zealand.

Towards the end of the 1830’s there were speculative ‘purchases’ of Maori land by Europeans and capitalists from New South Wales. The New Zealand Company, which originated in London in 1839 with the express aim of promoting the colonisation of New Zealand, claimed to have bought 20 million acres of land. The debate over whether the land transactions meant the same to the purchasers as it did to the Maori sellers continues to this day. The Maori culture did not necessarily see the trade in land as a permanent loss.

The Treaty of Waitangi was instituted by the British Government, prompted by concerns over lawlessness, tribal wars and the prospect of formal colonisation by The New Zealand Company. The treaty was in effect the founding document of the nation of New Zealand. It established a British Governor, recognised Maori ownership of their lands and gave Maoris the rights of British subjects. The treaty was written in English and a Maori version was written by a missionary. The two documents did not agree.

On the morning of 6th February, 1840 the Treaty of Waitangi was signed by 45 tribal chiefs in front of the Treaty House at Waitangi, in the Bay of Islands. Little did any of those present know that exactly 170 years later to the day two more hapless Brits would pitch up at the same location totally oblivious to the importance of its significance or the anniversary.

Gay Boys on Tour

Going...

Going...

Gone!


A vision of the future?

My third plane of the day landed in Auckland at gone midnight. I made the 12 mile trip to the city centre by bus and walked wearily to the large hotel where I was to spend my first two nights in New Zealand. Checking in at reception I suddenly heard a familiar voice call my name from across the lobby.

I met Pete in 1991 when we were both working as police trainers. He was very supportive during my divorce and over the years we have embarked on a number of ‘Boy’s weekends’. Our trips have covered England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales. We even squeezed in stays in Paris and Bruges.

It was a long held ambition of Pete’s to travel to New Zealand but his wife refused to undertake the long haul journey. When I announced that I was intending to visit the land of the long white cloud Pete immediately said he wanted to come too. I doubted that he would join me as I knew he would feel guilty about leaving Dianne, behind. But Di had not been married to Pete for over 30 years without knowing that being without her husband for three weeks was better than years of regret at a missed opportunity. And so it was that we came to be sharing yet another hotel room on our biggest adventure ever.

To my shame, sharing a room with Pete is always a difficult experience for me. It’s all about how it is perceived by others. Although Pete and I are both tall, burly chaps, it is fair to say that we both have a feminine side that seems to come to the fore when we are together. We make a very convincing gay couple. Once when attempting to book a twin room in Paris we were met with a resounding: ‘Mais, non!’ by the homophobic receptionist and forced to accept two single rooms to avoid us sullying the establishment.

I am so paranoid about being perceived as Pete’s lover that I protest my heterosexuality loudly to anyone willing to listen. When Pete and I emerge for breakfast together I usually manage to talk loudly about how many children I’ve got as a way of suggesting that I am as straight as they come. I even asked a very nice family that Pete and I met at a race meeting if they thought we were gay. ‘God, yes,’ came the resounding reply. ‘Especially you.’ In the modern age I am sure no one gives a fig about my sexuality, but that doesn’t stop me getting very self-conscious about the issue.

Pete, having arrived direct from London early that morning, had made the fatal mistake of falling asleep in the afternoon and was now wide awake. The luxury of our room with its two queen sized beds was a huge contrast to what I had been used to in Australia. Despite the lateness of the hour, Pete broke out a few bottles of beer and we caught up with each other. Pete could hardly contain his excitement about being in New Zealand and embarking on his dream trip. After the indulgence of solo travel it was an excitement that was to become a little bit irritating at times.

Next morning we were up early to make the most of our one day together in Auckland. We dined alfresco at a lovely cafe just down from the hotel and then made our way on foot to the city centre. We didn’t need to follow the map as the structure we were heading for is the tallest man-made feature in New Zealand. The Sky Tower is over a thousand feet tall (328 metres to be precise) and on a clear day it affords views of 50 miles in all directions. For me, the most interesting aspect of the tower was watching the brave individuals outside who had paid £100 to jump off the building.

Dressed in fetching all-in-one suits, the jumpers venture out onto a platform 600 feet high. Painted onto the concrete below is a very handy red and white bull’s-eye target. Securely attached to a harness they then swing out below a gantry and wave at the astonished onlookers inside the tower. Then, whoosh, off they go, falling at 50 miles per hour to the plaza below. The trip takes 11 seconds.

Pete suffers dreadfully from vertigo so a Sky Jump was definitely not on his list of things to do in Auckland. In fact, I was quite surprised that he even wanted to go up the tower at all. Seeing people in jump suits falling to the ground brought back bad memories of my parachuting experience, so I too chose to take the lift down instead.

Auckland has a natural harbour called Waitemata. It is sheltered from the Pacific Ocean by two islands, Rangitoto and Waiheke. Pete had already made the short journey across to Rangitoto whilst waiting for me to arrive the previous day so we decided to take the one hour ferry ride out to Waiheke.

The island was beautiful and it is hard to imagine something so sublime as close to a city. Not surprisingly a number of people lived on the island and used the ferry service to commute to jobs in Auckland. The countryside would have appeared very English was it not for the odd vineyard dotted around the coast. It was like the English Lake District only next to a clear sea and given a temperate climate. In fact, with any luck, if sea levels continue to rise and global warming continues then this is exactly what the English countryside will look like in just a few years. So scrap those useless energy saving bulbs, get burning the fossil fuels and break out the Oakleys and Factor 30.

Pete is an avid birdwatcher and despite my complete lack of interest in most of the little feathered sods he insists on pointing them out to me on every trip we undertake. The New World meant whole swathes of new species for Pete to study through his binoculars. His ornithological juices were overflowing. Add to that the fact that he was in the land of his dreams, where everything was to be wondered at, and Pete was definitely in a constant and animated frenzy of ecstasy.

I spent the evening before I embarked for Australia in the company of a very lovely lady whose company I had desired for a while. I had spent five months, ever since I came back from Africa, trying to win her over but as ever, the course of true love was littered with obstacles. The obstacle in this case was a rather beefy ex-boyfriend who didn’t agree on the ‘ex’ bit. Despite her ‘I can’t wait for you to get back’ assurances, I had my doubts and embarked on my trip like a sailor going to sea, not sure what I would be coming home to.

I had not discussed my concerns with anyone, but now, with my long time friend and confidante, Pete, by my side I had the opportunity to unburden myself. As we meandered along the Waiheke coastal path and a country lane beset on both sides by lush vineyards I opened up to my good buddy. I told him of all the ins and outs and ups and downs of my frustrating, yet potentially life changing courtship. After twenty minutes I drew to a breathless halt and said:

‘So, what do you think I should do?’

‘Wow! Look at that rock,’ said Pete.

Robbo

Next morning the reliable shuttle bus arrived to take me back to the airport for the first of three flights that would take me back to Alice Springs and then on to Auckland via Melbourne. I envisaged a rather dull and tiring day ahead, but Australia had a surprise farewell gift for me.

Checking in for my flight to Alice I couldn’t help but notice a huge pile of luggage and equipment piled up in front of one of the check-in desks. At the heart of the pile there were large film cameras and a guitar case. The heap appeared to belong to a group of six blokes who were hovering nearby and engaged in animated conversation with each other. Was I in the presence of a rock band? I quickly tried to think of all the Aussie bands I knew. Men at Work and INXS were the only two that came to mind and they would surely all be much older than the six pack before me.

On closer inspection I discerned that the group could be divided in two. There were a couple of older, average looking guys, who I took to be some sort of crew, and four young, fit, good looking blokes. ‘The talent’, as they seem to say in showbiz circles.

It was one of those rare occasions when my plea for extra leg room for my 6 feet 3 inch frame was accepted and I got a row of three seats next to the exit over the wing all to myself. On the opposite side of the aisle, occupying the equally capacious seats and the row in front of them were the six amigos.

Their spirits were very high as they laughed heartily to the succession of one-liners they threw at each other. As the banter continued, so the division between crew and talent became more distinct. At the heart of it all was the guy sat in the aisle seat just across from me. He was incredibly good looking, like the sort of prat you see in magazine adverts for expensive aftershave. Except this bloke wasn’t a prat at all. He seemed to be very jovial and pleasant, the others clearly deferring to him and calling him ‘Robbo’.

As soon as the plane was in the air and the seatbelt sign was switched off there was a mad rush by the all female cabin crew to attend to the every need of our on-board celebrities. A giggly but gorgeous blond girl stood with her back to me as she poured herself over Robbo. Leaning in as close to her bum as I dare, I strained to hear the conversation.

‘Been on holiday?’ said the stewardess.

‘No. Working,’ said Robbo, in a smooth Australian accent.

‘Working?’ she echoed back to him. This was good. The attractive young lady was conducting an interview for me. I wanted to reach for my notepad but that would have been a bit obvious so I pretended to listen to my iPod instead.

‘We’ve been doing an ad for the Tourist Board,’ said Robbo obligingly. ‘Last year it was Melbourne and this year it was Ayer’s Rock Resort.’

‘Was it good?’

‘It was great, apart from all the bloody flies!’ interjected one of Robbo’s mates to all round laughter.

For the rest of the short flight the young men, and Robbo in particular, received an inordinate amount of attention from the cabin crew. It was a frustrating journey for me as the noise of the engines and my failing hearing prevented me from catching anything other than snippets of conversation. I still had no idea who these guys were. Leaning across and saying: ‘Excuse me, but who the hell are you?’ seemed a bit rude. What would Bill Bryson do in this situation?

As the flight neared its end and the coffee cups and empty peanut packets were all stowed away, all three of the female cabin crew gathered in the aisle next to me in a frenzy of flirting and autograph signing. Maybe the odd phone number changed hands too.

Time was running out. Managing to get the attention of the star-struck blond girl for a few seconds, I quietly asked her who these guys were.

‘They’re footie stars. They play for Melbourne.’

A second later and I was facing her bum once more. But no matter, I had the information I wanted and an idea began to form.

As the aircraft made its decent the cabin crew reluctantly peeled themselves away from their heroes and returned to their seats. I leaned across the aisle and spoke to Robbo.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, in a very English manner. ‘I wonder if I could make a very strange request?’ Robbo looked quizzical as I pointed to the overhead locker.

‘In my bag I have a gnome. He’s dressed in my football team’s colours. Would you mind having your photograph taken with him?’

‘Sure, no problem,’ said the obliging Robbo. ‘What team is it?’

‘Hull City, English Premier League. We’re second from bottom.’

‘No worries.’ I couldn’t tell from his expression whether Robbo had ever heard of Hull City. I suspect not.

Once the plane was on the ground there was a final rush by the cabin crew to obtain autographs and pictures while I slid out quietly and got myself ready outside. I took my camera and the fragile Wainwright out of my padded backpack and waited. A minute or so later Robbo clambered down the steps from the aircraft and broke into a huge grin as he spotted Wainwright.

Clearly used to media attention, Robbo was an absolute pro. He held Wainwright aloft, posing and smiling for the camera. Robbo, it turned out was one Russell Robertson, a 31 year old retired Australian Rules footballer. He admitted to not knowing much about English football but said he hoped to come to London and see Chelsea play.

Later, when I had the chance to search the internet, I discovered that Robbo was one of Melbourne’s greatest goal kickers of all time. Not surprisingly, his personality and good looks had led to TV work and modelling. After singing on an Australian TV show he has even brought out his own album, Higher. To me he was a top bloke who couldn’t have been nicer when faced with a very unusual request from a mad pom..

Uluru (Part 2)

Kuniya woz 'ere

To climb or not to climb?

The sun sets on my Australian adventure

Seeing the sun rise at Uluru was one of my 20 gap year challenges and the one I regarded as the most spiritual. Even more so than visiting a Buddhist temple. When I added it to the list it was with a vague notion of experiencing some kind of primeval transformation. That as the sun rose over this ancient monument it would bring with it the dawn of a new understanding in my life. I might even become a nomad myself and decide to end my days wandering the earth, much like Kwai Chang Caine in the 1970’s TV series, Kung Fu.

As Sophie, Noona, Ronald and I set out on our 7 mile walk around the base of Uluru the light grew brighter and as the sun peeked above the horizon I braced myself for a life changing burst of inner illumination.

Nothing. Perhaps if I’d sat down for a quiet meditation it might have helped, but I don’t think the others would have been amused. And besides, it’s hard to free your mind when sat cross legged and eyes closed in an environment that harbours so many things that can kill you.

Not that my trek around this iconic feature of Australia was a failure. I may not have experienced a useful shortcut in my search for enlightenment, but the walk did allow me to gain an insight into the true significance of this 500 million year old rock.

I’m not sure if the TV series, QI, has ever considered it, but I can imagine the all-knowing Stephen Fry posing the question: ‘What colour is Uluru?’ This will be followed by Alan Davies blurting out: ‘Red!’ and the inevitable sound of the siren to indicate a huge blunder.

The true answer is ‘Grey’. What gives the rock its red colour is a coating of dust and sand from the surrounding landscape, which, being rich in iron ore, oxidises when it rains. In other words, Uluru is rusty.

This is one of the many things I learned from Sophie. Up close, the rock has many features that are not seen in the usual photographs. Our enthusiastic guide explained the significance of the various formations and overhangs as we went along:

‘The aborigine people believe in the dreamtime, when the earth was created. Before this time everything was featureless. The ancient ancestors, often in animal form, left their marks upon the earth and these are the features of the land that we see today.

‘Uluru is of particular spiritual importance. Not only was it formed by the ancestors but it is a sacred place where their spirits still roam.

‘Legend has it that one tribe of ancestors invited another tribe to a feast. But the guests were distracted by the Sleepy Lizard Women and never made it to the party. The hosts, angry at being snubbed, created a huge dingo from mud to attack the other tribe. A big battle followed and the earth itself rose up in grief, becoming Uluru.’

As we continued our early morning tour, Sophie pointed out the various rock features – hidden faces of the ancestors, curving rock formations created by the giant python, Kuniya and the round boulders that are her eggs. And several caves bearing ancient drawings such as large snakes and witchetty grubs, inscribed by the aborigines.

Sophie also told us that the name, Uluru, actually refers to a waterhole in the top of the rock. And here, for me, was the true revelation about Uluru. I had expected to see a sterile, sun baked rock, but in reality Uluru is a giver of life. It harbours a wide array of fauna – lizards, snakes, birds of prey and mammals such as possums, bats and dingoes. The various rock pools helping to sustain an abundance of life.

Sophie led us to the well hidden path that would take us to Maggie’s Spring. Shaded by trees on both sides, the walk along the path was cool and quiet. At the end there was an unexpected expanse of fresh water, a good 60 feet across. It is an area where the aborigines come to meditate and I could see, or even feel, the attraction. Here at last was my spiritual moment with Uluru. A few stolen moments of peace within its strong embrace.

Maggie’s Spring, or Mutujulu Springs to give it it’s native title, was named by William Grosse, an adventurer who was the first white man to set foot on the rock in July 1873. In true bum licking fashion, Grosse named his discovery after Sir Henry Ayers, the then Chief Secretary of South Australia. Grosse had a thing for one of Ayer’s daughters, Maggie, and duly named the spring after her in the confident hope that this would secure her hand in marriage. It didn’t. By the time Bill returned from his adventures to claim the one he loved she had found someone else.

Uluru not only sustains wildlife but humans too. It is amazing just how much greenery there is to be found around the rock and among the various bushes and trees there is much ‘bush tucker’ to be found for those in need of food. Uluru may have a massive spiritual and cultural significance for the aborigines, but it also has a far more practical one too. It is, in effect, nature’s larder. A place of last resort where life-saving food and water can be found.

Fortunately for me I was spared a diet of witchetty grubs, honey ants and berries as the resourceful Sophie had provided a very pleasant breakfast for us. Never before have I eaten cereal and yoghurt in such splendid surroundings.

As our journey progressed and the sun and temperature rose, we came to the most controversial feature of Uluru. The climb.

It was never my intention to climb Uluru. Apart from the controversy, the summit is 1,142 feet high. In the late morning heat it was hard enough to walk on the flat earth without straining up a rock slope that has a 45 degree incline in places. To make the climb easier a local businessman and his mates concreted steel poles into the solid rock back in 1962. The poles are linked by a sturdy chain to allow the adventurous and foolhardy to haul themselves up. From the bottom it doesn’t look difficult but by the time of our visit there had been 39 deaths on the rock, mostly caused by heart attacks. Why is it that people will drive to shops and park as close to the door as they can but give them a steep slope to climb and the promise of a nice view and off they go?

The day we visited the climb was closed anyway, as it often is. The winds making it even more dangerous. When Uluru was given back to the Anangu in 1985 one of the conditions was that people would still be able to climb the rock. The number doing so is in decline owing to the growing awareness of Aborigine culture and the significance of the climb to the indigenous population. There is a very polite sign at the foot of Uluru that reads:

‘Our traditional Law teaches us the proper way to behave. We ask you to respect our Law by not climbing Uluru.

‘What visitors call 'the climb' is the traditional route taken by ancestral Mala man upon their arrival at Uluru in the creation time. It has great spiritual significance. We have a responsibility to teach and safeguard visitors to our land. 'The climb' is dangerous and too many people have died while attempting to climb Uluru.

‘Many others have been injured while climbing. We feel great sadness when a person dies or is hurt on our land.’

Despite this it is estimated that about a third of visitors to Uluru still choose to climb up it.

Sophie, who was very passionate about the rights and traditions of the Anangu, told me that sometimes she has guests who protest about all the fuss made over climbing Uluru.

‘The rock was there long before the bloody aborigines’, was a typical comment made by one young man on one of her tours. To her amusement the others in the group turned on the youth and staked him out naked in the burning sun. Or perhaps they just tore into him verbally, but that was what she was wishing they had done.

With my reporter’s nose for a good story I asked Sophie about some of the unfortunate fates that had befallen those climbing the rock.

‘A young couple decided they didn’t want to come down from there the normal way and decided to make their own way down. Inevitably they got stuck and had to be rescued by helicopter. They were eternally grateful to the ranger who saved them until he fined them 4,600 dollars for breaching the national park law.

‘Then there was the guy who camped out for the night on the top of Uluru. He would have been ok had his torch light not been spotted by the rangers. Next day he got a hefty fine too.

‘But my favourite is the guy who decided to climb up there wearing Crocs, those light shoes made of rubber? He got so far before the rubber began to melt and stick to the rock. So he took off the Crocs. But then his feet began to burn on the rock. So he sat down. Of course his bum then began to burn too. In desperation he took off his shirt to sit on and then managed to get 2nd degree burns on his chest and shoulders.’

I can’t help but notice a look of what seemed to be glee on Sophie’s face as she told me this.

By midday we had completed our circumambulation of Uluru and I was relieved to step into the air conditioned comfort of the Land Rover. I was very pleased to have made the acquaintance of Uluru and we both promised to keep in touch, but I knew that this was just holiday talk. It hadn’t been the spiritually uplifting experience that I had expected. Thanks to Sophie though I had learned a lot about this famous Australian icon and I was glad that I had taken the time to walk all the way around it and witness its many hidden secrets instead of just taking a quick picture from the view point as so many tourists seemed to do. I was also glad that I had made Uluru the goal of my Australian adventure. From the manmade wonders of Sydney Harbour Bridge and Opera House to the natural wonder of Uluru, it had been a fantastic journey. Time though to move on to an entirely different world and one where I was guaranteed a comfortable bed every night even if I did have to share the room with a man known for snoring.

Uluru (Part 1)

Up close and personal

Noona, Ronald and Sophie

One of the ancients

Ayer’s Rock resort is a purpose built tourist facility that cost in the region of £60m to build. The first tourists arrived in 1958 and the resort itself was developed in the 1980’s. It can cater for 5,000 visitors at a time and is permanent home to about 550 people. The free shuttle bus from the airport gave me a fine tour of what the resort has to offer. A mixture of modern hotels, souvenir shops, a tourist information office and a very good supermarket.

There appeared to be some form of bee keeper’s convention going on as virtually every other person I saw braving the afternoon sun was wearing thick netting over their head. Those that were not heavily netted were all very friendly and waved furiously as the bus went by.

My own accommodation was very much at the budget end of the market – the Outback Pioneer Hotel. Part hotel, part hostel, it was far from luxurious but had everything I needed and best of all I was given a 4 berth room all to myself for my two night stay. Freedom to snore and no mad Germans to shake me awake.

Having parked my backpack in my austere but functional room I covered myself in sun block and set off on foot to explore the resort. I hadn’t gone very far before I too began to wave my arms frantically, as I was beset by a huge number of flies. I made my way hurriedly to the tourist information office and took refuge from both sun and flies in its air conditioned comfort. 15 dollars procured me a sturdy net to cover my head and shoulders and I was able to step outside protected from winged invaders but feeling pretty stupid. The thick net flapping around my face only marginally less annoying than the constant attention of the sodding flies.

All the guidebooks will tell you one thing about Ayer’s Rock Resort – it’s bloody expensive. Being in the middle of nowhere means two things. Firstly, every commodity has to be transported to the resort, adding to the costs. Secondly, once you arrive at the resort you are a captive with little by way of choice when it comes buying essentials. I made my way to the supermarket braced for a shock and clutching a fistful of dollars. But I was pleasantly surprised. The supermarket was well stocked and had special offers just like any other; I was able to buy enough provisions for my stay for under fifty dollars (about £25). Back at the hotel it was much the same as anywhere else I’d stayed, with very welcome cold bottles of beer costing only five dollars.

I did set an alarm for the next morning – for 4.30 am. Despite the early hour I was quick to get out of bed and full of excitement. I had reached the culmination of my Australian adventure and was about to embark on a trek the most iconic feature in Australia – Uluru. I am not religious, but I do love the atmosphere of places of religious significance. In Beverley, the medieval market town where I live, there is a beautiful minster that dates back to the thirteenth century. It is one of the most peaceful and tranquil places that I know. I had huge expectations of this place of spiritual meaning and that was why I had made it the goal of my travel across Australia.

Before the white man came there were over 500 aborigine tribes in Australia and one of them, the Anangu, have been the traditional custodians of Uluru for over 36,000 years. Historically the Anangu were a nomadic people who lived off the land. A remarkable feat when you consider the harshness of the landscape. Astonishingly, members of the tribe were still living the nomadic life as recently as 1968.

Despite such a lengthy association with Uluru, the rock was formally ‘handed back’ to the Anangu in 1985.

By 5.15 I was waiting outside the hotel, with my daypack laden with water and the sky above still dark. My guide for the morning, Sophie, soon arrived in her well equipped Land Rover. We were being joined that morning by just two others: a lovely couple from the Netherlands called Ronald and Noona. Ronald was a retired lawyer and we picked them up at one of the more luxurious hotels. I doubt you could get a beer there for five dollars.

The resort is about 12 miles from Uluru so it only took about 20 minutes to drive there and park up, ready for our 7 mile walk around the base of the rock, or monolith as it is sometimes called. I had always imagined Uluru to be oblong in shape, a bit like a loaf of bread. I thought this as every image I have ever seen shows the rock from the same perspective. In fact, Uluru is a very irregular shape if seen from above.

There is a very good reason why photographs of Uluru always show it from the same viewpoint, as Sophie explained:

‘Uluru is a sacred place to the Anangu people. It is central to their beliefs and certain parts of it are used for sacred ceremonies.

‘Traditionally, there are areas which only the men are allowed to see and areas that only the women can see. As we make our journey the sacred sites are clearly marked and the taking of photographs is strictly forbidden. The reason for this is so that the aborigines do not inadvertently see images of the forbidden sites.’

There are no sacred sites among the facet of the rock that appears in all the photographs. Of course, another reason that all pictures of Uluru look the same could be that they are taken from the designated viewpoint, to which there is easy access by road. Photographing Uluru from another angle would mean venturing into the unforgiving landscape and risking a meeting with one of those 18 species of deadly snakes.

What's that, Skip?

The sun sets over a familar icon

Flaming June is here and we are on the final leg of our journey together. As I write I am waiting for the 'For Sale' sign to be erected outside my house. The man came yesterday to calculate the energy certificate. A hundred quid a pop and he was only here 15 minutes! I'm definitely adding 'Energy Certificate Bloke' to my list of possible career opportunities. Doing 2 or 3 of those a week would do me nicely.

Just over three weeks until my final challenge - the Humber Bridge Half Marathon. I went on my longest training run to date last Sunday - 10 miles, which I managed in 90 minutes. In fact, that's the furthest I have run in my life. Even when I was a very fit 20 year old I never ventured that far. So, fingers crossed, I'm on target to complete the run in under 2 hours. The weather will be the critical factor.

I'm also running over the bridge this weekend as it is the annual Humber Bridge 10k race. I ran it last year and it was very pleasant. This year it is more of a training run for the big event, although I am aiming to run it in much less that the 56 minutes I took 12 months ago.

So, as promised, let's complete the antipodean travels before I sign off this blog for good.

Cue Jack Bauer voice-over -'Previously on Middle Aged Gapper...'

Our journey to date has taken us from Sydney, home of some very big bats, westwards to Adelaide. After an unsuccessful attempt to swim with dolphins we took the Ghan train north to Alice Springs and are about to venture to our final goal in Australia - Uluru. The story continues...

For the backpacker there are two ways to travel from Alice Springs to Ayer’s Rock Resort, a distance of roughly 300 miles. The first is to take a 6 hour bus ride through the desert. The alternative is a 45 minute plane journey. Both cost about the same, but the bus journey does stop at a camel farm.

Back in Blighty I had opted for the flight. Once I was in the outback I began to regret this decision as I felt I was cheating on the backpack experience. A comment by Emily, the girl on the Ghan, made me wonder if I have might have made the right decision after all.

‘I took the bus out to Uluru. We must have passed about five hundred dead kangaroos on the way.’

‘Five hundred!’ I said, incredulously, sure that I had misheard.

‘At least. They’re all along the road. It’s the people in the big 4 wheel drives with the bull bars on the front. They knock the ‘roos down without even stopping.’

I was brought up in the era of Skippy the Bush Kangaroo. How many people would still be trapped down the old mineshaft to this day were it not for Skip’s warnings, conveyed in a weird clicking sound to Sonny Hammond, the young son of the National Park Ranger? To witness mile after mile of dead Skippys was something I was happy to avoid.

Also, the bus left Alice at 7.00 am, whilst the plane did not leave until 2 pm, thus affording me the opportunity for a rare lie-in. My German roommate, Rudolf, however, had other ideas.

At precisely 6.05 am of the day of my departure for Uluru I was shaken awake very violently.

‘What the f...’

‘Excuse me,’ said the agitated Rudolf. ‘I thought I heard an alarm. Are you going on a tour?’

‘No,’ I said sleepily.

‘Ok. Das is gut.’ Rudolf replied and climbed back into his bunk to resume his slumber.

Fully awake, I pondered on what had just happened. I was certain that I had not set any alarms and only Rudolf and I were in the room.

The bane of men’s dormitories is the snoring. There’s always at least one snorer, usually more. For this reason I wear good earplugs whenever I have to share a room. Had I been snoring? Had Rudolf awoken me under the guise of alerting me to a mystery alarm in order to get a decent lie-in himself? Clever old Rudolf.

My German roommate may have dropped off into a deep slumber but I couldn’t. I got up and lazed around the hostel until it was time for the shuttle bus to the airport.

The flight was pleasant and afforded my first glimpse of the distinctive red rock that was the goal of my Australian trek. And not a dead ‘roo in sight.

As the plane made its final approach and I gazed out at the barren landscape below I noticed something odd. We were climbing.

The captain’s voice came over the intercom:

‘Sorry about that everyone. There’s a very strong wind blowing, making it dangerous to land. Hopefully, it will ease off and we can make it down. It might take a few attempts though.’

The next few minutes tested the sickness tablets I had taken to their limits and despite an outside air temperature of 37 degrees centigrade I managed to break into a cold sweat. Our skilful captain managed to touch down on the second pass and I wrenched my clawed hands from the arm rests.

As I stepped uncertainly onto the runway the heat punched me in the face. The surrounding landscape reminded me of the images I had seen of the surface of Mars. Except Mars isn’t plagued by thousands of sodding flies.

One month to go...

If you've ever wondered where I got the name 'middle aged gapper' it was from a TV show a few years ago that featured 6 people in various stages of middle age who went to various parts of the world to undertake activities normally associated with younger people whilst on the their gap year before or after university. What I found interesting was those who put time and effort into helping others had more rewarding and sometimes life changing experiences than those who opted for the adrenalin junkie activities.

Amazingly, my gap year is almost at an end. Looking back I don't regret a minute of it. I have been so lucky to travel to wonderful places and to have had the health and fitness to enjoy so many activities. But if the opportunity ever arises for another gap year then I will definitely focus on doing something that makes a difference to the life of others.

One of the most touching experiences of my gap year was the visit to an orphanage, near the shores of Lake Bunyoni, Uganda. I am now a sponsor of one of the children - Appa, or Paul as he is now known. Being Paul's sponsor is very rewarding as I receive regular updates and pictures from Crystal who runs the orphanage. I wish I could do more though.

A recent email from Crystal shows how the new classrooms are developing and the building of a new water tank. If you want to find out more about the project then the link is:

http://www.mindfulmarket.com/Home.aspx

I'm training for my first half marathon at the end of June and I am tempted to seek sponsorship in support of the orphanage. I don't like sponsorship though. I hate asking people for money and then there's all the emotional blackmail that so often comes into play. It's just too ugly for me and I believe that people should support charity as they wish and in privacy without pressure.

I have decided though that should my book ever be published then a percentage of any profit will go to support the orphanage. That gives me added incentive to finish the book.

As the gap year ends, so will this blog. It began as a 15 month project and I am now 14 months into it.

My plan is to finish writing about my travels in Australia and New Zealand and publish them on here over the next few weeks.

I always imagined that my year would end with one last journey but I haven't got the appetite for it. I've lost count of the number of beds I've slept in over the last 11 months. It's a lot and my own bed holds a lot of appeal as a result. What I have loved most about this year has been my total freedom. No boss but myself to answer to and definitely no boring and pointless meetings to attend. To send myself out on another journey just because it's on my list is contrary to what I'm about. Having said that, I am planning another trip to Germany for a few days in the summer. To Hamburg this time. And who knows, I might just get the urge to stay longer and take the train to Poland, Switzerland or Czechoslovakia for the hell of it. That is what being a middle aged gapper has been all about. The sheer enjoyment of it.

Live long and prosper.

19

Apart from posting bits of my supposed book on here I have been very busy over the last three weeks. Well, busy for me that is.

The episodes you may have read on here were edited and submitted to Hull University as the final submission of my degree course in Creative Writing. The classroom part of the playwright course with Hull Truck also came to an end. I now have 3 months to write my play and submit it for feedback and consideration for performance. Exciting stuff.

Not quite so exciting has been the long list of tasks that needed completing around the house. As you may know, my motto is: 'Never put off until tomorrow what you can do the day after that.' Consequently many tasks (usually the ones that involve a paint brush) that I should have done last year were still outstanding. But they are nearly all done now and my house looks the best it ever has since I and the kids have lived here. And all so someone else can get the pleasure of my labours.

The first estate agent came to visit yesterday and the second one is coming next week, so I expect to have my house on the market in the next couple of weeks. According to my schedule I am about 3 weeks behind, but for once my lethargy and procrastination have worked to my favour as the new government have scrapped the dreaded Home Improvement Packs that all people putting their house up for sale had to pay for. Hurrah!

My staff appraisal went well and I seemed to pretty pleased with myself overall. There was some debate over the 20 challenges I set myself though. In the end I agreed with myself that 19 of them had been achieved, albeit some are a bit dodgy.

Swimming with dolphins just didn't happen, despite two attempts. But my death defying bungee jump in New Zealand more than made up for Flipper's unhelpful attitude.

Appearing on TV didn't quite go to plan either. I had hoped to appear on the Weakest Link but despite getting through the audition the important call hasn't come. Well, I say it hasn't come. I did receive a phone call in last December and when the young man at the end of the phone asked to speak to me I took it to be another of those horrible call centres that try to sell you all kinds of rubbish you don't want. I put the phone down and ever since I have been wondering what that young man was going to say had I let him. Might he have been inviting me to record the show? I'll never know.

Thankfully the Sky cameras broadcast me saying very rude words during the two minutes of silence on Remembrance Sunday, just before kick off at the KC Stadium last November. So I'm claiming that as my TV appearance.

Getting Wainwright photographed with a celebrity was also very difficult. Russell Robertson, a recently retired Aussie Rules football player, did me proud on the plane from Uluru to Alice Springs. He may be a legend in Australia but he's never appeared as the star in the reasonably priced car on Top Gear so that rules him out as a global celebrity. Still, he was a nice bloke and the air stewardesses were virtually throwing their knickers at him so he must have something. Job done.

That's 19 down and 1 to go. The outstanding challenge is the most physically demanding of all them - to run a half marathon in under 2 hours. That may sound easy, but I am not a natural born long distance runner and I have never run anywhere near that distance in my life. Not only that but the course I have chosen is a difficult one. My original hope was to participate in the Great North Run but I missed out on the entry process whilst I was in New Zealand. I chose instead the Humber Bridge Half Marathon. People who have run it tell me it is hard. Especially the 9th mile, which is all uphill. My longest training run to date is around 8 miles and I was pretty tired after that. To run a further mile up a hill would have killed me. Add to that the fact that I am prone to back injuries and both my knees are now feeling the strain of all the running I have done over the past year and it all adds up to one thing. My chances of succeeding in the final task are slim.

I have just 5 weeks left to get myself fit enough for the challenge. Watch this space.

Don't watch it though for the next few days as I am heading off to the Lake District, where, among other things, I will be catching up with the lovely Lynn and Angelina who I met when my son and I took part in an activity holiday in Turkey last summer.

Live long and prosper.

Watery Farts

Montecatini, is a spa town, where no fewer than 9 spas come to the surface. The place to find them was a large park, about 5 minutes from my hotel.

I sauntered along there on my first morning in town and having meandered aimlessly through the park I came to an interesting, mock renaissance building - all columns and ornate plasterwork set above a cool marble floor.


The entrance fee also allowed me to take the waters. Intrigued I paid my 13 Euro and asked the very attractive lady at the entrance what I did next. I was to take a glass and help myself to the spa waters flowing endlessly into numerous sinks.

The very large auditorium was open to the sky but there was shade around the sides and numerous tables to sit at and relax. People were sitting with their half pint mugs of water and reading the Sunday papers or listening to the music. On a raised stage a piano player and guitarist in suits and ties, played along to yet another very attractive lady who was dressed in an off-one-shoulder chiffon dress whilst singing in a very accomplished and soothing manner. All in all it seemed like a brilliant way to while away a Sunday morning. I took out my holiday reading (Dan Brown, Deception Point), found a shaded table and made myself at home. All I needed now was a refreshing glass of water and I was set.

I took my glass to the spas and began my sampling. ‘Taking the waters’ was interesting. Imagine someone taking a hosepipe and trailing it from the local swimming pool to the above mentioned area of tranquillity. The water already has an unnatural, chemical taste. On its journey between pool and sink various things are added to the water. These appear to consist mainly of rotten eggs and salt. Now take a sip. Sorry, I forgot to mention, the water is also very hot.

As I said people were actually drinking this stuff from half pint glasses. The waters are reputed to bring long life. I drank enough to barely add another 3 minutes to mine. It was horrible.

On further inspection I realised that the spas had different labels: Leopoldina; Regina; and Tettuccio. Presumably from different sources. The pipes the waters flowed from were also marked red and blue – bloody hot and not quite so bloody hot.

I looked for a spa marked 'Lager', but no such luck. So, in the interests of good reporting I started at the left and worked my way along the spas. I discovered that the above words stand for: Ghastly; Disgusting; and Tolerable (in tiny amounts). I took a small amount of the latter and returned to Dan Brown.

What followed was a very pleasant, yet slightly surreal, hour being serenaded by a blonde beauty whilst sipping a mild fart dissolved in warm salt water.

Footnote - That's the first 10,000 words of what is intended to be my book. Or should I say of the first draft of my intended book. What I need to do now is finish the book and then re-write it. I suspect that much of what you have read here over the past 3 weeks will be edited out.

I'm having my staff appraisal meeting with myself later on today. I'll report next time how it went. Fingers crossed - I can be very hard on myself.

Live long and prosper.

Stop, thief!

The first of my gap year trips was to Tuscany, an area I had not visited previously. In fact I had not been to Italy before, so it was a new country to add to the list. As my flight took me to Pisa on the day after I had left work I had only the vaguest of notions about how I would be spending the first 9 days of freedom. Booking into the Buddhist hotel was a deliberate ploy. I had been to several Buddhist retreats previously and they had always proved to be very relaxing and refreshing. A few days of simply chilling out and adjusting to my new life was needed. It didn’t quite begin as I had hoped.

The flight was smooth enough. I forked out 12 pounds for extra leg room and this afforded me first class status. I had three seats all to myself and the aircrew treated me like a VIP. It was well worth additional cost and got my travels off to a worthy start.

My problems started when I switched to travelling by train as I had three of the damn things to catch. The first one was the shuttle from the airport to Pisa Centrali. The ticket machine was out of order so I boarded the train without a ticket. This prompted me to reach for my phrase book and learn the Italian for 'the machine is broken' (la machinno a rotto, should you ever find yourself in the same situation), as I was sure I would be challenged by some official or other. I wasn't.

I got off the train and made my way down the ramp to the main station. Something was wrong. I went through a mental checklist and suddenly realised I had left my laptop on the overhead luggage rack. Lugging my heavy bag, I hurried back and found with relief that the train was still there. I went back to my seat but the laptop was nowhere to be seen. I searched the train frantically, eventually reaching the driver. Might my laptop have been handed to him?

'Do you speak English?’ I said hurriedly, no time for phrase books.

'No!' he replied curtly.

Panic and fear began to crush me. There was so much on the laptop that I needed, losing it would be a disaster. I tried to think of when I had last backed up my files and calculate the damage. This was an awful way to begin my trip.

Lacking other options, I returned to my seat and looked again. The luggage rack remained empty.

There were two choices. Either someone had nicked my laptop and I could rush through the station and try to find the swine. Or, I could calm down and try to be rational. I took a deep breath.

Italian trains must park overnight at a place where kids with spray paint roam at will, for all the trains I saw had bright graffitti, or ‘tags’ on them. I had noticed that my window was a virulent purple because of the paint outside. When I checked it now, it was clean. Clearly, the computer thief had cleaned the window to throw me off the scent. How dastardly can you get?

Then I noticed a purple window on the opposite side of the train, in a seat very similar to the one I had travelled in. And just above it was a familiar laptop case.

Hot and sweaty I clambered off the train to the relief of a group of watching Italians who were clearly wondering what the hell I was doing rushing up and down the train.

'Ah, computer!' they said as one as understanding dawned. Another word learned.


My next train took me to Lucca, where I had to change again and catch the Florence (Firenze) train.

Getting the hang of things, I soon bought a ticket and worked out that the next train was not for another 40 minutes. Outside the station I found a very small bar where I was able to learn another word, this time the Italian for beer - birra.

With time to spare I made my way to the allotted platform. There was a very nice train there and clearly it hadn’t been left overnight in a skate park as it was almost tag free. The trouble was there was no illuminated sign on the platform to tell if this was the Firenze train and nothing on the front indicate where it was going either. Should I get on and risk it leaving suddenly for destination unknown?

I decided to chance it.

Not only was it the right train, it was air conditioned and I arrived at Montecatini Terme quite fresh. Unfortunately, the 25 minute search for the hotel in the raging afternoon heat soon changed that to a state of being soaked in sweat once more.

My hotel proved to be quiet and spacious and I was afforded the warm welcome I have come to expect from practising Buddhists. My room was light and airy, with a huge balcony. The only downside was the lack of alcohol on the premises. I was dying for a cold birra.

Next time - Taking the waters

Going, Going, Gone....

For months the counter on my works computer had been counting down the days like an Advent calendar. Now the clock read ‘Zero’ and it was the biggest Christmas Day of my life.

I awoke very early with a mixture of excitement and nerves that I hadn't felt since I was a child. Work was a succession of goodbyes, handshakes and good wishes. It was the last of everything. Even my last meeting didn’t seem quite so boring as usual.

The strangest part was writing reports with recommendations for change that I would not be present to see implemented. My ego wanted to leave behind some form of legacy but I knew that it was like writing my name on the seashore and it would not be long before all trace of me was erased.

I took a last lingering look at the building where I had enjoyed so many happy times and bade a silent farewell to my old life.

Deciding how to leave was something I had given a lot of thought to. Some colleagues have thrown huge parties when they retire. At the other extreme there was a Superintendent who said he was just popping out to the shop on his last day and never came back.

I decided against the big party and I settled for buying lunch at a nice restaurant near the police station for about thirty of the people I had worked with. I wanted it to be my thank you for their care, help and support. The people attending were those that had made an impact on my life whilst working at headquarters – my own staff, the cleaner, people I had worked closely with and those I simply cared about. One friend, Ian, had known me since I joined. Another, Jo, had known me for just over a year and I invited her simply because she always took the time to talk to me and be pleasant when she found me lurking near the coffee machine.

I care about what people are, their qualities and values, more than who they are, their rank or status. Therefore there was a distinct lack of ‘management’ at my farewell lunch. The only senior officer was present was Pat, a lovely man whom I had known since he transferred to the force some years earlier and who was also leaving the following week to take up a new post as Assistant Chief Constable with a southern police force.

Despite the fact that we were in a restaurant and there were other parties present, Pat got up to make a speech that suitably embarrassed me and I was given appropriate middle aged gapper gifts, including The Rough Guide to New Zealand.

I quickly went into the speech I had in my head, making it as humorous as I could by stealing some material from Count Arthur Strong on Radio 4. Then I said what was in my heart and not just lodged in my head by way of preparation.

‘Walking away today is strange feeling. This day has been a long time coming for me and I honestly don’t think I will miss the job. I’m excited about the future. But I will miss the people, because I have been lucky enough to work with wonderful people who have done so much to make my time at headquarters really special. People who mean so much to me. I don’t have time for people who think they are important because they have reached a certain level in the force. What I care about are people with strong values such as honesty, integrity, compassion and decency. And that is why you are all here today. Thank you.’

My voice cracked and the tears I had hoped to avoid filled my eyes.

A few minutes later our lunchtime party began to break up and everyone went back to work. Everyone except me. My daughter took me home and I began my new life.


Next time - Free at last - Italy

The Final Countdown

Mentally I felt prepared for my final day. I even had my farewell speech lodged in my mind should I be called upon to use it.

I had no idea what my future held. This in itself was intoxicating. I had spent my entire life playing safe and planning ahead. Apart from my divorce, all the changes to my life had been steady and controlled as far as possible. Now I could see roughly 6 months ahead, to the end of the Vietnam trip. Beyond that was just a haze. It was a terrific feeling. Although blue is the colour most usually associated with British police officers, I felt that my career had more than a hint of beige about it.

When people found out that I was studying for a degree in creative writing they naturally assumed that in my thirty years as a cop I had a wealth of exciting experiences logged away and ready to convert into the next best-selling novel. Not so. Like most police officers I have a few tales to tell: the guy who came at me with a knife; a year spent on the miners’ strike; guarding the Pope when he came to York; dealing with sudden deaths; and sundry other tales of human misery that sometimes left their mark upon me. Once I guarded a middle aged bloke in hospital after he had taken a near fatal overdose. His wife had been found dead at the marital home and he was suspected of murder. He was recovering but the paracetamol he had taken could still cause severe liver damage and cause him to die. A doctor imparted this information to the prisoner and I could see that he was visibly shocked by it.

‘So, I could still die?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ replied the doctor, firmly.

As soon as the doctor left the room I asked our friend a few casual questions, just in case he died on my watch. His wife had been found dead in the bath, having being drowned. Was it murder or would he claim it was a crime of passion, a sudden act of violence that was not intended to kill and could be classed as manslaughter? He revealed to me the existence of a letter to his sister that the inquiry team knew nothing about. In the letter he apologised for what he had done. Crucially, the letter was written and posted the day before he killed his wife.

Realising its significance, the sister had not revealed the existence of the letter to the detectives who questioned her about her brother. When confronted she duly produced the letter and it was a vital piece of evidence in securing a conviction for murder and a mandatory life sentence.

I received a bollocking from a Detective Sergeant working on the case for talking to the prisoner.

‘You should have left it to the CID,’ he chided.

As stories go it’s not a bad one and I am sure most cops could tell you very similar ones. It’s not going to get me any invitations as an after dinner speaker though. Unlike some of my more colourful police colleagues who have endless tales to tell about their exploits in the CID or the Regional Crime Squad, taking out whole gangs of well organised criminals or tracking murderers to the far side of the globe.

I observed that the officers who held entire crowds enthralled with their anecdotes were also the ones who simply could not leave the police. Many had foregone their marriage, sometimes more than one, to give their all to the job they were passionate about and seemingly couldn’t live without.

Compared to such living legends, my career was very bland indeed. By leaving and throwing myself into an uncertain future I saw that for once I was in a position to make my life more colourful. Whether I was being bold or reckless didn’t matter. I felt very good about myself.

A visit to the photographer made me realise just how far I had already come in preparation for my big day and the new life that lay ahead.

I have a picture of myself in my uniform as a very young police officer. I had it taken professionally as a Christmas present for my proud parents. I decided that it would be a good idea to have a similar photo taken of me in my Chief Inspector’s uniform. I also opted to have a few photos of me in casual dress whilst I was there.

The photo shoot went well until I changed into my casual clothes. I put on some trousers I had bought only a year previously. They hung off me like a clown’s costume and were a good 6 inches too big in the waist.

When I got home I went through my wardrobe, threw out most of my clothes and took myself off on a shopping trip to buy new, trendy clothes that fitted me.

As my final day at work approached, I felt like a new man. Or at least an old one re-cycled.

Next time - Goodbye to my old life