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

The Missing Challenges

Making the list of 20 goals was the hardest part of the exercise. They had to be things that I had not done before, that offered some challenge in order to achieve and which supported my mission statement.

Many challenges on my list would be on most people’s list of things to do before they die, or reach a certain age. A couple of the more common ones are missing, however. The first of these is ‘Make a parachute jump’. This is not on my list because I have already done it. Twice in fact.

If parachute jumping is on your list then may I give you a tip? Opt for a tandem jump. In this way you can both scare yourself shitless and yet relax at the same time as someone else has the difficult task of ensuring that you find the drop zone and land safely. Jumping from a static line as I did means you have all of those problems. Think about it this way – when you first learned to drive a car how much sightseeing did you do? Did you ever have time to admire the world around you? No, you didn’t. You were too busy trying to focus on three things at once, wipe the cold sweat of fear out of your eyes and avoid a nasty accident. And it’s exactly the same with parachuting, except it’s in three dimensions and the brakes are a bit dodgy.

For my first parachute jump I got out of the plane at 2,000 feet, my canopy opened and I didn’t have a sodding clue where I was. Nothing on the ground matched the map I had in my head. Fortunately there was a one way radio strapped to my chest that allowed an instructor on the ground to relay messages to me, such as ‘pull your left toggle’. It was a nerve-wracking few minutes where I was just a puppet with my life in somebody else’s hands. But in a strange way I enjoyed it and actually thought that it could be the hobby for me.

Back I went to the airfield a few weeks later to clock up jump number two. This didn’t go quite so well.

When I did my first jump it was after a day’s training and all the instructions were fresh in my mind. Several sleeps later I had forgotten nearly everything. Still, not to worry, all I had to do was listen to the voice coming out of my chest. All went well until I was about 100 feet off the ground and ready to land. I misunderstood the instruction given to me, put myself into a spin, lost control and collided with a tree. I was very lucky to escape with just a badly sprained ankle.

I never returned to the airfield. Apart from my dented confidence I had wrecked a thousand pounds’ worth of parachute and I didn’t fancy the bill if I showed my face again.

The other challenge you might expect to see on the list is bungee jumping and my reason for not including it is linked to my parachute experience.

The hardest part of a solo parachute jump is leaving the aircraft. It’s just not natural. There you are enjoying the scenery and next minute you’re being told to leave the aircraft. Sitting in the doorway, legs dangling outside the plane, with the slip stream sucking at you; it takes an awful lot of courage to hurl yourself out into the void. I had that courage twice, but no longer.

The idea of a bungee jump brings on that same fear. I imagine myself inching out onto the jump platform with everybody watching. As the seconds tick away and the time comes to jump I know I will be frozen with fear and have to be helped back to safety and ritual humiliation.

I will do most things, but I have always said that I will never do a bungee jump.

Next time - The last day approaches

20 Challenges

My mind made up, I ‘put my ticket in’, which is police slang for submitting my resignation notice. Actually, resigning is only part of the process. I was required to submit no fewer than five different forms to ensure that my retirement goes smoothly and the well earned lump sum appeared in my bank account on the appointed day. The last form contained the chilling phrase:

‘Are you really sure you want to do this? By signing this you are invoking your karma and effectively setting the date of your death.’

Pushing aside all thoughts of my early demise, I signed it anyway and began to plan my future.

My last day as a police officer would be Wednesday 29th July, 2010. Thirty years to the day since I proudly put on my uniform for the first time as a fresh faced 21 year old sporting a very nice moustache. With the days of annual leave I have left and so called ‘Reward Leave’ (extra days leave given each year as a reward for not going off sick) I was able to bring my last day in that same uniform forward to Friday 3rd of July. The die was cast.

By this time I had a pretty good idea of what I want to do with my gap year and I gave my credit card a good bashing on the internet travel and airline sites.

Not wishing to waste time I decided to embark on my first trip the day after leaving work. I had never been to Italy so I booked flights to Pisa with a view to seeing Tuscany. As an added twist I arranged to stay in a hotel run by Buddhists in a small town called Montecatini. I reckoned on 9 days being enough for me to chill out and acclimatise to life beyond work.

Allowing for a few days at home I followed this trip by renting a cottage on the edge of the English Lake District village of Grasmere, in the hope that I could entice all three of my children to join me at some point during the week.

Allowing for another couple of weeks at home, I then booked a much more challenging break by arranging for my youngest son and me to travel to Turkey for a week’s activity holiday.

I was on a roll and decided to go for the big one. I booked myself onto a guided two week tour through East Africa in mid September, beginning in Kenya, travelling north to Uganda and ending in Rwanda. Had it not been for the kind people of the Police Federation who negotiated on my behalf for an increased lump sum when I retired, my plans would end there.

As it was I had enough time and resources to go for one more epic trip before the year was out. I booked flights to Hong Kong in November and arranged to stay there for a couple of days before heading south to Vietnam where I would join another guided tour in Hanoi and journey south to Ho Chi Minh City, or Saigon as it is still commonly known.

I had a tentative plan to visit Australia and New Zealand in the New Year, but I decided that I have done enough credit card bashing for the time being.

My choices of destinations were not random. Each trip represented something special to me, from time with my children to seeking out the Big 5 on the Maasai Mara. My gap year wasn’t going to be about visiting places across the planet and looking at them. It was about experiencing all those places have to offer.

One thing I learned from all those tedious meetings I attended as a Chief Inspector was the importance of strategic and tactical planning. Most large organisations these days set themselves aspirational goals or create mission statements. Every police force has its own set of goals, usually four or five of them. If you were to compare the goals of each of the 43 police forces in England and Wales you would see that they are amazingly similar. There is a good reason for this. Although the Police Service is apolitical it is ruled by the government of the day who set the agenda for all police forces and measure success or failure by means of performance targets. This is a great way to waste taxpayers money on endless meetings and inspections. And all so the ruling party can tell you come election time that under their tenure they have cut reported crime by X%, or put Y number of police officers back on the streets. And when you read those statements don’t forget that they are based on data supplied by people like me. Yes, me! You can’t have read this far without realising that I can be prone to embroider the truth now and again. I never went to a meeting with Home Office officials without first visiting the stores for a large supply of smoke and several mirrors.

Casting cynicism aside for a minute, the process is not all bad. Having been set their targets and defined their goals, chief police officers then create a strategy in order to achieve them. Typically, this will require allocating resources to the so called ‘Three Pillars of Policing’ – incident response, crime investigation and neighbourhood policing. What underpins the strategy are the tactics used to carry it out. This is the work done by the police staff at the sharp end to ensure that you and I can live our lives in safety and receive a good service (or not).

The hours I have spent locked in mind numbing meetings had not been a total waste of time as I realised that I could apply the principles I had learned to help me gain the most from my gap year experience. I even decided to hold monthly staff appraisal meetings with myself to check on my progress.

After one or two coats of thinking about it I came up with my Middle Aged Gapper Mission Statement, my strategy and a list of 20 tactical goals to be achieved during my year. Here they are:

Mission Statement

To travel extensively, taking on challenges and meeting people that stimulate my mental, physical, emotional and spiritual growth.

Strategy

To visit at least 10 countries that I have not visited previously.

Tactical Goals

1. See the Big 7 safari animals in the wild
2. Appear on TV
3. Take an epic train journey
4. Go white water rafting
5. Catch a big fish
6. Watch the sun rise at Uluru
7. Take a dip in a hot spring
8. Climb a glacier
9. Swim with dolphins
10. Get a Maori tattoo
11. Go paragliding
12. Photograph a whale
13. Climb Sydney Harbour Bridge
14. Fly in a hot air balloon over the Maasai Mara
15. Photograph Wainwright with a celebrity
16. Take a Turkish bath
17. See the Northern Lights
18. Come face to face with mountain gorillas
19. Visit a Buddhist temple
20. Run a half marathon in under 2 hours

Next time - advice on parachuting.

First Class Dining (Part 2)

We switched south to York and then west through the Aire valley as we ventured towards the highlight of our journey.

Construction of the Settle to Carlisle railway line began in 1869 and took 7 gruelling years to complete. This was the age of the Navvies, the hardy labourers, mainly Irish, who carved out Britain’s railway and canal networks by brute force. Entire families lived in camps and small townships on the bleak Yorkshire moorside. Not only was the work dangerous but the conditions meant that the threat of diseases like smallpox was never far away. 6,000 navvies were used to build the 72 mile long route with its 14 tunnels and 20 viaducts. A total of 201 people died during construction and of these 110 were children.

The railway came under the threat of closure by Maggie Thatcher in the 1980’s. Fortunately the Minister for Transport of the day, Michael Portillo managed to persuade her not to axe the line. Mr Portillo, one of the few politicians that I actually admire, showed a great deal of foresight and since he saw off the threat in 1989 the line has gone from strength to strength. 750,000 now use the line annually, and not just day trippers like me, but a growing number of commuters too.

Our diesel locomotive made light work of the journey, keeping up a steady but sedate speed that enabled me to marvel at the verdant landscape outside my window as the rugged Yorkshire Dales gave way to the alluring fells of the Lake District. Had I travelled by steam train then the enginemen would have had their work cut out to keep up the same pace. The 16 mile climb from Settle to Blea Moor was known as ‘the long drag’ by train drivers, requiring them to shovel a constant supply of coal into the firebox for the steam locomotive to maintain speed up the near constant 1 in 100 incline.

No such effort for me, thankfully. Instead I got to graze on Elevenses as a world of poetic beauty slid by the window.

We arrived in Carlisle for a three hour stop-over in the early afternoon. I headed for the Tourist Information office full of intention to visit whatever tourist hotspots were on offer. It was a bright, sunny day so I decided to picnic in the park at the northern end of the city. After a filling tuna-mayo sandwich and lashings of ginger beer, the soporific effects of the train journey began to take effect and was not long before one man and his Hull City gnome were snoozing on the grass. So much for seeing the sights.

There was just enough time for Wainwright to pose for pictures in front of Carlisle Castle before we made our way back to the railway station. It was here that I made my first discovery of the Wainwright Effect.

I helped Wainwright to arrange himself into various positions around the waiting train whilst I snapped away with my camera. As I did so I noticed people stopping to stare at my small friend. Everyone smiled and was somehow gladdened by the sight of the Black and Amber diminutive footballer. Strangely though, no one paid me much attention.

Wainwright and I had never worked out the terms of our relationship, but this trip made it very clear. Wainwright is the star and I am merely his minder and personal assistant. It is a role that I am very comfortable with.

I decided to test Wainwright’s winning ways and took him to the diesel locomotive. I had to wait while a genuine enthusiast quizzed the drivers on something technical or maybe he just asked: ‘Can I have a go?’ When he sloped away, shoulders slumped, I took my chance and poked my head into the oily cabin.

The two drivers eyed me with all the enthusiasm of jaded rock stars, tired of constant attention. Jaded or not, my question was one which I am sure they had never been asked before:

‘Excuse me. Can my gnome have his picture taken in your cab?’

A moment of puzzlement gave way to broad smiles as Wainwright was enthusiastically lifted aboard. He even got to pose looking out of the window whilst ‘driving’ the train. I sensed a certain amount of reluctance as the wee feller was returned to me. I had the decency to wait until I was out of sight of the cab before I wiped the grubby fingerprints off the hitherto pristine gnome.

We returned via the Tyne valley, the Tees valley and back along the Esk valley. That's a lot of valleys and some stunning scenery. We even caught sight of The Angel of the North, which was a first for me.

I’d booked myself into a Bed and Breakfast in Whitby for the night, so as the sun set and the superb four course dinner was served, I washed it all down with a decent bottle of red wine.

Could life be any better than this? Fine food, fine wine, the sun setting over an ever changing vista of fields and rivers, the amiable chatter of Anne, Mark and Clive and the companionship of a resin gnome. If that is what retirement is about then I certainly wanted more of it.

Next time - The 20 Challenges

First Class Dining (Part 1)

Moving from being a Chief Inspector to a civilian in the same post within the space of 24 hours was a one-off opportunity. Once I left the organisation I would be on my own with no easy way back to the life of meetings about meetings and deceiving the Home Office. Despite the presence of Wainwright I still felt unnerved at the thought of walking away from a secure future into one that could lead to me having to stack supermarket shelves in order to support my youngest son at college, my daughter at university, my ageing father, my ageing dog and a garden gnome. I settled upon a plan of testing the water. I would undertake a small adventure to test both my and Wainwright’s mettle for around the world voyaging.

Whilst I am not an ‘enthusiast’ I do love to travel by train. It encourages a special level of laziness that is normally reserved for Christmas and bank holidays. I often buy a cheap ticket to London for a day out visiting the art galleries, walking by the river or mooching around Greenwich. On a good day the journey takes less than 3 hours and by the time I’ve switched between trips to the buffet bar, reading and gazing out of the window whilst plugged into my iPod the journey seems to be over much too soon.

The world has some truly lengthy train journeys to offer – the Indian Pacific across Australia, the Re-Unification Express up and down Vietnam and the Rocky Mountaineer through Canada, to name but a few. All of these interested me as potential gap year journeys. There is nothing to match these trips for distance in Great Britain, but there are plenty of iconic rail journeys to be found.

A bit of web surfing put me in touch with West Coast Railways and I booked Wainwright and me onto a full day trip that would take us on the most scenic railway line in England.

Our journey began at Whitby railway station, one cold Saturday morning in early June. Sadly, the locomotive that pulled us along was an old diesel and not the steam train I would have preferred for complete perfection. Once on board Wainwright posed for pictures in the deep seated luxury of the Pullman carriage. I had opted to treat myself to the First Class Dining Experience to ease myself gently into the world of long distance rail travel.

As the train left the station at 7.14 am prompt there were just two other people sharing our carriage. I soon learned that they are a married couple celebrating a 60th birthday by treating themselves to this special day out.

Slowly the train eased its way out of Whitby and along the track of the North York Moors Railway, a stretch of railway that is operated by a bunch of enthusiasts who lovingly maintain the track between Whitby and Pickering and the ancient and noble locomotives and carriages that glide along it. More passengers joined us at every stop until the whole train was alive with excited and animated people.

Wainwright and I were joined at our table by Anne, Mark and Clive, who were also celebrating a birthday. Sitting in close proximity to someone for the length of rail journey is a hit and miss affair with the potential to make or mar the pleasure. My companions definitely added to the whole experience with their good humour and extensive knowledge of trains, the route, history and just about everything else of interest. Clive, the nephew of Anne and Mark was the real railway buff of the trio.

Apart from Wainwright, my other companion on this journey was the excellent and apposite Eleven Minutes Late, by Matthew Engel. It is a book that describes the author’s journey along the length of the British railway system from Penzance to Thurso and at the same time delves into the deep, and sometimes confusing, history of our national rail network.

‘That cover is wrong,’ said Clive with authority.

I stared at the book cover in question. It is a pleasing watercolour that depicts the idyllic scene of a well dressed couple and a young child waiting on a railway platform circa 1950. A blue suited guard has his red flag aloft and his whistle to his mouth as a steam train makes its way majestically into the station.

‘Is it?’ I said, unable to spot anything wrong with the scene before me.

‘The train is on the wrong track,’ continued Clive. ‘A passenger train always approaches a station so that its left hand side is presented to the platform.’

For the remainder of the day I seek verification of Clive’s statement and he proves to be spot on. I discover later that Matthew Engel himself acknowledges the point in the book, pleading for the reader’s indulgence in a little artistic licence in an effort to avoid a deluge of hate mail from vengeful railway enthusiasts.

Piping hot coffee and buttered Arbroath kippers made for a leisurely start to the morning as our outward route took us through the Esk valley to Middlesbrough. A few weeks earlier both Middlesbrough FC and Newcastle United had been relegated from the Premiership after tense battles for survival. The Riverside Stadium was wearing a black arm-band. I didn't approve of Wainwright singing: 'Down with the Geordies, you've gone down with the Geordies’, as we passed it.

Next time - the journey to Carlisle

Faster, fitter, further.

Also around this time I decide to get fitter. The 30 yard walk from my desk the coffee machine is the most exercise I got each day. I had become so fat that one day a young uniformed officer approached me in the obvious belief that I had the physique of a Police Federation Representative, or Fed Rep as they are known. Before I could stop him the constable reeled off a long list of wrongdoings on his shift. It was a fascinating tale involving a tangled web of love triangles, sexual deviancy, bullying, sexism, homophobia and abuse of a police dog.

I listened intently whilst making copious notes. This stuff would be dynamite when I got round to writing my novel. Satisfied that I had drained every salacious detail out of the whistle-blower I shook his hand and left him with the standard Fed Rep’s promise:

‘Leave it with me. I’ll look into it and get back to you.’

Naturally, I was tempted to maintain the pretence of being a Fed Rep. In just half an hour I had been privy to some really juicy gossip. There must be dozens more officers with tales to tell. Enough for several novels and maybe even a screenplay.

Inviting as this thought was, the meeting had also served to tell me it was time to do something about my lack of fitness and weight problem. I was already formulating a mental list of challenges for my gap year and some of them would require me to be fit and agile. And then there was the question of my karma.

I had never in my life been in possession of a large pot of money. Life had somehow conspired to ensure that whenever I reached a situation where I might begin to acquire wealth some unforeseen circumstance would come along and deprive me of it. Happily, it worked the other way too. At times when I was faced with huge financial pressures such as when I got divorced or when my children were young and I had large bills for childcare, the money just seemed to be there and I never got into debt. The laws of the cosmos seemed to be somehow in control of my bank balance.

When I retired I would receive a very nice lump sum. More money than I had possessed in my entire life. How would the cosmos react? To me the answer was obvious. I would die.

Not only was the clock ticking down to retirement, it was ticking down to death too. I would receive the cheque for my lump sum, cheer loudly and promptly drop dead. How annoying was that?

Something had to be done. The cosmos must be cheated. I had to reduce the chances of imminent death.

I’d successfully lost weight before but the cycle was always the same. I’d join a local slimming club; realise I was the only man there; decide which woman I’d most like to have sex with (if she reached her target weight, obviously); try hard for 3 months; get bored of hearing how Tracey had managed to lose another pound this week; go to the class just to get to get weighed; decide that four quid week just to get weighed is a bit steep; weigh myself and save four quid a week; gradually put back all the weight I’d lost plus a bit more for luck.

To break the cycle I opted to go for an online slimming club. One that allowed me to type away ad infinitum to my personal diet guru about how I’d managed to lose a pound this week, or how it’s been an emotional time and I’ve been comforting eating and expect advice and counselling in return. One that not only provides me with a menu every week but even converts it into a shopping list.

The downside is you receive messages from fellow fatties with names like ‘Can’tstopeatingchips’ or ‘BurgersRme54’. But if you ignore them or lie about how easily the pounds are falling off they soon go away and leave you alone.

In my experience dieting, or healthy eating, will only take you so far. The pounds drop off steadily and then an impasse is reached. There’s only one way past it. Exercise.

I have never liked gyms. According to a well known medical magazine, 80 percent of people with gym memberships don’t use them. There must be a universal law that says the desire to stay in and watch TV is inversely proportional to the frequency with which the gym is visited, until staying in reaches 100% and visits equal zero. And yet whenever I have gone to the gym there’s always someone on the machine I want to be on.

But what if you can have both? Stay in by the TV and go to the gym? Say hello to the Wii Fit. What better way to gain the physique of an Olympic athlete than by pretending to hula-hoop or by ski-jumping in your own front room? Except of course it doesn’t quite work that way and breaking out the balance board for a yoga session soon becomes as difficult and repetitive as going to the gym.

Fortunately, I had an epiphany. I was jogging around my front room whilst my on screen avatar made his way through a nice park, waving at other joggers and friendly little dogs, when I had a thought. ‘What if I opened my front door and took this out on the street?’ So I did. And it was fun. And pretty soon I was doing it four times a week and beginning to feel like the younger me.
I even set myself a challenge. To run my first 10k race. And I did and the emotion of that achievement brought tears to my eyes as I crossed the finishing line in 56 minutes. So I entered another race and another. Until I was crossing the line in 52 minutes, the theme tune to Rocky playing in my head as I sprinted home.

I lost so much weight in the process that when my young whistle-blowing friend called by my office to see how his Fed Rep was getting on he didn’t recognise me. I told him the person he was looking for had been suspended from duty after being caught giving out confidential information from the Police National Computer in return for pies.

Next time - First Class Dining on the Settle to Carlisle line.