The Journey
Sometime within the next 48 hours I will make the 200-mile drive that takes me back to the little town I grew up in. It is a journey that I neither expected to ever make nor want to do.
I will meet up with old friends. We all have them. The sort that you can pick up the phone after five or even 10 years and they know your voice, and even more assuring is that you know theirs as well. That sort of feeling gives a permanence and comfort that money cannot buy. There will be six or seven of us, probably together in the same room for the first time in 30 years and tonight we will probably go to the pub and have a few beers. Tomorrow we have to go to a funeral.
These are the people I grew up with and shared so many good times with. We started off as neighbours and schoolmates and, although the times that we talk are now not nearly as frequent as the banter and laughs we used to share at our houses or the local pubs, the ties that bind are still very much there. These ties felt strong before but now feel even stronger.
Two people will be missing from this unplanned re-union tonight: Rich and Julie.
I have known Rich for as long as I can remember. We grew up in the same road. The first time I heard Electric Warrior by T.Rex was at Rich’s house. In his earlier years Rich was never seen without a pair of wellington boots on his feet as he roamed around our small and safe roads. Those were such happy and innocent days that are now lost for ever but remain imprinted on our memories.
Later on there were the parties at Richs house when his parents were away. These were basically carnage, but I think the Police were only called once. In the middle of all these times two important things happened that would decide his future way in life.
The first was his increasingly erratic (and I have to say -crap) taste in music. His son, Jonny, confirmed last week that the situation had not improved after over 30 years and that he could vividly remember at the age of 6 eating his breakfast to the strains of “Talking with the tax man about poetry” by Billy Bragg. Fortunately Jonny remains apparently unscathed.
The second was Julie. – A far more positive and beautiful influence. They started going out together and for a while they were a permanent fixture at The White Lion in West Kirby. When the pub was closing for 2 weeks for refurbishment it took a highly trained negotiator and five police officers to persuade Rich to leave the Pub. His empty lager glass was removed from his hand under local anaesthetic.
It was no surprise to anyone when they got married. Two sons, Jonathan and Christopher came along and life seemed happy and complete. The years rolled past and we lost regular contact.
It was nearly two weeks ago that I got the e-mail. Reading it again now I still feel the same sense of disbelief and shock at the words…”Christopher died on Thursday evening after a short illness”. He was just 15.
It took a couple of days before I spoke to them on the phone. I was painfully aware of the inadequacies of the English language, and indeed my own failings, in finding any words of comfort and sympathy that could possibly shine any light at all onto what is something that seems terribly dark. And I was angry. How could something like this happen to two of the kindest, most gentle people I have ever met?
Grief is essentially a very private emotion that by its nature tramples everything else into submission. As I sit here writing this I am minded that I remain an outsider to the true depths of emotion that Rich, Julie and Jonny are now feeling, both as individuals and as a now sadly depleted family unit. My daughter has even advised strongly against publishing this at this point in time as she feels strongly that this is an intrusion into what is essentially a very private matter.
But therein lies the problem that all of us at the periphery of this tragedy face. At what stage do you stop reaching out to people for fear that you are only adding to their distress when the only true motive is to try and alleviate it in some small way? I honestly do not know the answer.
All that we, as people who are lucky enough to be friends of this wonderful family, can do is to continue to offer our support, in what ever form we feel is appropriate, in the weeks and months to come. On visiting the house last week and seeing at first hand the floral tributes and all the cards it is abundantly clear that if a couple’s wealth can be measured in terms of the quantity and quality of the friends that they have, then they are truly blessed.
Rich and Julie are determined that Christopher’s memory will live on and that they will try and complete some of the things that he was destined to do. As they embark on this journey they know that they have so many friends who will be walking alongside them.
Donations to the Chris Salmon Memorial Fund c/o Quinns Funeral Service Greasby Tel: 0151 677 2299.
Friday, 20 February 2009
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
This could have been anywhere
The city, and indeed the country, that this happened in are not important. All I will say was that it was overseas and took place a couple of years ago. As my brother advised me “Change the names to protect the guilty and prevent the victim from being sued”. In the wider scale of things I suppose its no big deal. No one got hurt, no one died. It happens every hour of every day throughout the world. Its only when it affects you that it assumes any importance. It marred what was otherwise a great experience in a beautiful country where I had the pleasure of meeting some truly wonderful people. An episode like this can easily bring out the worst in people - and I include myself in that observation.
I had arrived in the country a few days earlier and spent a couple of days working at one of the company’s offices in the one of the major cities. Saturday evening saw an internal flight of a couple of hour’s duration to the nations capital: a sprawling mass of humanity where extreme poverty and relative wealth shared the same streets. I think it was the sheer scale of deprivation that I witnessed for the first time that really took my breath away. Images that I only seen before beamed in to the comfort of my own front room, glass of beer in one hand, a warm fire next to me, were now in my face. The Taxi pulled out of the rank at the airport and we left the beggars behind.
A 30-minute journey followed through the humidity and the masses. The driver had locked all the doors and seemed immune to the other road users. I soon learnt that this was standard practice as 5 lanes of cars squeezed into the three-lane highway. The traffic lights all had electronic counters telling you how many seconds to go before the green light: An innovation that was designed to encourage motorists to cut the engines in a bid to reduce the pollution that choked the city. Few drivers seemed to be aware of this, or if they were it was largely ignored. Car windows that were previously opened to allow a breeze to cool the heat of the night were religiously wound up at each junction as mothers with babies in their arms knocked on the windows seeking money.
The Hotel itself was standard issue western world comfort, with a daily rate that was lower than you would find in most European cities but which still comfortably exceeded the monthly take home pay of most of the staff. Once within its walls you could have been anywhere in the world: The uniformity of the reception, bar and restaurant reflecting that this was part of a large chain of hotels that seemed unwilling or unable to accept any local influences in its interior design.
I had arranged to have lunch with a couple of colleagues from the local office in the Hotel restaurant on the Sunday. At 12.30 I locked my room and met up with them in the bar. A couple of very pleasant hours passed in good company and I returned to my room at about 3 o’clock. I nodded at one of the staff in the corridor outside my room and unlocked my door.
My mobile phone and wallet were missing.
I noticed within seconds of entering, as I needed to call home and looked for the phone that I had left on the bedside table.
Fortunately one of my lunch colleagues was also staying in the Hotel. I called him and he came up to my room. Together we took the lift down to the reception area and asked to speak to the manager. Surprise, surprise – he was not on duty. We asked who was in charge and were told that the duty manager was “resting”. My colleague demanded that he be called immediately. We sat down and waited.
After about an hour, and after several reminders from us, he finally appeared. By his manner we could tell immediately that he wasn’t interested and seemed to take great pleasure watching as my blood pressure rose to a dangerous level. His line was basically that he didn’t believe that the items had been stolen and the only thing he could do was to refer it to the Senior Manager of the Hotel who would not be in until the next day. My colleagues had advised me that it was pointless reporting it to the local police as they usually turned a blind eye to such events and I could draw whatever conclusions I wanted to from that.
Monday evening arrived and I duly turned up at reception at 6pm as arranged. By 7 O’clock he had not appeared. By then I was getting more than slightly angry with the whole charade and the total indifference shown by all the staff from whom I had sought assistance. He finally showed up at about 7.30 without a word of apology and motioned me towards a pair of high winged-back chairs in the corner of the reception area. He was in his mid twenties and was wearing what was obviously a brand new suit. I was pleased that his share of the contents of my wallet had been well spent.
This guy obviously fancied himself as the next villain in a James Bond film. The only thing missing was the cat on his lap that he could stroke whilst talking. As domestic animals seemed to be at a bit of a premium in this part of the world he made do with an imaginary one, and kept making these ridiculous sweeping movements with his right hand.
“So, Mr Lunt. What brings you to our country?” (Stroke, stroke)
“In order that I can experience at first hand the pleasure of having valuables stolen from my LOCKED Hotel room,” I replied through somewhat gritted teeth,
“Do not play games with me Mr. Lunt! How do I know that these items were actually taken from your room?” (Single stroke)
“Because I’m telling you! Besides I have a note in my pocket from my Mother confirming that I don’t tell lies”
The conversation continued to go round in circles for the next ten minutes or so before he changed his tactics. He had by now absorbed some of my agitation and the imaginary cat was taking a real pounding. According to him it was highly likely that my colleagues were behind the theft. They had obviously got hold of my key over lunch and one of them had sneaked into my hotel room and done the deed. The more he repeated this version of events, the more he seemed to believe it and the smugness and arrogance reached new levels as I fought back the increasing urge to punch his lights out.
Needless to say I lost the argument and in order to prevent spending a couple of months or years as a guest at one of the countries finest prisons I walked away. As I left he was sat there muttering something about domination of all the worlds hotels and the cat was purring contentedly.
.
Due to a trade event that was taking place in the City there was no option of changing hotels, so for the next four days when I was not working I remained barricaded in my room. I had refused to allow the room to be cleaned and it only took a couple of days before the room became quite uncomfortable. On the odd occasion that I ventured down to the restaurant I took the managers advice not to leave any valuables in my room. Accordingly a member of staff was at my constant beck and call to carry my entire luggage up and down from the room. I particularly enjoyed insisting that the luggage accompany me whenever I needed the washroom. Moving frequently between the bar and the restaurant also worked a treat, as did my insistence on going outside for a smoke every 15 minutes
On my last morning I carried my own bags down to check out. I was a few minutes later than I had planned as I had a bit of trouble removing the fuse from the air-conditioning unit. The TV and the kettle had proved easier and the “U” bend under the sink had worked its way loose on my first attempt. The rings that held the shower curtain up had all been liberated and distributed at random through out the bedroom, one was neatly wedged between two of the buttons on the telephone next to the bed.
The duty manager who I had encountered first was behind the counter with a further 2 or 3 of the staff in attendance. The Senior Manager had obviously doled out the smug pills to all and sundry in celebration of their latest robbery and the stench of arrogance was overwhelming. I paid the bill, muttered a few chosen words under my breath and walked outside to call a Taxi.
With my luggage safely on board, the driver was just about to pull away when I asked him to wait a minute. I had reached into my hand luggage, felt around and a sudden pang of guilt swept over me. I am not normally a rude and insensitive person and have always tried to aware of the needs and requirements of other people. Accordingly I walked back into the hotel clutching a small gift that I wanted the staff to have with my best wishes.
The duty manager was still there. It looked like he was trying to decipher what I had scrawled over my bill. He looked up as I approached. I smiled and he smiled back.
“I’m really sorry that I behaved as I did – I was quite thoughtless so please forgive me,” I said.
His only response was to seamlessly replace his smile with a smirk.
“I’d like to leave you with this. I hope you find it useful”
I turned and walked quickly back out of the Hotel.
As the Taxi pulled away I turned around to see the duty manager and 3 members of staff chasing after the car, waving the bag and gesturing in a very unfriendly manner.
I was disappointed. I thought that they would have been a bit happier now that they had the phone charger and the travel adaptor.
I had arrived in the country a few days earlier and spent a couple of days working at one of the company’s offices in the one of the major cities. Saturday evening saw an internal flight of a couple of hour’s duration to the nations capital: a sprawling mass of humanity where extreme poverty and relative wealth shared the same streets. I think it was the sheer scale of deprivation that I witnessed for the first time that really took my breath away. Images that I only seen before beamed in to the comfort of my own front room, glass of beer in one hand, a warm fire next to me, were now in my face. The Taxi pulled out of the rank at the airport and we left the beggars behind.
A 30-minute journey followed through the humidity and the masses. The driver had locked all the doors and seemed immune to the other road users. I soon learnt that this was standard practice as 5 lanes of cars squeezed into the three-lane highway. The traffic lights all had electronic counters telling you how many seconds to go before the green light: An innovation that was designed to encourage motorists to cut the engines in a bid to reduce the pollution that choked the city. Few drivers seemed to be aware of this, or if they were it was largely ignored. Car windows that were previously opened to allow a breeze to cool the heat of the night were religiously wound up at each junction as mothers with babies in their arms knocked on the windows seeking money.
The Hotel itself was standard issue western world comfort, with a daily rate that was lower than you would find in most European cities but which still comfortably exceeded the monthly take home pay of most of the staff. Once within its walls you could have been anywhere in the world: The uniformity of the reception, bar and restaurant reflecting that this was part of a large chain of hotels that seemed unwilling or unable to accept any local influences in its interior design.
I had arranged to have lunch with a couple of colleagues from the local office in the Hotel restaurant on the Sunday. At 12.30 I locked my room and met up with them in the bar. A couple of very pleasant hours passed in good company and I returned to my room at about 3 o’clock. I nodded at one of the staff in the corridor outside my room and unlocked my door.
My mobile phone and wallet were missing.
I noticed within seconds of entering, as I needed to call home and looked for the phone that I had left on the bedside table.
Fortunately one of my lunch colleagues was also staying in the Hotel. I called him and he came up to my room. Together we took the lift down to the reception area and asked to speak to the manager. Surprise, surprise – he was not on duty. We asked who was in charge and were told that the duty manager was “resting”. My colleague demanded that he be called immediately. We sat down and waited.
After about an hour, and after several reminders from us, he finally appeared. By his manner we could tell immediately that he wasn’t interested and seemed to take great pleasure watching as my blood pressure rose to a dangerous level. His line was basically that he didn’t believe that the items had been stolen and the only thing he could do was to refer it to the Senior Manager of the Hotel who would not be in until the next day. My colleagues had advised me that it was pointless reporting it to the local police as they usually turned a blind eye to such events and I could draw whatever conclusions I wanted to from that.
Monday evening arrived and I duly turned up at reception at 6pm as arranged. By 7 O’clock he had not appeared. By then I was getting more than slightly angry with the whole charade and the total indifference shown by all the staff from whom I had sought assistance. He finally showed up at about 7.30 without a word of apology and motioned me towards a pair of high winged-back chairs in the corner of the reception area. He was in his mid twenties and was wearing what was obviously a brand new suit. I was pleased that his share of the contents of my wallet had been well spent.
This guy obviously fancied himself as the next villain in a James Bond film. The only thing missing was the cat on his lap that he could stroke whilst talking. As domestic animals seemed to be at a bit of a premium in this part of the world he made do with an imaginary one, and kept making these ridiculous sweeping movements with his right hand.
“So, Mr Lunt. What brings you to our country?” (Stroke, stroke)
“In order that I can experience at first hand the pleasure of having valuables stolen from my LOCKED Hotel room,” I replied through somewhat gritted teeth,
“Do not play games with me Mr. Lunt! How do I know that these items were actually taken from your room?” (Single stroke)
“Because I’m telling you! Besides I have a note in my pocket from my Mother confirming that I don’t tell lies”
The conversation continued to go round in circles for the next ten minutes or so before he changed his tactics. He had by now absorbed some of my agitation and the imaginary cat was taking a real pounding. According to him it was highly likely that my colleagues were behind the theft. They had obviously got hold of my key over lunch and one of them had sneaked into my hotel room and done the deed. The more he repeated this version of events, the more he seemed to believe it and the smugness and arrogance reached new levels as I fought back the increasing urge to punch his lights out.
Needless to say I lost the argument and in order to prevent spending a couple of months or years as a guest at one of the countries finest prisons I walked away. As I left he was sat there muttering something about domination of all the worlds hotels and the cat was purring contentedly.
.
Due to a trade event that was taking place in the City there was no option of changing hotels, so for the next four days when I was not working I remained barricaded in my room. I had refused to allow the room to be cleaned and it only took a couple of days before the room became quite uncomfortable. On the odd occasion that I ventured down to the restaurant I took the managers advice not to leave any valuables in my room. Accordingly a member of staff was at my constant beck and call to carry my entire luggage up and down from the room. I particularly enjoyed insisting that the luggage accompany me whenever I needed the washroom. Moving frequently between the bar and the restaurant also worked a treat, as did my insistence on going outside for a smoke every 15 minutes
On my last morning I carried my own bags down to check out. I was a few minutes later than I had planned as I had a bit of trouble removing the fuse from the air-conditioning unit. The TV and the kettle had proved easier and the “U” bend under the sink had worked its way loose on my first attempt. The rings that held the shower curtain up had all been liberated and distributed at random through out the bedroom, one was neatly wedged between two of the buttons on the telephone next to the bed.
The duty manager who I had encountered first was behind the counter with a further 2 or 3 of the staff in attendance. The Senior Manager had obviously doled out the smug pills to all and sundry in celebration of their latest robbery and the stench of arrogance was overwhelming. I paid the bill, muttered a few chosen words under my breath and walked outside to call a Taxi.
With my luggage safely on board, the driver was just about to pull away when I asked him to wait a minute. I had reached into my hand luggage, felt around and a sudden pang of guilt swept over me. I am not normally a rude and insensitive person and have always tried to aware of the needs and requirements of other people. Accordingly I walked back into the hotel clutching a small gift that I wanted the staff to have with my best wishes.
The duty manager was still there. It looked like he was trying to decipher what I had scrawled over my bill. He looked up as I approached. I smiled and he smiled back.
“I’m really sorry that I behaved as I did – I was quite thoughtless so please forgive me,” I said.
His only response was to seamlessly replace his smile with a smirk.
“I’d like to leave you with this. I hope you find it useful”
I turned and walked quickly back out of the Hotel.
As the Taxi pulled away I turned around to see the duty manager and 3 members of staff chasing after the car, waving the bag and gesturing in a very unfriendly manner.
I was disappointed. I thought that they would have been a bit happier now that they had the phone charger and the travel adaptor.
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
You know what i meant....
Lets face it we have all done it: Said something really stupid or without thinking that either leaves the people around us scratching their heads in bemusement, or embarrassment, or rolling around the floor in uncontrollable laughter at the beauty of the various conversational pitfalls of the English language. However it’s when it starts to become more of habit and occurs with alarming regularity, along with the desire to see the ground open up in front of you, that the alarm bells start to ring. I can assure you that all of the following stories are true and there are countless others I could easily have recalled. Trish is a real person and has been my partner for the last 7 years or so.
A detailed look throughout any published dictionary will, alas, fail to provide the reader with the appropriate noun that describes this socially embarrassing but highly amusing malaise. In the absence of any appropriate word, I have therefore invented my own. I will in due course submit this to the Oxford English Dictionary for inclusion in their next edition:
Trishism n a series of words, or a phrase, that when spoken may lead to temporary paralysis, usually swiftly followed by uncontrollable laughter, for anyone within earshot. (Origin: Trish Vowles, Somerset, England, 2001 onwards)
The first recorded Trishism was in late summer 2001. At the time Trish was working at the local Pub and was stood at the far end of the bar with two other members of staff. The three of them were chatting away quite happily between themselves - all seemingly oblivious to the traditional roles and responsibilities of why people are employed behind a bar - as the queue of people waiting to be served grew longer. After 10 minutes of unsuccessfully trying to break up this coven by a variety of techniques (dropping ashtrays, feigning death etc), I decided that the only way of getting any service was to take out my mobile phone and call the pub. The guy next to me smirked, he already had his pint. I heard the phone ringing behind the bar and Trish reached over to answer it:
“Good Evening, The George at Nunney”
“Oh hi there Trish, I was just wondering if there was any chance of being served at the end of the bar?”
“Sorry I can’t, I’m on the phone at the moment”
I thought the poor chap next to me was about to explode as first a fine mist of beer followed quickly by a machine gun like coughing noise exploded from his mouth. The call was finished and the comedy value of the moment reached totally unexpected new heights when Trish promptly served someone else.
Once the dam had been breached there was no stopping the flow of Trishisms. It appeared that no situation, however routine, was immune to them and I quickly ran out of room storing them as notes on my mobile phone. There are a few however that do not require any artificial memory to store or recall them.
A few years ago we were on the ferry from Portsmouth to St Malo. I seem to recall that we were about half the way across the channel and were sat having a coffee in the Ships lounge:
“Don’t forget Trish, France is an hour ahead of us”
An anxious look at her watch was followed by:
“How do you know, we haven’t got there yet?”
A few days later we were sat in the Piano Bar at the campsite we were staying at. It was early evening and quite crowded with parents enjoying a last few moments of peace and quiet before the swimming pools started emptying out. The air was heavy with the aroma of half a dozen joss sticks that were burning throughout the bar and people were talking loudly to make them-selves heard over the noise of the piano. The kids had only been in the bar once and hadn’t seemed to have enjoyed it – a point that I thought I’d raise with their mother:
“So, Trish why don’t the children like it in here?”
At that precise moment, like a well-rehearsed moment from a film, the piano man stopped tinkling the ivories and the conversation in the bar fell silent. Unfortunately Trish had already launched into her reply at the volume level that she thought was necessary:
“It’s because they don’t like the smell of incest”.
We left the bar quite quickly after that and for the next ten days I could see people nudging and whispering to each other whenever we went past.
My favourite all time Trishism happened only a few months ago. I was driving us both back from dropping her daughter off somewhere and Trish’s mobile started ringing. Out came the handbag and the search for the phone began in amongst an unending emptying of sweet wrappers, till receipts, clothes pegs and other assorted strange objects that the bag contained. Eventually the phone fell silent as the caller gave up.
“That’s odd!” said Trish,
“I must have left it at home..."
A detailed look throughout any published dictionary will, alas, fail to provide the reader with the appropriate noun that describes this socially embarrassing but highly amusing malaise. In the absence of any appropriate word, I have therefore invented my own. I will in due course submit this to the Oxford English Dictionary for inclusion in their next edition:
Trishism n a series of words, or a phrase, that when spoken may lead to temporary paralysis, usually swiftly followed by uncontrollable laughter, for anyone within earshot. (Origin: Trish Vowles, Somerset, England, 2001 onwards)
The first recorded Trishism was in late summer 2001. At the time Trish was working at the local Pub and was stood at the far end of the bar with two other members of staff. The three of them were chatting away quite happily between themselves - all seemingly oblivious to the traditional roles and responsibilities of why people are employed behind a bar - as the queue of people waiting to be served grew longer. After 10 minutes of unsuccessfully trying to break up this coven by a variety of techniques (dropping ashtrays, feigning death etc), I decided that the only way of getting any service was to take out my mobile phone and call the pub. The guy next to me smirked, he already had his pint. I heard the phone ringing behind the bar and Trish reached over to answer it:
“Good Evening, The George at Nunney”
“Oh hi there Trish, I was just wondering if there was any chance of being served at the end of the bar?”
“Sorry I can’t, I’m on the phone at the moment”
I thought the poor chap next to me was about to explode as first a fine mist of beer followed quickly by a machine gun like coughing noise exploded from his mouth. The call was finished and the comedy value of the moment reached totally unexpected new heights when Trish promptly served someone else.
Once the dam had been breached there was no stopping the flow of Trishisms. It appeared that no situation, however routine, was immune to them and I quickly ran out of room storing them as notes on my mobile phone. There are a few however that do not require any artificial memory to store or recall them.
A few years ago we were on the ferry from Portsmouth to St Malo. I seem to recall that we were about half the way across the channel and were sat having a coffee in the Ships lounge:
“Don’t forget Trish, France is an hour ahead of us”
An anxious look at her watch was followed by:
“How do you know, we haven’t got there yet?”
A few days later we were sat in the Piano Bar at the campsite we were staying at. It was early evening and quite crowded with parents enjoying a last few moments of peace and quiet before the swimming pools started emptying out. The air was heavy with the aroma of half a dozen joss sticks that were burning throughout the bar and people were talking loudly to make them-selves heard over the noise of the piano. The kids had only been in the bar once and hadn’t seemed to have enjoyed it – a point that I thought I’d raise with their mother:
“So, Trish why don’t the children like it in here?”
At that precise moment, like a well-rehearsed moment from a film, the piano man stopped tinkling the ivories and the conversation in the bar fell silent. Unfortunately Trish had already launched into her reply at the volume level that she thought was necessary:
“It’s because they don’t like the smell of incest”.
We left the bar quite quickly after that and for the next ten days I could see people nudging and whispering to each other whenever we went past.
My favourite all time Trishism happened only a few months ago. I was driving us both back from dropping her daughter off somewhere and Trish’s mobile started ringing. Out came the handbag and the search for the phone began in amongst an unending emptying of sweet wrappers, till receipts, clothes pegs and other assorted strange objects that the bag contained. Eventually the phone fell silent as the caller gave up.
“That’s odd!” said Trish,
“I must have left it at home..."
Thursday, 13 November 2008
Accountancy - Its a gas gas gas !
Many people have asked me over the years “Why did you become an accountant?” I suppose I really should have taken the hint as looking back the majority of these questions came from my Employers…
I stumbled into accountancy nearly 30 years ago. I was recommended to go and see what were called at the time “Occupational Guidance specialists”. I sat down, did a few aptitude tests followed by a 20 minute “chat” – at the end of which my “specialist advisor” gave his verdict:
“ Basically you’re as dull as ditch water, have absolutely no personality or sense of humour and what friends you do have are always avoiding you. I have just the career in mind”
So began 5 years of mind-numbing studying. This involved a whole cocktail of what was available at the time. Day release, night school, correspondence courses and weeklong intensive crammer courses before the exams, were all endured at various stages throughout the qualification process. At the end of all this I was qualified – the excitement was underwhelming.
People were initially sympathetic to my new chosen profession. At parties when I was asked what I did for a living my reply would nearly always be greeted with the response “Never mind” or “I am sorry”. – A look of thinly disguised panic on their faces as they sidled quickly away avoiding eye contact.
I learnt to enjoy my own company (which was just as well) and sought to dispel the myth that accountants were boring. Weekends were always spent living life in the fast lane: either ironing my anorak, cataloguing my bus ticket collection or polishing my framed picture of Steve Davis the snooker player. The long winter nights just flew by.
The years rolled by and gradually the penny started dropping that this was not the fast paced glamorous profession I had been sold during the years of training. It was not a life of fast cars and movie stars after all. Worst of all was the knot in my stomach when I had the recurring nightmare that maybe the guys at “Occupational guidance” had got their test results mixed up or I had picked up the wrong brochure. I didn’t actually feel that I was particularly boring – but I understand that this is a common delusion unique to the profession.
I got to hear all the accountancy jokes, several times over: “What does an Accountant use as a contraceptive?” - His personality. “When does a person decide to be an accountant?”- When he realises that he doesn’t have the charisma to succeed as an undertaker, etc etc.
I used to be considered a bit of an extrovert, as, when talking to a client, I would stare at their shoes as opposed to my own.
I must add that I have, over the years, met some wonderful people who became and remain friends. Sadly, most are still ploughing the lonely fields of Balance Sheets. Cash Flows and Tax Returns.
So, I have finally decided to seek an alternative road along the “bread on the table” journey that we all have to make. A career as a freelance writer beckons. After years of being on the fringe of society I feel I can cope with a few more rejections. If it doesn’t work out I can always “fire-up” the spreadsheets and get the anorak back out of the wardrobe.
Note : When I initially posted this I immediately got a telephone call from one of my oldest friends. He pointed out that there was nothing original in highlighting the fact that Accountancy might be considered boring and that basically all I had done is recycle a load of old cliches. On re-reading it through I think that his comments are possibly valid. However I would like to state in mitigation that after nearly 30 years as an accountant what else could you expect, Oscar Wilde?.
On a more positive note he did actually feel able to finally confirm, after 40 years of friendship, that he had always regarded me as being as dull as ditch water, which was nice of him.
I stumbled into accountancy nearly 30 years ago. I was recommended to go and see what were called at the time “Occupational Guidance specialists”. I sat down, did a few aptitude tests followed by a 20 minute “chat” – at the end of which my “specialist advisor” gave his verdict:
“ Basically you’re as dull as ditch water, have absolutely no personality or sense of humour and what friends you do have are always avoiding you. I have just the career in mind”
So began 5 years of mind-numbing studying. This involved a whole cocktail of what was available at the time. Day release, night school, correspondence courses and weeklong intensive crammer courses before the exams, were all endured at various stages throughout the qualification process. At the end of all this I was qualified – the excitement was underwhelming.
People were initially sympathetic to my new chosen profession. At parties when I was asked what I did for a living my reply would nearly always be greeted with the response “Never mind” or “I am sorry”. – A look of thinly disguised panic on their faces as they sidled quickly away avoiding eye contact.
I learnt to enjoy my own company (which was just as well) and sought to dispel the myth that accountants were boring. Weekends were always spent living life in the fast lane: either ironing my anorak, cataloguing my bus ticket collection or polishing my framed picture of Steve Davis the snooker player. The long winter nights just flew by.
The years rolled by and gradually the penny started dropping that this was not the fast paced glamorous profession I had been sold during the years of training. It was not a life of fast cars and movie stars after all. Worst of all was the knot in my stomach when I had the recurring nightmare that maybe the guys at “Occupational guidance” had got their test results mixed up or I had picked up the wrong brochure. I didn’t actually feel that I was particularly boring – but I understand that this is a common delusion unique to the profession.
I got to hear all the accountancy jokes, several times over: “What does an Accountant use as a contraceptive?” - His personality. “When does a person decide to be an accountant?”- When he realises that he doesn’t have the charisma to succeed as an undertaker, etc etc.
I used to be considered a bit of an extrovert, as, when talking to a client, I would stare at their shoes as opposed to my own.
I must add that I have, over the years, met some wonderful people who became and remain friends. Sadly, most are still ploughing the lonely fields of Balance Sheets. Cash Flows and Tax Returns.
So, I have finally decided to seek an alternative road along the “bread on the table” journey that we all have to make. A career as a freelance writer beckons. After years of being on the fringe of society I feel I can cope with a few more rejections. If it doesn’t work out I can always “fire-up” the spreadsheets and get the anorak back out of the wardrobe.
Note : When I initially posted this I immediately got a telephone call from one of my oldest friends. He pointed out that there was nothing original in highlighting the fact that Accountancy might be considered boring and that basically all I had done is recycle a load of old cliches. On re-reading it through I think that his comments are possibly valid. However I would like to state in mitigation that after nearly 30 years as an accountant what else could you expect, Oscar Wilde?.
On a more positive note he did actually feel able to finally confirm, after 40 years of friendship, that he had always regarded me as being as dull as ditch water, which was nice of him.
Wednesday, 12 November 2008
The Will-ometer
We have a long running joke in our family about the "Will-ometer" i.e. who gets what when Mum finally checks out. Now don't take offence at this - Mum is totally in on the joke as well. Any slight misdemeanour by my three siblings or me (and there have been quite a few over the years) is noted and I am sure that there is a book somewhere that she updates on a regular basis.
I can confidently date the conception of the "Will-ometer Theory" back to the summer of 1996. At the time I was living in a beautiful village called Meribel in the French Alps. I'd spoken to Mum on the phone and she seemed a bit down so I decided to invite her out for a couple of weeks. Within two hours I had the rest of the family on the phone to me. Eldest Brother (in New Zealand, how did he get to hear of this so quickly? It’s the middle of the night there)"I've upgraded her flight to Business class". Older Brother "I'm taking her to the airport". Sister "I'm minding her house and watering her plants when she's away". The battle lines were drawn.
Over the years the Will-ometer has provided a wealth of comedy moments – both deliberately and inadvertently as the level of creeping to Mum increases. I’m not saying for one minute that the care and attention that we all lavish on our dearest Mama is directly linked to how much we all individually think is in it for us, but every time one of us hopes that they have scored a few more points on the heritance board then the others are quick to hear about it.
So, all of us have had to endure taunting phone calls and triumphant postcards from places such as New Zealand, America, Spain, France and closer to home within the UK. Being on the receiving end of one of these “Guess where I took Mum today…” communications is gut wrenching. The palms go clammy and sleepless nights follow as you desperately think of new ways of ingratiation.
A few years ago we celebrated Mum's 80th Birthday weekend with 2 events. On the Friday scenes reminiscent of that wonderful epsode in the series Father Ted when Mrs Doyle and her friend come to blows over who is paying followed a family meal at a local restaurant. “I’m paying”, “No, I am”, “No, I insist” – all of course in Mum's presence. The next day we held a surprise party for her at my sisters’ house where various assorted relatives and friends had assembled. Fortunately everyone came along willingly but I was quite prepared to adopt the “Come to the Party or the cat gets it” approach to any wavering attendees who were on my list.
The four of us have all adopted different tactics as the game has developed over the years. The two who live a few miles away from the family home favour the “drip drip” approach. Daily or thrice weekly visits, or offers of trips to the shops and other places are the preferred routes to the loot.
I live 200 miles away so I go for the “nice holiday once a year” option and I think on balance that this is serving me well. In Mum's 80th year I took her on a long wanted trip to Paris. By coincidence (honestly Mum!) The Rolling Stones were playing at the Stade de France. Tickets were secured and off we went. The sight of Mum bopping along to “Sympathy for the Devil” will stay long in my memory. Technically old enough to join the group, she sadly failed the final audition as she couldn’t quite master the chord sequence for “Start Me Up”.
My oldest brother lives in New Zealand but distance has proved no object in his relentless pursuit to ensure at least the 25 % that should be on offer. True, he failed to show for Mum's 80th – a misdemeanour that is often casually, but regularly, mentioned within Mum's earshot – but biennial all expenses paid trips to Auckland more than make up for his absence (or so he thinks…). To maximise the impact these trips usually occur in the middle of our winter so Mum can get the benefit or two summers. However the words “straws” and “clutching” still spring to mind and the “you’re flying Business Class” routine is now a little dated.
My Partners family have now embraced the Will-ometer concept. 5 children obviously sets the bench mark a bit lower at 20% but as I believe the pot is big enough to facilitate this distribution I am not unduly concerned. The recent imposition of a limit on Capital expenditure (whereby at least 3 of the offspring must give their written consent if the parents plan to spend more than £200) has been seen as a prudent measure in these times of economic turmoil.
The end of the rainbow where our pot of gold lies is fortunately still well out of sight. Mum continues to enjoy good health and we can look forward to many more years of competition. The never-ending search for new ways to increase the inheritance indicator will continue – mindful of course that Mum might well have the last laugh and already have bequeathed everything to charity. Surely not?
I can confidently date the conception of the "Will-ometer Theory" back to the summer of 1996. At the time I was living in a beautiful village called Meribel in the French Alps. I'd spoken to Mum on the phone and she seemed a bit down so I decided to invite her out for a couple of weeks. Within two hours I had the rest of the family on the phone to me. Eldest Brother (in New Zealand, how did he get to hear of this so quickly? It’s the middle of the night there)"I've upgraded her flight to Business class". Older Brother "I'm taking her to the airport". Sister "I'm minding her house and watering her plants when she's away". The battle lines were drawn.
Over the years the Will-ometer has provided a wealth of comedy moments – both deliberately and inadvertently as the level of creeping to Mum increases. I’m not saying for one minute that the care and attention that we all lavish on our dearest Mama is directly linked to how much we all individually think is in it for us, but every time one of us hopes that they have scored a few more points on the heritance board then the others are quick to hear about it.
So, all of us have had to endure taunting phone calls and triumphant postcards from places such as New Zealand, America, Spain, France and closer to home within the UK. Being on the receiving end of one of these “Guess where I took Mum today…” communications is gut wrenching. The palms go clammy and sleepless nights follow as you desperately think of new ways of ingratiation.
A few years ago we celebrated Mum's 80th Birthday weekend with 2 events. On the Friday scenes reminiscent of that wonderful epsode in the series Father Ted when Mrs Doyle and her friend come to blows over who is paying followed a family meal at a local restaurant. “I’m paying”, “No, I am”, “No, I insist” – all of course in Mum's presence. The next day we held a surprise party for her at my sisters’ house where various assorted relatives and friends had assembled. Fortunately everyone came along willingly but I was quite prepared to adopt the “Come to the Party or the cat gets it” approach to any wavering attendees who were on my list.
The four of us have all adopted different tactics as the game has developed over the years. The two who live a few miles away from the family home favour the “drip drip” approach. Daily or thrice weekly visits, or offers of trips to the shops and other places are the preferred routes to the loot.
I live 200 miles away so I go for the “nice holiday once a year” option and I think on balance that this is serving me well. In Mum's 80th year I took her on a long wanted trip to Paris. By coincidence (honestly Mum!) The Rolling Stones were playing at the Stade de France. Tickets were secured and off we went. The sight of Mum bopping along to “Sympathy for the Devil” will stay long in my memory. Technically old enough to join the group, she sadly failed the final audition as she couldn’t quite master the chord sequence for “Start Me Up”.
My oldest brother lives in New Zealand but distance has proved no object in his relentless pursuit to ensure at least the 25 % that should be on offer. True, he failed to show for Mum's 80th – a misdemeanour that is often casually, but regularly, mentioned within Mum's earshot – but biennial all expenses paid trips to Auckland more than make up for his absence (or so he thinks…). To maximise the impact these trips usually occur in the middle of our winter so Mum can get the benefit or two summers. However the words “straws” and “clutching” still spring to mind and the “you’re flying Business Class” routine is now a little dated.
My Partners family have now embraced the Will-ometer concept. 5 children obviously sets the bench mark a bit lower at 20% but as I believe the pot is big enough to facilitate this distribution I am not unduly concerned. The recent imposition of a limit on Capital expenditure (whereby at least 3 of the offspring must give their written consent if the parents plan to spend more than £200) has been seen as a prudent measure in these times of economic turmoil.
The end of the rainbow where our pot of gold lies is fortunately still well out of sight. Mum continues to enjoy good health and we can look forward to many more years of competition. The never-ending search for new ways to increase the inheritance indicator will continue – mindful of course that Mum might well have the last laugh and already have bequeathed everything to charity. Surely not?
Tuesday, 11 November 2008
Frome's Fallen Heroes - World War Two
The natural follow-on from his first book, which recalled the local men who had lost their lives in the Great War, local historian David Adams has now published “Frome’s Fallen Heroes – World War Two.
From the onset the thing that strikes you when you read through this book is the sheer effort and work that has gone into writing it. Painstakingly researched, and with the essential attention to detail, it chronicles the fate of over 130 men from Frome and the surrounding villages who paid the ultimate price in the service of their country. Listed alphabetically by name, it includes details such as serial no., rank, regiment, when they died (and at what age), where buried (if known) and on what memorial their name can be found. It is surely a matter of local shame that a few are not remembered on any memorial at all.
If this book was merely a directory-style listing, then in a sense it would have fulfilled one of the aims of the author: namely a permanent record, in one place, of the men from the region who perished on many a foreign field in the fight to preserve the liberty that we all now take for granted. The triumph of this book is that it lifts the names from the memorials, gives the reader an outline on how they lived before the war and, with the help of many eye-witness accounts and available archive material, recounts the final hours and days of their all-too brief lives.
The roll of honour is not merely restricted to those who fell overseas. The fates of two A.R.P wardens killed when a German bomber dropped its payload of bombs onto Nunney Road and Broadway, Frome in April of 1941 is recalled in detail.
Open the book anywhere and you are struck by the bravery and courage shown by these local men, who prior to the hostilities were ordinary people living ordinary lives in or around a quiet market town. Local farmers, toolmakers and dairy workers who suddenly found themselves hundreds of miles away facing hardship, danger and ultimately the stark finality of death
Once you start reading about an individuals experience it is impossible to put the book down until you have read the whole piece. The author draws you in with expertly written narrative on the background, action and outcome of each of the conflicts that they faced for the final time.
However it is when eyewitness accounts are presented that the book moves up another level. The sinking of H.M.S. Repulse in December 1941 which claimed the life of Albert Markey of Innox Hill, Frome is recalled by one of the survivors. He describes watching the ship go down and the agonising time spent in the water waiting to be rescued. His eloquent recollections conclude with the words “It had been the longest day of my life. For 840 of my shipmates it had been the last”.
There are numerous other stories that emerge from the book that grab the attention. The tale of the Nunney girl who lost her father in the Great War and her husband in the Second World War is particularly moving. In 2001 David Adams took the lady to the Menin Gate at Ypres and then on into Germany to see for the first and last time her fathers name on the memorial and her husbands final resting place. Sadly she passed away last year.
At the back of the book there is the tragic story of the H.M.S Thetis/Thunderbolt, the submarine which in February 1942 had been adopted by “the citizens of the Urban and Rural Districts of Frome”. Its double tragedy is possibly unique in the annals of maritime history.
8 years after the publication of “Frome’s Fallen Heroes – The Great War”, this new book neatly rounds off the contribution and sacrifices made by some of the men and women of the region in the face of the two global conflicts that the world has suffered. It is also, in its own way, a piece of social history which at times gently recalls the calm before the storm.
“Frome’s Fallen Heroes – World War Two” is now available at £10 a copy plus £2.95 to cover postage and packing. To order a copy please e-mail fromesfallenheroes@blueyonder.co.uk
From the onset the thing that strikes you when you read through this book is the sheer effort and work that has gone into writing it. Painstakingly researched, and with the essential attention to detail, it chronicles the fate of over 130 men from Frome and the surrounding villages who paid the ultimate price in the service of their country. Listed alphabetically by name, it includes details such as serial no., rank, regiment, when they died (and at what age), where buried (if known) and on what memorial their name can be found. It is surely a matter of local shame that a few are not remembered on any memorial at all.
If this book was merely a directory-style listing, then in a sense it would have fulfilled one of the aims of the author: namely a permanent record, in one place, of the men from the region who perished on many a foreign field in the fight to preserve the liberty that we all now take for granted. The triumph of this book is that it lifts the names from the memorials, gives the reader an outline on how they lived before the war and, with the help of many eye-witness accounts and available archive material, recounts the final hours and days of their all-too brief lives.
The roll of honour is not merely restricted to those who fell overseas. The fates of two A.R.P wardens killed when a German bomber dropped its payload of bombs onto Nunney Road and Broadway, Frome in April of 1941 is recalled in detail.
Open the book anywhere and you are struck by the bravery and courage shown by these local men, who prior to the hostilities were ordinary people living ordinary lives in or around a quiet market town. Local farmers, toolmakers and dairy workers who suddenly found themselves hundreds of miles away facing hardship, danger and ultimately the stark finality of death
Once you start reading about an individuals experience it is impossible to put the book down until you have read the whole piece. The author draws you in with expertly written narrative on the background, action and outcome of each of the conflicts that they faced for the final time.
However it is when eyewitness accounts are presented that the book moves up another level. The sinking of H.M.S. Repulse in December 1941 which claimed the life of Albert Markey of Innox Hill, Frome is recalled by one of the survivors. He describes watching the ship go down and the agonising time spent in the water waiting to be rescued. His eloquent recollections conclude with the words “It had been the longest day of my life. For 840 of my shipmates it had been the last”.
There are numerous other stories that emerge from the book that grab the attention. The tale of the Nunney girl who lost her father in the Great War and her husband in the Second World War is particularly moving. In 2001 David Adams took the lady to the Menin Gate at Ypres and then on into Germany to see for the first and last time her fathers name on the memorial and her husbands final resting place. Sadly she passed away last year.
At the back of the book there is the tragic story of the H.M.S Thetis/Thunderbolt, the submarine which in February 1942 had been adopted by “the citizens of the Urban and Rural Districts of Frome”. Its double tragedy is possibly unique in the annals of maritime history.
8 years after the publication of “Frome’s Fallen Heroes – The Great War”, this new book neatly rounds off the contribution and sacrifices made by some of the men and women of the region in the face of the two global conflicts that the world has suffered. It is also, in its own way, a piece of social history which at times gently recalls the calm before the storm.
“Frome’s Fallen Heroes – World War Two” is now available at £10 a copy plus £2.95 to cover postage and packing. To order a copy please e-mail fromesfallenheroes@blueyonder.co.uk
Thursday, 6 November 2008
Applecross
Nestled between the Island of Raasay to the west (and beyond that the Isle of Skye) and Lochcarron to the east lies the beautiful Applecross Peninsular. Accessible by only two roads, we chose to drive the spectacular “Bealach na Ba” or “Pass of the Cattle”. The locals refer to this, with typical understatement, as “going over the hill”. It truly is a spectacular route, the road rising from sea level at Loch Kishorn to just over 2,000 feet in a distance of just 5 miles. It is single track, albeit with numerous passing places, and you are strongly advised against trying to tow a caravan. The views at the top are breathtaking as you look westwards towards the mountains of Skye and the Outer Isles. A more measured descent of a further 6 miles or so follows and you arrive at Applecross Bay.
I first visited Applecross over 30 years ago and it is re-assuring to see a community that is addressing head-on some of the issues that must be faced to survive and thrive in what can only be described as a fragile and remote location. Just over 200 people live and work in an area consisting of numerous tiny communities (some of a few houses only). If its action and nightlife that you are after then don’t even bother coming over “The Hill”- but if it is tranquillity and peace that you are seeking then there are few more beautiful places on earth to spend a few days.
At the centre of all this inaction is the Applecross Hotel. Offering 7 rooms (all en-suite) and serving food of the very highest quality. The windows positively buckle under the weight of the stickers proclaiming the awards that the Inn has won – and rightly so. We ate for 3 nights (and 2 lunches) from the surprisingly wide choice on offer and were never disappointed. Of particular note is the excellent standard of customer service that seems to come as second nature to the staff. The Hotel is exceptionally popular so be prepared to book well in advance if you need accommodation. If you only require a meal then as a general rule bookings are only taken for parties of five or more. But otherwise turn up and they will fit you in – the barman boasted to us that they had never turned anyone away yet!
If you prefer something with a little more of the home-from-home feeling there are several B & Bs in the area. We stayed in one for a night and if the others come even near the welcome and comfort that we enjoyed then you really are spoilt for choice.
For those who favour the “great outdoors”, the Applecross Campsite is situated just behind the Hotel. Open all year round it has all the facilities that you would expect including the wonderful “Flower Tunnel” Café. Camping Huts are a recent addition offering a stylish alternative to a night under canvass. There is also a Cash machine – the only one for miles around
Stood outside of the Hotel for most of the year is “A’Comraich”. She is a scaled down model of a lifeboat with, it would appear, a personality of her own. Her page on Bebo lists her exploits over the past 6 years, which include being “pulled by a bunch of nutters” (her words not mine) throughout the Highlands to raise funds for the RNLI and various Cancer charities. Over £100,000 has so far been raised in over 300 miles of travelling. Apparently she is “scared of nothing” and lists the Proclaimers as her favourite band.
On the northern edge of Applecross Bay (approximately a mile from the Hotel) stands Clachan Church, built close to the site of monastery that was founded in the 7th century by a monk from Ireland named Maelrubha. The Gaelic name for Applecross is A’Comraich – meaning Sanctuary. Long before the exploits of the Bebo boasting boat that shares the same name, it was here that the monks established a sanctuary for those in trouble or fleeing for their safety; the area marked by a series of standing stones. Sadly nothing of the monastery remains except for a cross slab to the right of the gates to the graveyard. The current church dates from 1817 and is only occasionally used. Next door to the church is the Heritage Centre. Staffed entirely by volunteers and opened in 2003, it contains a wealth of history of the peninsular and surrounding areas.
Within the walled garden of Applecross House, The Potting Shed Restaurant is a real hidden gem. Photos show the enormous amount of hard work that went in to restoring the gardens and the shed to the high standard that you see today. A more limited menu than the Hotel but with the same quality and reasonable prices.
Further afield, to the north, take the road to Shieldaig (26 miles away) and you will lose count of the times that you stop the car to take in and marvel at the wonderful views. The road was only opened on 1975 and links half a dozen or so tiny communities that were previously only accessible by either boat or foot. When the Pass of the Cattle is closed due to adverse weather conditions this is the only route in or out of Applecross.
Four miles to the south of Applecross the peninsular finishes at Toscaig where the ferry used to run to The Kyle of Lochalsh. You pass through the villages of Camusteel and Camasterach on the way and take time to take a slight detour to the right and visit the tiny settlement of Ard-dhubh.
To fully appreciate the area you really need to be prepared to do a bit of walking. The choice is limitless and accommodates all levels. From a gentle stroll around the bay and the grounds of Applecross House to a more energetic hill walk to the north from the Church over to the site of an ancient settlement at Sand on the coast. On the road to Ard-dhubh look out for a signpost on you left after about 400 yards and take the path a couple of miles to two remote settlements of two houses each that are only otherwise accessible by the sea.
In the summer be prepared to fight off the dreaded “midges” and make sure you have sufficient supplies of insect repellent. Additionally if you are hiring a car try and specify an automatic – the drive over “the hill” will certainly be more comfortable without the frequent need to change gear. We were fortunate in that the hire car we had picked up at Inverness airport was automatic and it made a real difference.
My last visit to Applecross had been back in 1990. I remember when I left then fearing that this was a community in decline - an ageing and declining population with limited facilities to encourage visitors to this most beautiful area. They have more than addressed these issues but as in any fragile and remote region there are other matters that threaten the status quo: The “second home syndrome” has had a marked effect in pricing the current generation out of the local housing market but, unlike urban areas, it is not a case of simply moving a few miles up the road. The resolution of this through the provision of affordable housing is essential in ensuring that the community can continue to survive. I know that there are a lot of good people working to resolve this and other matters and I wish them every success. In the meantime, I defy anyone to visit and not walk away marvelling at the sheer magnificence of the scenery and the warmth and kindness of its lucky inhabitants.
I first visited Applecross over 30 years ago and it is re-assuring to see a community that is addressing head-on some of the issues that must be faced to survive and thrive in what can only be described as a fragile and remote location. Just over 200 people live and work in an area consisting of numerous tiny communities (some of a few houses only). If its action and nightlife that you are after then don’t even bother coming over “The Hill”- but if it is tranquillity and peace that you are seeking then there are few more beautiful places on earth to spend a few days.
At the centre of all this inaction is the Applecross Hotel. Offering 7 rooms (all en-suite) and serving food of the very highest quality. The windows positively buckle under the weight of the stickers proclaiming the awards that the Inn has won – and rightly so. We ate for 3 nights (and 2 lunches) from the surprisingly wide choice on offer and were never disappointed. Of particular note is the excellent standard of customer service that seems to come as second nature to the staff. The Hotel is exceptionally popular so be prepared to book well in advance if you need accommodation. If you only require a meal then as a general rule bookings are only taken for parties of five or more. But otherwise turn up and they will fit you in – the barman boasted to us that they had never turned anyone away yet!
If you prefer something with a little more of the home-from-home feeling there are several B & Bs in the area. We stayed in one for a night and if the others come even near the welcome and comfort that we enjoyed then you really are spoilt for choice.
For those who favour the “great outdoors”, the Applecross Campsite is situated just behind the Hotel. Open all year round it has all the facilities that you would expect including the wonderful “Flower Tunnel” Café. Camping Huts are a recent addition offering a stylish alternative to a night under canvass. There is also a Cash machine – the only one for miles around
Stood outside of the Hotel for most of the year is “A’Comraich”. She is a scaled down model of a lifeboat with, it would appear, a personality of her own. Her page on Bebo lists her exploits over the past 6 years, which include being “pulled by a bunch of nutters” (her words not mine) throughout the Highlands to raise funds for the RNLI and various Cancer charities. Over £100,000 has so far been raised in over 300 miles of travelling. Apparently she is “scared of nothing” and lists the Proclaimers as her favourite band.
On the northern edge of Applecross Bay (approximately a mile from the Hotel) stands Clachan Church, built close to the site of monastery that was founded in the 7th century by a monk from Ireland named Maelrubha. The Gaelic name for Applecross is A’Comraich – meaning Sanctuary. Long before the exploits of the Bebo boasting boat that shares the same name, it was here that the monks established a sanctuary for those in trouble or fleeing for their safety; the area marked by a series of standing stones. Sadly nothing of the monastery remains except for a cross slab to the right of the gates to the graveyard. The current church dates from 1817 and is only occasionally used. Next door to the church is the Heritage Centre. Staffed entirely by volunteers and opened in 2003, it contains a wealth of history of the peninsular and surrounding areas.
Within the walled garden of Applecross House, The Potting Shed Restaurant is a real hidden gem. Photos show the enormous amount of hard work that went in to restoring the gardens and the shed to the high standard that you see today. A more limited menu than the Hotel but with the same quality and reasonable prices.
Further afield, to the north, take the road to Shieldaig (26 miles away) and you will lose count of the times that you stop the car to take in and marvel at the wonderful views. The road was only opened on 1975 and links half a dozen or so tiny communities that were previously only accessible by either boat or foot. When the Pass of the Cattle is closed due to adverse weather conditions this is the only route in or out of Applecross.
Four miles to the south of Applecross the peninsular finishes at Toscaig where the ferry used to run to The Kyle of Lochalsh. You pass through the villages of Camusteel and Camasterach on the way and take time to take a slight detour to the right and visit the tiny settlement of Ard-dhubh.
To fully appreciate the area you really need to be prepared to do a bit of walking. The choice is limitless and accommodates all levels. From a gentle stroll around the bay and the grounds of Applecross House to a more energetic hill walk to the north from the Church over to the site of an ancient settlement at Sand on the coast. On the road to Ard-dhubh look out for a signpost on you left after about 400 yards and take the path a couple of miles to two remote settlements of two houses each that are only otherwise accessible by the sea.
In the summer be prepared to fight off the dreaded “midges” and make sure you have sufficient supplies of insect repellent. Additionally if you are hiring a car try and specify an automatic – the drive over “the hill” will certainly be more comfortable without the frequent need to change gear. We were fortunate in that the hire car we had picked up at Inverness airport was automatic and it made a real difference.
My last visit to Applecross had been back in 1990. I remember when I left then fearing that this was a community in decline - an ageing and declining population with limited facilities to encourage visitors to this most beautiful area. They have more than addressed these issues but as in any fragile and remote region there are other matters that threaten the status quo: The “second home syndrome” has had a marked effect in pricing the current generation out of the local housing market but, unlike urban areas, it is not a case of simply moving a few miles up the road. The resolution of this through the provision of affordable housing is essential in ensuring that the community can continue to survive. I know that there are a lot of good people working to resolve this and other matters and I wish them every success. In the meantime, I defy anyone to visit and not walk away marvelling at the sheer magnificence of the scenery and the warmth and kindness of its lucky inhabitants.
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