You wouldn’t believe it
There is absent-mindedness and there is unbelievable absent-mindedness. Ordinary absent-mindedness is a skill I have developed and cherished for years now. Friends will tell you about it, chuckling happily. The unbelievable sort is quite another matter. The events seldom happen and I never talk about them, chiefly because they are unbelievable. Take that day in the city of Bath.
My bank is in Bath. I have visited it twice, I believe. The rest of the time I rely on their neat website to remind me of my current balance and discover who’s been cruel enough to make use of it.
But a few weeks ago I had to make a visit. I remembered where it was and walked happily towards it from the bus stop. It’s a long walk from the bus stop. Uphill for most of the way and involving those frightening little moments of uncertainty at crossroads and little alleyways. My infrequent shopping trips take me along these delightfully interesting alleyways between fascinating shops and I knew that the alleyway I was in led to my destination. The shops were as interesting as ever and the small landmarks continually reassured me that I was on the right track for my bank.
But I was not. I stood at the end of my alleyway, looking left and right. This was not the right place. It was the right place had I wanted that little art shop on the corner which I always enjoyed visiting, but the wrong one for my bank. I asked a bystander for directions. It seemed I was a long way from my bank and heading in the wrong direction.
I followed the instructions and arrived at a familiar spot, the place where very noisy performers of pop songs appear to have permission to torture us with drum and cymbal and audio systems turned up to full volume. I headed for the bank. I knew now that I was on the right track. I think I was actually whistling through my teeth as I drew close to the spot. But, if I had been whistling, I stopped. It was not the right spot after all. There was no sign of my bank. A man was leaning against the wall just beside me and I asked him where this particular bank was. He looked at me, mouth open but strangely silent. I felt his eyebrows were higher than they should have been. Then he pulled himself together, jerked a thumb over his right shoulder at the doorway beside him and said, ‘In there.’
I wanted to believe that anyone could have made the same mistake. But that was unbelievable.
How’s the back?
ONE GLORIOUS morning on the spectacular island of Mahe, Seychelles, the photographer was shooting a scenic picture when he spotted a boy in the distance, landing an enormous fish. It was half the boy's height. He did a close-up. It was stunning. As he returned to continue with the main shot I made this distant snapshot of the boy.
No connection whatever, except that it was on the same location; one morning, ridiculously early, I strolled along the silver sand before starting work and had the idea of paddling a little. Nothing strenuous, you know, and nothing risky, such as letting the water come above my ankles (you do have to watch water. Treacherous stuff - one absentminded moment and you can find yourself gurgling down there with the fishes.)
I took off my socks and let a small bubbling wavelet sweep over my toes, and back again. I went a little further out. I was up to my ankles, now, and confident. I walked, and swished the water a little. Not too much, of course. I didn't want to upset it. The water was pleasantly warm - seductive, really. I pondered on the subject of mermaids. They invited you into their presence, I've heard. What terrors might they employ once you were under their spell?
My answer came in the shape of an upturned, broken beer bottle, and I had trodden on it. The water swilling round my foot was red. Without too much howling and soppy business (mermaids love that sort of thing) I walked casually up the beach to my hut. The photographer, John Garrett, was pulling on his socks. He spotted me and asked if I was OK. I seemed to be limping. I reassured him that I had only trodden on a broken bottle and would just put a handkerchief round it. ADs are, on the whole, tender-hearted people; they don't like to disturb the photographer's peace of mind.
But he became bossy and I ended up in hospital with huge needles being thrust into me and smiling tanned faces explaining that tetanus was a nasty thing to have.
The following morning I got up at the normal time and dressed and wondered why John hadn't appeared. He was usually up before me, cleaning his lenses and fiddling with light metres and things. I stopped outside his hut and called. A groan came from within. I investigated. He was flat on his back.
'Paul, I've done my back in,' he growled. 'Sprain. Nothing much. Be up in a minute. How's the foot?'
After a few days of hobbling along, he wincing at back pains and I with foot pains, we both improved. Both foot and back grew more reasonable and work continued. But we developed a morning greeting. 'How's the foot?' he would say. 'How's the back?' I would reply. We made a happy couple, John and me.
I was moved to write this because, three days ago, I sprained my back. Standing and lying down are the only really comfortable positions. Sitting is OK for half an hour, but no longer. And getting up from the chair is sheer hell, with hot darts being thrown exactly at the spot where it hurts most. The days seem much longer.
And now, I have to get out of this chair.
Another ancestral home
When you've grown up in a semidetached, 1930s two-up, two-down house with a tiny back garden it comes as a bit of a shock when you're 20 and you're told you're about to live in an enormous palace. My RAF driver nodded sideways as we approached a tastefully flamboyant archway, indicating the top of the tower appearing above the Burmese shrubbery.
'This is where you'll be living,' he said. We were in Yangon, Myanmar, and it was the palace of Lim Chin Tsong.
I goggled. More and more became visible as we rounded a bend in the drive. You share the sight here; I am indebted to Mr Davey Lim, the great great grandson of Lim Chin Tsong, for giving me permission to use the picture. You can see websites about the palace by entering the name Lim Chin Tsong in Google.
Two magnificent doors formed the main entrance; the wide reception hall halted me in my eager stride. Vast, beautifully lit from windows all round us, some of them in stained glass. We walked up a very wide staircase, beautifully carved in teak, to what would be my bedroom. I reckoned that three of the rooms in my childhood home would have slotted in here nicely.
Life, for the few months I stayed here, was interesting. The whole site had been allocated to the RAF; the Japanese army had vacated the place only a matter of weeks before. One afternoon I peered down into one of their dugouts in the gardens and the air I breathed was redolent with the atmosphere of tension.
We were a maintenance unit. Aircraft equipment of all kinds came to us and the specialists among us dealt with whatever they were asked to investigate and put right. I dealt with cameras, aerial reconnaissance and gun cameras. But there was much spare time. I spotted a digger tractor in the yard one day and the engineer dealing with it asked me if I wanted to have a go. Driving it, that is. Digging would have been a little excessive. I climbed up, found the switch and started the thing. Gingerly, I discovered which was the clutch and which the brake. I had never driven anything and this was tremendous fun. I jerked happily round the yard and was soon managing a reasonably smooth gearchange. On one circuit I saw a snake sunning itself straight ahead. I steered over it and a chum of mine said afterwards that it was a Silver Krait - one of the deadliest. But unfortunately, said my chum, it was only the skin. They cheered me at dinner that night.
Up in the top storey of the octangular tower several of us keen on drawing started an art session, bringing in people from the town and working on portraits in line, watercolour and oils. I have to admit that the most popular model was a lovely girl who readily agreed to pose nude.
The time came to leave, and I was flown from Mingaladon airfield (now the international airport) to Calcutta and, after an equally eventful few months, home to England, with many stories to tell.
The ancestral home
Wigmore Castle. When we stay here for holidays we do find that nights are a little spooky. Draughty, too. But waking up here in the mornings we are charmed by the glorious view of undulating Herefordshire countryside. We can almost see Wales. And being on top of a hill, the children find it very good for flying kites. Parking the car is tricky as there’s no garage and the surrounding land drops away fairly steeply and encourages parked cars to slide downhill during the night.
For the benefit of those who are either unfamiliar with the English countryside or who fail to understand English humour, I should explain that everything I’ve said so far is rubbish. Trash - apart from the fact that the ruins of the 11th-century Wigmore Castle do remain and that Wales is, indeed, only a few miles away. You can visit the castle. And yes, you can park very easily indeed. You'll find a slightly more detailed account of the place if you go to the Home page and click on 'Wigmore Castle'. And for even more information have a look here and you will see that English Heritage provides directions for getting there and and tells you what you’ll find when you arrive. English Heritage have been caring for the site for many years and enabliing visitors to walk to the top with no difficulty at all.
Whether or not our family has a place in the Wigmore records, and whether or not it is fanciful of us to imagine our our distant ancestors actually living within these enormous stone walls I have no idea, but it's nice to think it has.
Welcome to our castle. Please wipe your feet on the mat.
Must you have sunshine?
See the new pictures uploaded to the album this weekend! Click HERE and then click 'Photography'.
The next time you go for a walk, take the camera. Whatever the weather, sunshine gives you bright colours, yes. And sharp, interesting shadows that can help build the picture. And physically, it's usually more pleasant. But don't despise the misty morning. Or afternoon.
Don't be overwhelmed by the whole scene - murky, cold, grey-ish. Look for the single object, imagining a frame round it. You could use the age-old trick of the movie-makers - put your two forefingers together and your two thumbs, make a rough square with them and then sweep that 'frame' slowly round the landscape. You could discover a tree, a hut, an animal.
In this shot I was lucky enough to have struggling sunlight coming down on the scene. And then I saw the tree. Then a bonus - the sheep. But the sheep was way over to the right, much too far from the tree. So I walked sideways to the right (not a pretty sight) until the sheep was working in nicely with the tree. I took several shots, moving backwards, forwards and sideways.
At home, looking at all of them, this one stood out as the best. The invisible line from the sheep up and across to the tree creates that very powerful thing: the oblique line, the top of it and the bottom linking the two objects together.