Wainwright

It was around this time that I was joined on my quest by my faithful companion, Wainwright.

I can’t claim to be a life-long fan of Hull City, or the Tigers as they are known locally. In fact I can’t even claim to be a life-long fan of football. As a young Bobby I would be sent to control the crowds at the Tiger’s ancient ground, Boothferry Park. As far as I could see, and I made numerous studies of this, there was not one single person in that stadium who was enjoying themselves. Certainly not me, and I was being paid to be there. Maybe that’s just a reflection of the northern way of life. We’re only happy when we’re miserable.

My attitude towards the Tigers changed once they acquired the KC Stadium. My children were teenagers and as a treat we went to see City versus Mansfield at a time when the team were doing well in what was then Division 3. City lost, 1 – 0, but from the time I walked into that splendid ground, dazzled by the green of the pitch, I was hooked and so were my children. The brilliant stadium, the jewel in the crown of a city in need of hope and dreams, changed everything, even the gloomy atmosphere I remembered so well. I’ve been going back ever since.

At the time of writing, Hull City are about to be relegated from the Premier League. By the time you read this they could be facing the challenge of the Champions League, or, more likely, cold, wet Tuesday evenings playing the likes of Macclesfield in the Johnstone’s - I’d sooner watch paint dry - trophy.

One sunny February afternoon in 2009 I made a trip that neither I nor any other Tigers’ fan ever expected to make. I went to Stamford Bridge to see City play Chelsea in the Premier League. It was a surprisingly close game that City could have won if they only had a striker on the pitch. It ended 0 – 0 and Phil Scolari paid the price the next day when he was sacked as Chelsea Coach.

But the real revelation that day lurked in the Chelsea merchandise shop. Among all the mugs, scarves and foam pointy fingers was a gnome, dressed in the Chelsea strip with his booted foot resting on a football. ‘We want one!’ cried the Hull City fans and three months later the enterprising manufacturer duly obliged with a limited edition of 500.

As soon as I read about the gnomes in the local press I knew I had to have one. It was perfect. If Tony Hawks could tour Ireland with a fridge then I could tour the world with a Hull City Garden Gnome. Images of the two us being feted on our travels and being forced to politely accept free drinks and accommodation filled my head. With a gaily coloured gnome in tow I might even get laid.

Not everyone shared my enthusiasm when I nipped out one lunch time to the Hull City shop and came back with my new best friend.

‘You paid fifteen quid for that?’ said the scoffer number one.

‘Yes.’

‘What you gonna call it?’ said scoffer number two.

‘Wainwright,’ I replied. ‘He’s called Wainwright.’

‘Why?’

‘That would be telling,’ I said, walking off clutching the little chap protectively to my chest, whilst eyeing a sneering sergeant who was making a move to free his extendable baton. And to this day only I know why Wainwright is Wainwright. And it’s got nothing at all to do with walks in the Lake District.

Next Time - As fat as a Fed Rep

As the Yiddish proverb says: Men make plans and God laughs.

By law police officers cannot join a union and have no right to strike. Most cops do belong to a body that will represent them at a national and local level. For those up to the rank of Chief Inspector this is the Police Federation. I have never been a great fan of the Federation, mainly because I have always seen it as being ineffective and its elected representatives always appear to be keener on pies, pints and petty politics than they are on supporting their members. But a year before I was due to retire the Federation announced an agreement with the government that would have a huge effect upon my pension package.

When they retire most cops take a pension that allows them an annual income that is half of their final salary and a lump sum of money. What the Federation did was to agree a new formula for the lump sum. When information about this new formula appeared casually in my email inbox I had to read it several times to grasp what it was telling me. Then I grabbed my calculator and worked out how the changes would affect me. My lump sum would be increased by over £35,000! God bless the Federation. The pies are on me.

Naturally, I went over my sums numerous times to find the catch but there wasn’t one. I was to be given the equivalent of a small lottery win without even asking for it. Sod taking a three month break when I left work, I now had the finances to take a whole year off and travel more extensively than I had hoped. More than that, my unearned windfall put off the day of reckoning. The day when I would find out just how difficult it is to earn money outside of the police.

For those outside the police service wanting to get in the system is hugely unfair. For those inside and wanting to stay inside it is very rewarding. ‘Civilianisation’ is an ugly word for senior police officers and their political masters. It smacks of policing on the cheap and ‘jobs for the boys (and girls)’. Nonetheless all police forces face strong financial constraints that require them to find ways to save money and be more efficient. As I neared the end of my service the new answer to every chief constable’s prayer was ‘Business and Workforce Modernisation’. This is a process of examining police functions to determine which of them actually require the use of police powers and which can be done by people who do not carry a warrant card.

For example, only police officers have the power to arrest a person but no such powers are required to investigate crimes, interview suspects or take witness statements. Good news for Dennis Waterman and James Bolam as it provided the perfect vehicle to revive their careers by playing parts as ex-cops coming out of retirement in New Tricks.

It was also good news for me. I had never been much of a cop and by the end of my service I was no kind of cop at all. My job title was ‘Business Change Manager’, which meant a lot of those tedious meetings I mentioned earlier but also allowed me to get home in time for The Weakest Link and to see Hull City play on a Saturday afternoon. My stab vest was in pristine condition and my canister of CS, well past its Spray by date, was untouched.

Requiring not even the merest hint of a police power, my job was ripe for ‘modernisation’. I could leave as a police officer one day and come back to the same job as a civilian the next. Not only would I still get my pension but I would receive a decent salary as well. By my calculations I reckoned I would be earning about £12,000 a year more than I already was, with no mortgage to pay. That’s quite an incentive.

There was just one problem. I didn’t have the slightest desire to be the Business Change Manager for a day longer than I had to.

A good many of my friends and colleagues had left the police by the revolving door and were now very comfortable financially having swapped their uniform for a suit and tie. Whilst that was their choice and I could see the logic, to me they were avoiding the test of finding out who they really were. Choosing financial security over a chance to take on a new challenge. Other colleagues simply refused to leave and clung on to their police posts and often the status it afforded them.

As my career dwindled like sand in an hour glass I was very vociferous about my ability to leave behind the job security comfort blanket and step out into the brave new world beyond policing. But as I reached my last six months before becoming eligible to retire I began to regret the boldness and bravado of my words. People would slap me on the back and say:

‘Can’t be long until you retire, Bry? Gosh, you’re a brave man to take off into the wild blue yonder like that. Good luck to you.’

I just smiled and thought: ‘Oh shit.’

Maybe there was a lot to be said for a nice income and a comfortable life. It certainly beats taking photos from a very long ladder. Sorry, Keith from Scunthorpe.

Next time - Joined by Wainwright

The Unsettlement Course

Making the Break

The hotel is one of the smarter ones on the outskirts of Hull. The kind that entertain any organisation in need of a spacious room, a flip chart, a buffet lunch and a scattering of sturdy pens bearing the hotel logo. In my 28 years as a police officer I have been trapped in numerous situations like this. Rising through the ranks to reach the giddy heights of Chief Inspector, the meetings have become more frequent, longer and increasingly pointless. The Policing Plan, The Efficiency Plan, The Strategic Plan, The Annual Budget, The Police Performance Assessment Framework. Every one guaranteed to drive up my desire to sneak out at the next coffee and chunky-biscuit break and escape to a museum, art gallery or the local suicide spot. Except that I can’t, because hotels like this are always carefully situated so that the nearest place of remote interest is the Toyota saleroom 800 yards down the unpaved road.

But this event is different. I have been waiting for it for years.

It is July 2007 and I am sitting around a very large table in the midst of ten police officer colleagues. Most of them are accompanied by their partners.

This is day one of a re-settlement course. A two day event to help officers who are nearing retirement to make the transition into the next phase of their lives. All the cops present are male, a reflection of the force demographic back in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s when we joined the Police.

In the time-honoured fashion we announce who we are, give a little of our background and explain our plans for the future.

As the introductions mount up I’m hit by an astonishing realisation. No one has a clue about what they want to do when they retire. Well, apart from Keith from Scunthorpe that is. He wants to run his own business where he takes photographs from an extendable ladder.

‘Aerial photography without all the expense of a plane or helicopter’.

Keith from Scunthorpe even hands round some business cards he’s had printed.

I admire his vision. Sadly, to this day I have yet to find the need of an aerial view of anything. Sorry, Keith from Scunthorpe.

Then it’s my turn to introduce myself.

‘Good morning. For those that don’t know me, I’m Bryan. I intend to retire in two years. I’m a Chief Inspector and I work at Force Headquarters.

‘I’m divorced and have three teenage children who live with me.

‘I have a very clear vision of what I want to do when I retire. Firstly, I have no intention of coming back as a civilian worker. I want a complete change.

‘For the first three months I am going travelling. Then I’ll take on little jobs and see how I go. I’ve done a bit of am-dram in the past and ideally I would like to work as a TV and film Extra. I am studying for a degree in creative writing at Hull University and for years I’ve dreamed of being a writer. I’d sooner do something I really love for little money than do something I hate just because it pays well.’

I sit down to silence. People are staring.

All of the other police officers present are constables and will receive pensions much less than mine. Their looks say:

‘That’s easy for you, clever git, on your bloated Chief Inspector’s pension. We’ll have to get real jobs to get by.’

The wives, on the other hand, are staring at their husbands with looks that say:

‘How many times did I tell you to pass your promotion exams? You could have got promoted, bought that nice holiday home in Spain we always talked about and got a whacking great pension. If this idiot can get to Chief Inspector, anyone can!’

I know that’s a lot to put into a look, but I swear that’s what they were all saying. Trust me; I used to be a police officer.

Next time - The Police Federation - Who ate all the pies?

The Adventures of a Middle Aged Gapper

As promised, over the next 2 weeks I will publish on here the opening of my book - Adventures of a Middle Aged Gapper. This is also my final submission to Hull University for my Mickey Mouse degree in Creative Writing. Despite my belief that this is not a real degree I am, much to my own amazement, in line to receive First Class Honours (surely that proves my point?). It all depends on this last piece.

If you have any comments to make or constructive criticism then please feel free use the comments box. I will then mention you in my very long acceptance speech when the university laud me with honours. Ok, maybe that's a slight exaggeration since I'm not even going to the awards ceremony. But any comments will be appreciated.

And, if there are any literary agents out there reading this, I am still agent-less and welcome any inquiries.

Here we go -


THE ADVENTURES OF A MIDDLE AGED GAPPER

Preface

Andy, our instructor, guides the inflatable raft to the side of the Kaituna River in preparation for the big one - Tutea Falls.

‘Around this bend is the highest commercially rafted waterfall in the world. The drop is seven metres. If you listen carefully to my instructions and do as I say then there’s a pretty good chance that we will make it.’

At this moment I must admit that there is a certain amount of adrenalin pumping around my body and a nagging fear that won’t go away.

‘If you do fall out of the raft it will feel like you are in a washing machine. Roll yourself into a tight ball until you surface,’ says Andy seriously. ‘You don’t want to hit the rocks.’

All I can picture is myself tumbling around in the crashing waters at the base of the fall, with no idea which way is up and praying that I don’t get snagged under a boulder.

‘Everyone on their feet while I ask the god of the river to protect us.’ Andy is not a Maori but from somewhere he plucks a stirring tribal incantation, calling for our safe delivery while his crew waiver unsteadily in the large raft.

White water rafting is one of the twenty challenges that I set myself for my gap year. In the preceding six months I have already rafted in Turkey and even passed through mighty Grade 5 falls with names like ‘Overtime’ and ‘The Bad Place’ on a twenty mile journey down the River Nile in Uganda. This is one challenge that is well and truly ticked off the list. According to my own rules I don’t need to be here and yet it was the first activity I booked once I had arranged my flight to New Zealand. I’m a tanned, fit, adrenalin junkie. A long way from the overweight guy who used to sit at his desk trying to muster enthusiasm for the latest performance figures and measuring out his days by visits to the coffee machine.

‘This is the Silver Fern,’ says Andy, grabbing some leaves from the river bank. ‘It is the symbol of New Zealand. It’s what the All Blacks wear on their shirts. See, it is green on top and silver underneath? Here, Becky, take the leaf and throw it on the water.’

Becky is a very blond and very attractive American. Like just about everyone else in the raft she is about 30 years younger than me. Becky is a real gapper.

‘If the leaf lands silver side up then it is a sign of good fortune,’ explains Andy. ‘If not, I will have my work cut out.’

Becky throws the leaf to the surface of the river and nine pairs of eyes follow its progress intently. The silver fern sinks without trace.

Shit.

Andy looks genuinely troubled. I don’t think that was meant to happen.

‘Okay, guys, no problem,’ says Andy with forced enthusiasm. ‘Let’s go anyway.’

I resume my position at the front of the raft, alongside my friend Pete who asked if he could join me on my New Zealand trip.

Urged on by Andy we paddle around the bend, Pete and I setting the stroke rate towards the roaring falls.

‘Keep paddling!’ cries Andy, his voice nearly drowned out by the sound of rushing water. I force myself to obey as the front of the boat edges out over the drop.

‘Get down!’ screams Andy.

There’s an ‘ecstasy of fumbling’ as Wilfred Owen put it, describing soldiers in a gas attack. I try to squeeze myself into the space beside Pete, at the same time grabbing the guide rope around the raft and grasping my paddle tightly. Trying to do three things at once whilst my stomach churns more than the river proves too much. I snag my right foot on a toe hold on the floor and begin to panic. In what seems like slow motion, I shake my foot free and get down just as the raft tilts and falls into the crashing water. I take a one last deep breath as the foaming water swallows up the boat. My entire world turns white.

Next time - A very unsettling re-settlement course.

Take me back to the start

Guttentag and welcome to what I hope is my last blog from Berlin.

Although there is a total absence of any air traffic over the city I remain confident that my 5.35pm flight will take off as planned and carry me to Liverpool. I could be home by 10pm.

Given the options available I have made the most of my enforced stay in Berlin. I have walked for miles and jogged through the nearby Tiergarten. I wouldn't call Berlin a beautiful city, not in the way that Paris is. There is still too much cold war austerity about it. But it is a very interesting place. I even saw the hotel window where Michael Jackson dangled one of his kids over the balcony.

I have found the last 5 days to be very relaxing and my walks have given me time to reflect upon my gap year experience and what I want to do with what remains of it.

I see from the BBC News website that Ryanair are already complaining about the law that forces them to provide accomodation and three meals a day for stranded passengers like me. Strangely enough I agree with them. I don't think that law was intended for situations like this.

My ticket home cost about 60 pounds. To expect 5 days bed and board in a good hotel in return for that does seem unreasonable. That was one reason why I left the hotel near the airport after only one night. Bed, breakfast and evening meal there cost about 110 pounds a day. Here at the hostel I have upgraded from last week and I still get everything for about 30 pounds a day. Maybe the food isn't as good but all that Cadbury's Smash and Instant Whip have brought back fond childhood memories.

For my extra cash I obtained a smaller dormitory to get me away from embarrassing moments with French girls. What I actually got was a double room all to myself. The YHA never fails to impress me. That 15 pound membership has paid for itself many times over.

When I get back there are three main things I must attend to. Firstly I need to complete the final 10,000 word submission for my degree in Creative Writing. Then I need to get my house in tip top shape so I can put it on the market in May. Finally, I need to catch up on the work I have missed on the playwrights course with Hull Truck.

I don't envisage getting back to writing about my antipodean travels for about 2 weeks. Rather than leave this blog empty I am going to publish the opening of what is intended to be my book about my gap year. This is the same material that I will be submitting to the university so if you have any comments please feel free to make them as it will help me to secure the score I need.

The opening starts about 2 years before I become a gapper and should take me up to my first big trip, which was to Tuscany. Former colleagues in particular may find some of my observations about the workplace interesting!

The question I have been asked a few times recently is 'What next?', meaning what trips do I have planned. Well, as of now, none.

I did have a plan to tour Europe by train for about a month in the summer. My prolonged stay in Berlin has made me more confident about travel in Europe by rail and hostel. But it also highlights a deficiency - I am not a Bill Bryson or Paul Theroux. They are travellers who happily disappear on their own for months on end. I enjoy my own company up to a point but it can get a bit tedious and when staying in a hostel where most people are far younger there is a tendency to feel isolated.

Equally, touring New Zealand with Pete for 3 weeks led to some tensions. So, as ever it is the middle path that suits me best. That is travelling with a reasonably sized group of people that contains warm and entertaining individuals. By far the best example of that over the last year was the activity week my youngest son and I had in Turkey last August. I made friends on that holiday who I love dearly and keep in regular contact with.

Most likely then I will embark on another of the group tours. A cycling tour of the coast of Croatia is catching my eye at the moment. There is also the possibilty that I will be joining a friend on the Coast to Coast walk across England, from St Bees in the west to Robin Hood's Bay in the east. I hope to agree on that this weekend.

Please join me on Monday 26th April for a series of blogs that take me back to the start and allow me to explain a bit more about my former life and how I came to be having this gap year.

Live long and prosper.

Berlin

My last trip overseas was to Australia and New Zealand and I have forgotten how much more difficult travel can be when there is a language barrier.

'Wa breah ya wan dat on, yeah?'

'Pardon?'

'Da breah. Wot one?'

Buying a Subway sandwich is a difficult process at the best of times. On average there are 27 decisions to be made as you make your way along the production line. The bread, the filling, the salad, the topping, the size. The permutations are almost limitless. You could create a different sandwich every day for 7 years and 66 days before having to repeat yourself. When the spotty youth asking the questions is doing so in a thick, Scouse accent the difficult becomes the impossible.

Through a combination of sign language and random Yes and No statements I eventually emerged with two 6 inch subs for my son and I that were not that far off from what I actually wanted.

The flight to Berlin was short, just 2 hours, and uneventful. We had flown with Easyjet, which meant the airport we landed at was miles from Berlin itself. Fortunately, the efficient German trains soon had us where we needed to be and we found our hostel.

In Germany, unlike England, the accent is very much on the 'Youth' in Youth Hostel. The average occupant appeared to be about 15 as large, noisy school parties dominated the building.

Our dormitory held 12 people, mostly around 19 to 20 years old.

Backpacking in Australia I learned that there is no point being bashful in the dorms. After all we are all men together. On the first morning I stepped out of the shower wrapped in a towel, rummaged around for clean underwear and threw off the towel with a manly flourish before slipping into my Y fronts. It was only when I got round to putting my contact lenses in to cure my blurry vision that I noticed that there was something different about this dorm. What I had taken to be some very long haired men in the next bunk were actually pretty young girls from France. It seems that dormitories are mixed in Germany. Oops!

Berlin is a city of contradictions. It is not somewhere automatically associated with liberalism, but nonetheless it has freedoms to match the likes of Amsterdam. You can possess up to 10g of weed, be naked anywhere you want and even have sex in public places. But dare to jay walk and you risk and instant 10 euro fine. Whole hours are wasted waiting for the green man to appear.

Not just any green man though. This is Apelman. He is a welcome remnant of East Berlin. The green figure has a jaunty hat and an obvious appeal to young children as he steps out gaily. The red figure has his arms spread out wide. His stance is that of a flasher, appealing to the children in a far less welcome manner.

Apelman is a cult figure. Entire shops are devoted to him where you can buy T shirts, mugs, backpacks etc adorned by the red or green figures.

You don't have to spend long on foot in Berlin to realise that you are a second class citizen. The cyclists are the ruling class. Most pavements have a section devoted to bikes. If you wander into it you can guarantee that one of the two wheeled bastards will sneak up silently from behind and scare the shit out of you.

The public buildings are dominated by the most warlike collection of statues I have ever seen. They typically depict well muscled men and women crushing snakes or riding on lions. The message is clear - We are Germans. Screw with us and you will die.

Take for example the well known figure in the chariot on top of the Brandenburg gate. Originally it was called Quadriga, a triumphal goddess of peace, bearing aloft an olive branch. In 1806, when Berlin was conquered by the French, Napoleon had the statue removed and taken to Paris. It was eventually restored to its rightful place in 1814, after Napoleon fell from power. The olive branch, however, was replaced with what we see today - a very menacing iron cross, complete with a savage eagle. The Germans also renamed the figure in the chariot - Victoria.

Look closely at the statue and her gaze appears to be focussed on the French Embassy, one of the main buildings in Pariser Platz, the square in front of the gate. Equally bizarely, the French Embassy, which was built after World War II to replace the bombed out earlier version, resembles a fortified bunker. The lower story has a facade that looks like it is made of sandbags with regular gaps for the people inside to shoot through.

All this aggressive posturing comes at a price. Nearly 70% of Berlin was destroyed in World War II. Nearly every building that survives from the war bears the scars of it. Not far from the hostel my son and I stay at is the Tiergarten - a huge park in the west of the city. Although there hundreds of trees there, none of them are more than 65 years old as the park was plowed up during the war and given over to food production. As the Soviets made their final assault on Berlin in April, 1945 the Tiergarten became a battlefield. Walking around it today it is easy to spot the many bullet holes and shrapnel damage on the various statues that inhabit the park.

Berlin is a place of history. The jewel in the crown of the Third Reich. It reminds me of the lesson I learned about the German people when I was in Munich. That no matter how painful their past maybe they have thrown their doors open to the world and do not try to hide it. More than that they are determined to overcome it.

Take for example Hitler's bunker. This huge complex lay 15 metres beneath Berlin. This is the place where Hitler died on 30th April 1945, along with Eva Braun, who he had married only hours earlier. The Soviets were only 500 metres away and Hitler accepted that he had lost the war.

Having witnessed what the Italian people had done to the body of Mussolini by cutting off his penis and hanging him upside down in public, Hitler ordered that his body be burned once he was dead.

His staff carried out his final wish and then abandoned the bunker. When the Russians arrived a few hours later they realised the significance of the smouldering body. Dental records proved it to be Hitler and he was buried in a secret location. Years later the Soviets exhumed the body, carried out further tests to confirm it was Hitler and allegedly threw his remains in a river.

The bunker itself was blown up by the Russians, although its remains still exist, buried beneath Berlin.

Today this historically important site is as bland and unremarkable as it can be. It is a car park, littered with dog excrement and overlooked by some very ugly flats from the communist era. In 2006, at the time of the World Cup, a small information board was errected. No one wants to to remember Hitler and the Germans have ensured that the neo-nazis of today have nowhere to create a shrine.

My son and I visited the site of the bunker during a very interesting Third Reich tour. Our guide, Ben, is a young historian from south west England. For over three hours he never lost my attention once as we toured the historical sites of Berlin. He even reveals the answer to the question he is asked the most - did Hitler only have one ball?

Although Austrian by birth, an error by the recruiting officer authorised Hitler's application to join the German army at the start of World War I. He became a messenger - a very dangerous role with a high level of mortality. Hitler was severely wounded and yes, he lost a testicle when he was hit by shrapnel.

Deja Vue

There was an intense feeling of Deja Vue about yesterday. It was a warm, sunny day and I was staying in a hostel with a perceived need to keep my costs down. I had decisions to make about my day.

This is exactly the situation I faced a couple of months back in Adelaide. This time it is Berlin.

If you read my blog on Adelaide then you may recall that I was rather sunburnt and opted for a quiet day, mooching around the art gallery and then reading a book in the shade of the park. Cheap, but not very exciting. In hindsight I regretted that decision and felt I should have at least gone to the zoo where there were two giant pandas on loan from China. Where else would I see pandas?

The universe it seems has used an errupting volcano to put me back in exactly the same situation and allow me to change my decision.

This time I stepped out of the hostel in the morning, Roddy Doyle's The Van tucked in my rucksac, and took a pleasant stroll through the nearby Tiergarten, all the while heading west towards an attraction right at the edge of the large park. Berlin Zoo.

It cost just over 11 euros to enter, hardly breaking the bank of this stranded traveller.

The zoo is very large and well kept. And much to my joy one of the incumbents was a very dashing chap named Bau Bau - a giant panda. I spent quite a while with him while he munched his way through a bucket of carrots. I know it was a him as he had the most enormous testicles. They were sprawled on the ground in front of him as he sat upright to enjoy his snack. He seemed rather proud of them.

It was a lazy, restful day spent wandering around the zoo and picking out my favourite animals. It made me realise, if I needed reminding, how lucky I am. Most of the big animals at the zoo I have seen in the wild - lion, leopard, elephant, crocodile, rhino, giraffe, zebra and the numerous species of antelope and bush buck.

It was good to see the animals so close and marvel at their beauty. I particularly love leopards and one at the zoo obligingly stirred himself to wander around in front of me and show off his beautiful markings. The last time I saw a leopard was in Kenya. She was very elusive and we only came close to her once. Even then I was on the wrong side of the truck and didn't get a good photo of her.

Despite that elusiveness and uncertainty I would opt to see an animal in the wild every time. It is the difference between a photo and a film. In a zoo you can watch the animals for a prolonged period, burning every nuance of their appearance into your mind. But in the wild there is drama. The leopard we saw was elusive for a reason. She was hunting. Trying to find the best vantage point to attack a group of very wary impala that were nearby.

I enjoyed my relaxing day at the zoo but I'd sooner have tension and drama, even when I'm on the wrong side of the bus.

As I write this airplane engines are starting up all over Europe and I am optimistic about getting home on Thursday. My flight back to Liverpool is due to leave early on Thursday evening. If it doesn't fly then I will face a spot of bother as I go to the back of a long queue. There were people I met over the weekend who were due to fly out last Thursday and then were given new flights on Monday. Obviously those didn't go either so I assume they have new flights allocated but not until the weekend. I got the last seat on my flight.

I fear not being offered a flight until early next week. That will test my decision making as whilst I am comfortable and happy at the moment I really do want to go home and watch Hull City get relegated.

At the risk of confusing you, dear reader, my intention for my next blog is to go back the start of my visit and tell you one or two interesting things about Berlin. Did Hitler really only have one ball? Find out next time.

Live long and prosper.

Stranded!

I should be at home now, sipping coffee and writing about my 4 day visit to Berlin with my eldest son. Instead I am writing this from Berlin as I am one of the millions of people affected by the closure of European airspace.

On Saturday morning I hugged my son farewell at the Hauptbahnhopft and waved him off as his train left for Hanover. When away from home a rarely bother with newspapers or even TV news, so I was blissfully unaware that a big volcano in Iceland was about to spoil my day.

It was still early but I decided to spend a few leisurely hours out at the airport before flying home. The first problem came when I discovered there was no U-Bahn service out the airport. I got as far as I could then waited for a tube train that would never come. I saw 2 other blokes on the platform who appeared to be having the same problem. Bob and Frank, were in Berlin with their wives and were making their way to the airport. Their lack of both luggage and wives did seem a bit odd.

Eventually we found a bus that would take us the remainder of the journey.

'Is your plane flying then?' said Bob in a Scouse accent.

'I hope so,' I said laughing.

'Don't you know what's happened?' Bob went on and then continued to tell me how a cloud of volcanic ash had grounded all planes over Britain for the last 3 days.

We made our way to the airport at Shonefeld expecting information and help from Easyjet. Bob, Frank and their wives were booked on the same flight as me.

On arrival at the airport every flight on the departures list was cancelled. There was an Easyjet information desk but the besieged staff had abandoned their posts days ago, leaving only a phone number to ring. There were people tapping away wildly at the computers used by the staff who book you in and weigh your luggage. It soon became apparent that these were not staff, but travellers like me, desperate for information. The lunatics had taken over the asylum.

There was nothing to do but join them. The Easyjet website very kindly invited me to log in and change my flight. Great, now we're in business. Except it wouldn't recognise my details and asked for a password I don't recall creating. Frank and Bob had the same problem.

Rumours began to circulate of vouchers being available for hotels and some people were making headway by talking to someone at Easyjet on the 2 phones left unattended at the service desk. After a long queue Frank got through to a real person and accepted new flights. He passed the phone to me and I quickly explained that I wanted the same. I got the last seat available on a flight back to Liverpool.

That flight is not until Thursday.

The man on the phone said I should book into a hotel and keep the receipt. Unwilling to return to central Berlin I made my way to the nearest chain hotel and booked in. When I arrived the cost was 79 euros for the night. I took a short walk that confirmed my suspicion that I was in the middle of nowhere and when I returned I noticed the hotel price had risen by 10 euros.

When I awoke this morning it was clear that nothing had changed overnight and I should abandon any hope of getting home soon. I don't trust Easyjet to reimburse my stay at the hotel and after all of this they may not even exist. I checked out of the hotel and made my way back to Berlin city centre.

I believe it is traditional in my situation to try to escape to Switzerland. But I won't fare any better there. I could strike out west and head for a ferry from either Belgium or Holland. Even if I do that my car is still in Liverpool.

Arriving back at the Hauptbahnhopft any ideas of escape were finally crushed. The station was a sea of tourists and huge queues for the ticket offices. It's not chaos as Germany doesn't do chaos. Dejected people were sitting around talking into mobile phones, all having conversations about escape. Stepping outside the station into the bright sunshine the TV crews were at work recording this human drama.

I am one of the lucky ones. The world will not end if this particular gapper is a few days late getting home. So I made my way back the youth hostel and booked myself back in. I put my washing in the machine and settled down for a few more days in Berlin.

I may get home on Thursday or I may not. I miss my son. Apart from anything else I have relied on his grasp of German to get by. But I do know how to order beer in German and if you're going to be stranded somewhere then it might as well be a place where the beer is some of the best in the world.

Prost!

Dogging Part 2

The big fish - well, I think it was this one, I caught so many!

The next morning I am out of bed before 6 am with the familiar excitement gnawing at my stomach. After a hasty breakfast I grab my fishing gear and venture out once more. It is a bright, sunny Tuesday morning and there are only three of us fishing the early tide.

For three hours I fish up and then down high tide. Nothing. I can’t even complain about the one that got away as my fishing rod hardly moves during this time.

I am disappointed, particularly when I discover the other fishermen have caught 6 dogfish between them. Was I just unlucky? No, that is not the answer. For during those three hours and from talking to the other fishermen I learn an awful lot about fishing. I learn that fresh bait is very important and that it must be presented to the fish properly. That different strategies are needed to catch different fish. Sea Bass for example will feed close to shore, looking for food among the pebbles higher up the beach as the tide disturbs them. I notice that most of the seasoned fisherman fish with two and sometimes three rods. I had assumed that this was merely a way of improving the chances of catching a fish. It turns out that the rods are cast to different lengths and often with different baits to attract a variety of fish.

I mull over what I have learned on the walk back to the cottage and know what I must do.

Before the morning is over I am in the nearby harbour village of Watchet talking to Dave, owner of the Westcoast Angling Centre. When I explain to Dave that I am fishing with the rod and reel my parents bought me when I was 18 years old he replies:

‘Well, rods and reels have changed a lot in ten years.’

I study his face closely to see if he is taking the piss, but I cannot detect any sign that he is.

‘Actually, it’s over thirty years,’ I correct him.

‘Blimey. That’s longer than I’ve been fishing,’ concedes Dave. He is impressed that I should have caught two dogfish on my antique gear.

It is clear that if I wish to take my fishing seriously and have any kudos among fellow anglers then I will need to take out my wallet.

After a brief discussion about budget I eventually settle on one of Dave’s special offers – a combination of rod and reel for fifty quid.

The rod is a very nice, two piece beachcaster and that afternoon, while the tide is out, I take it onto the beach for some casting practice. My first cast is a personal best and I am soon casting a good 30 yards longer than I was managing on my old rod.

As the evening high tide approaches I set up once more on the sea wall. Unfortunately the weather has taken a turn for the worse and even when it is not raining massive waves leap over the wall and drench me anyway.

My second cast with my new rod finds a nice little codling, about a foot long and maybe a pound in weight. He is joined by a second codling later in the evening.

Over the remaining few days of my holiday I fish as often as I can. On my last full day in Blue Anchor I have plenty of mackerel fillet left for use as bait so I take both my rods down to the sea wall and set up. The gods of fishing have smiled on me. There is a particular point along the wall that I have wanted to fish from all week. It is at the point where a storm drain empties into the Bristol Channel. I had observed that people fishing here tended to catch more fish. Although there are already a number of anglers casting their lines along the wall by the time I arrive to fish the 10 am tide, for some reason none of them have taken this prime spot.

With both rids baited I wait eagerly for the action to start. It is a good 30 minutes before I get my first bite and reel in a nice sized dogfish. It all goes quiet again until suddenly, in the hour after high tide I am caught in a frenzy of fishing activity as first one and then the other rod catches a fish. At one point I am struggling to get a decent sized dogfish off the hook on one rod when the other rod starts to bend crazily. I just manage to unhook the doggie, chuck it back in the sea and grab the second rod, striking fiercely.

As I begin to reel in I can tell there is something sizeable on the other end of the line and sure enough a very big dogfish soon breaks the surface. He is so big in fact that once out of the water I struggle to reel him up the sea wall. Fearful that the line will break I resort to pulling the fish in by hand, slowly hauling it up the wall and landing it on the footpath. Armed with a tape measure this time I measure its length from nose to tail – 25 inches. The dog fish is very rotund too and I estimate that it weighs well over 2 pounds.

That last day proved to be my most exciting and bountiful. I caught six dogfish and a small whiting, bringing my total for the week to nine dogfish, two cod and two whiting. More fish in one week than I had caught in the preceding 30 years.

The question remains as to whether I achieved my goal – to catch a big fish.

When setting objectives at work I always made them SMART, which is mnemonic for Specific, Measureable, Achievable, Realistic and Timely. I had made the mistake of not being specific about what exactly constitutes a big fish. Without a specific weight or length a ‘big fish’ is very subjective. Therefore I feel that it falls to me to decide what a big fish means to me.

There is no doubt in my mind that nearly all of the dogfish I caught were ‘big fish’. They were a good three or four times bigger than any sea fish I had reeled in before (I have caught trout in a well stocked trout lake before, but I think that is cheating). Certainly a fish over 2 feet long qualifies as big in my opinion, so objective achieved and well done me.

Had I not succeeded then I was prepared to resort to desperate measures. This would have involved putting to sea in a boat to catch fish under the tutelage of a proper fisherman. I think we all know by now how that scenario was likely to end.

Live long and prosper - and see you next week as I am away to Berlin tomorrow morning with number 1 son to sample more of that beer that the Pope drinks.

Dogging

Doggie Two

Doggie One

I had stayed at the small cottage in Blue Anchor, Somerset once before. Apart from having a wonderful view across the Bristol Channel to Wales, its location allows me to visit my parent’s grave, which is about 20 minutes’ drive away and to catch up with relatives in Bridgewater.

My first visit was in April 2008 when I was accompanied by my then girlfriend, Kate, and we were blessed with wonderful weather. This allowed us to take many lovely walks and Kate even indulged me by joining me on a trip up and down the full length of the West Somerset Railway. The railway is operated by volunteers who maintain steam and diesel locomotives as well as 20 miles of track and 10 picturesque stations guaranteed to inspire nostalgia.

I don’t believe in disturbing the ghosts of girlfriends past, so booking the two bedroom cottage for the sole use of myself and my dog was a gamble. I knew that it would bring back memories of happy times with Kate and maybe even invoke the odd late night, whisky fuelled, destructive act of self-examination and regret.

To avoid this I decided to leave the fine malt at home and focussed on the positive. Without Kate in tow I was free. Totally free to do whatever I bloody well wanted without having to tip-toe around Kate’s sensibilities or go on another sodding walk when all I really wanted to do was crash out with a book in the conservatory.

As this orgy of self-indulgence approached I realised exactly what it was I wanted to do more than anything else – go fishing.

At this point I think I should explain the extent of my fishing experience.

When I moved to Hull to train to be a teacher in 1976 I realised that I was moving nearer to the sea and with that came the opportunity to take up sea angling. I became friends with Steve, the student in the next room and he not only had a car but a fishing rod too. Steve wasn’t the most proficient of sea fishermen but he kindly took me on trips to Bridlington where we fished from the harbour wall and caught small whiting and the odd crab.

My parents bought me a rod and reel for Christmas and I even joined the college Sea Angling Society. My one and only trip with them involved 6 hours in a boat off Flamborough Head, where I spent 10 minutes fishing and 5 hours and 50 minutes puking up and sleeping.

In the intervening 30 odd years I have ventured out maybe half a dozen times to various locations with that same rod and reel and on every occasion the result has been the same. I haven’t caught a thing.

Thus it was that catching a decent sized fish made it onto my list of gap year challenges. I thought I was going to achieve it in New Zealand when Pete and I met Greg at Lake Tekapo But that ended in disappointment when our planned trip to catch brown trout was cancelled due to the lake being too choppy.

Blue Anchor afforded another opportunity. When visiting with Kate I had noticed the numerous fishermen lined up along the sea wall at high tide. And a bit of internet research indicated that it was a good spot for catching a variety of fish.

On arrival at my holiday hide-away I allowed myself a day to gather intelligence. I walked Tessa past the twenty or so fishermen spaced out along the sea front and casually observed their positions and the bait they were using, which was mostly mackerel and squid. Chatting to one or two of them I learned that not many fish were being caught but more importantly, the next three days would see some of the highest tides of the year. Great for fishing.

As Monday arrived there were only a handful of hardy fishermen and I stepped out to join them armed with my vintage rod and reel and a good supply of mackerel. I proceeded to the spot I had carefully concluded to be the most propitious and set up my tackle.

I have only been fishing for 10 minutes when the tip of my 12 foot rod begins to flex up and down quite violently. With eager anticipation I strike at my hidden prey and began to reel it in. Yes, there’s definitely something on the end of my line! A dark patch of seaweed breaks the surface.

Undeterred I re-bait my 2 hooks and cast once again. Five minutes later the rod begins to bend once more.

A middle aged couple out for a walk witness me make my deadly strike and gather close in eager anticipation of seeing a leviathan pulled from the deep.

‘Don’t worry, It’ll just be more seaweed,’ I say to them, fearful of disappointing my audience.

Three pairs of eyes fix on the point where fishing line meets water as the lighter line gives way to the luminous green heavier line that is used as the shock leader. Then my trace appears and behind that there is something very light in colour that appears to be wriggling. Not seaweed, but a leviathan from the deep. As the fish breaks the surface we witness the beautiful spotted camouflage of a dogfish. Quite a big one too.

From the sea wall down to the water is about 20 feet. Gently I reel my catch up the wall, hardly daring to breathe for fear that he will wriggle free or the line will snap. Inch by inch I raise him up and then over the wall to safety.

The dogfish is about 20 inches long and sandy in colour with darker spots along his sleek back. It is in every way a thing of beauty.

‘I haven’t caught one of those before,’ I confide to the couple.

In fact I have never caught anything remotely like this before.

‘They can be a bit nasty,’ says the gentleman, sagely.

‘Yes,’ I say uncertainly, eyeing the mini shark that is now lying on the pavement and looking none too happy to have my brand new hook stuck in its cruel looking gob.

The couple wish me luck and leave me to it whilst I reach in my bag for my small camera. I manage get a couple of shots of the dogfish with a can of coke for scale, in between its bursts of angry thrashing.

Believing in simplicity I had travelled from the cottage to my preferred spot with the bare essentials to catch a fish. I hadn’t considered what I was going to do if I caught one, let alone one that can bite you.

Luckily I had my gloves with me. I grabbed the beast with a gloved hand whilst trying to wrestle the embedded hook free. Even through the glove the dogfish skin was course and rough. As my catch writhed in my hand I could sense his immense power and he wrapped his strong tail around my wrist like a snake.

The fish was hooked just inside his gapping mouth, having taken the bait whole. I realised that my fears that he might have fallen off the hook were unfounded as I it took a good 2 minutes for me to finally prise the fish free.

The dogfish and I gazed at each other respectfully before I dropped him back into the sea and with a powerful swish of his tail he was gone.

I fished the tide for a further 90 minutes, during which time my rod went crazy just once more. I reeled in another dogfish, this time a bit darker and slightly smaller than the first one.

As I made my way back to the cottage I stopped to talk to each of the other four fishermen along the wall. A part of me just had to share the news of my success with someone. It turned out that the others had caught dogfish too. One bloke had caught six.

As I talked to these men it wasn’t just the joy of success that elated me. It was the realisation that I had finally passed an initiation ceremony and been allowed to join the curious band of people who spend hours and hours by the sea, or on boats, or by rivers and lakes just for the delight of winding in a bit of nylon line and wondering what is on the end of it.

Zumerzet

I am back fully refreshed after my week in Somerset. The weather could have been kinder but I was never bored and even when the rain was pouring down outside it was nice to stoke up the wood burning stove and snuggle down for a good read and the odd nap. Did I catch the big fish? Read tomorrow's blog to find out.

Apologies to anyone following my Australian and New Zealand adventures. I will pick them up again soon, it's just that I have other projects pressing on me too. I am on the PlayWrite course at Hull Truck now and that demands a fair bit of 'homework' and script reading. I am also meeting my university tutor on Wednesday and I have about a month left to complete my final submission to my degree course and ensure it is of the required standard.

Whilst I was away I received a reply from one of the literary agents I had approached. He said:

'The travel book market is so constrained these days that I fear we would find it difficult to place your work with a publisher.'

Not the response I was hoping for, which was more along the lines of:

'Wow! You are so funny and original. When can you sign?'

I'm not downcast about it, but it does pose a dilemma - should I complete my book as planned or would I be better investing my energies in other areas, such as play writing? Or, maybe I should just get a real job and have done with it.

Life has a nasty habit of getting in the way of my plans too. I intend to put my house on the market in May, so there is a fair bit to do in preparation for that. Not to mention a battle I am having with the solicitor who is supposed to be handling the probate for my father's estate. A 10 page letter of complaint is poised for sending. 'Smoke that you bastard', as my friend Ian would say.

I hope you like today's picture. It is one of the aurora borealis, taken from the plane I was on a couple of weeks or so ago. The picture was taken by one of the resident experts on board and is of much better quality than the one I took. Well, they didn't have to play musical chairs to get a view from the window.

Be back soon.

Live long and prosper.