Moments

           “Knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit, wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.”

The wind blew off the North Sea. The family had decided to camp in the shelter of the dunes. The husband and wife team put up their two tents and realised that it was almost impossible to find real shelter, the wind was howling and the sand was angry. But eventually the tents were pitched and they retreated to the car where their two children were asleep in the back seats.  They organised the sleeping bags and the cooker and set the interior of the tents ready for the night’s sleep. Mother and daughter were to be in one tent and father and three year old son were to be in the other.

It was with difficulty that the meal was cooked.  Heating the water was fine, keeping the sand out of it was a challenge. They managed to complete all of it including the washing up just before the rains came.  With the showers came a colder wind so it was for the best that the children were kitted and ready for bed and finally in the shelter of their tents.  The father reached for his son’s favourite bedtime read, ‘Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy’. They were both comfortable and warm in their sleeping bags. The rain pattered on the tents, the wind caused the canvas to bend and shift but they remained dry. Time for the lad‘s favourite dog story.

“Out of the house and off for a walk went Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy.”

“Daddy, where’s my sheetie?”

An old bit of sheet, cut from a tattered sheet and given to the wee boy about a year previously had become his bedtime comforter. He never slept without it.

“It’s around here somewhere.”

“And Hercules Morse as big as a horse”

Back to the story with emphasis. Laddie searching for words.

“Daddy, my sheetie.”

Rummage around the tent briefly with no luck.

“Bitzer Maloney all skinny and bony”.

“Sheetie, Daddy”.

“Doesn’t seem to be here. Never mind, listen to the story.”

“Bottomley Potts all covered in spots.”

“Daddy?”

“I think it’s in the car, son. Don’t worry about it tonight. I’ll read the story again.”

And the wind blew and the storm raged and the little boy was searching for words, until finally…

“Get it Daddy.”

Inner groan, battle out of the sleeping bag, manoeuvre into waterproofs, rest on elbows, undo inner zip, muster on walking boots, unzip outer, step into the weather, realise car keys are back in the tent, unzip again. Voice from the dark.

“Sheetie, Daddy.”

Unlock the car, rummage in the trunk, find it on the floor of the back seat, reverse the process, give the boy his sheetie, get comfortable again. Deep sigh, prepare to sleep.

“Daddy”

“Yes, son.”

“I need a poo.”

Before I had children, my picture  of parenting hung level on the wall, it didn’t take long for the picture to become crooked.

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I had a friend with whom I played rugby. He had served in the British Army. There is a period in recent Irish History called “The Troubles”. Protestants were pitted against Catholics in the streets of Belfast. British troops were sent in to keep the peace between two factions which, at the time, didn’t really want the peace kept. So there were soldiers on the streets of Belfast and they were vulnerable. My friend was one of them. Of course, soldiers are taught to obey orders, but sometimes, Dear Reader, sometimes discretion says, “No”. On one street in the early 1970s, my friend’s unit was on patrol when they came under fire from a rooftop. They were sheltering behind parked cars and garden walls. The sergeant came up with an idea. My friend was ordered to run out into the open so that the sniper would take a shot and be exposed.  Understandably there were a few thought processes which occurred to him at the time. Making himself a target for an IRA marksman was not why he had joined up. Eventually he responded to the sergeant’s request.

“Sarge, there are three hopes in this world, Bob Hope, some hope and no hope. I’m not running across this street.”

No charges were ever brought as part of this breech of discipline, it was never mentioned again. As ever I return 2000 years to seek advice on such a matter.

“Be wary of the man who urges an action in which he himself incurs no risk.” Seneca

Take note, Trump and cronies.

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“Take the laser for a sail, Pete, it will be fun.”

Thus spake Wattie Davidson, so I trekked down the road to the beach at Rock in North Cornwall where my father’s little sailing boat was moored.  A laser is a smidge larger than a sailboard, It has a tiller and a sail and one can sit in it.  I was never a very experienced sailor having been away from home when my dad gave full vent to his hobby which had always been a passion of his. But I could rig the boat, I knew a little bit about how to use the wind. So I was confident when I launched into the River Camel. Everything began well, the boat responded well to my actions. Eventually however it was slow to respond. It went from slow to sluggish to the extent that I no longer had control of it. The tide and wind were pushing me up the river. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get the craft to return to the Rock side where my parents had their holiday cottage. I was floating past Padstow, heading towards Wadebridge and inevitably I was going to be beached on the far bank. Sure enough I drifted onto the shore. Nothing left but to derig the beast, make sure it was camouflaged and somehow find my way through the undergrowth for a path or road to walk the few miles to the town of Wadebridge.  Luckily I found the disused railway line and was able to walk along it with some ease. Nevertheless it was dark when I eventually arrived at the holiday cottage in the community of Tredrizzick.  It turns out that a laser has a hollow hull. To prevent water from filling it up one has to screw in the plugs otherwise the boat becomes a bloated blob of lard subject to the whims of the sea. I did not know this.  These plugs were ‘the unbroken heart of a well-rounded truth’ as Parmenides would have it.

 Dear Reader, I relate these three wee vignettes because they are ‘failures’, one of which I heard related and two of which are mine. I forgot my son’s sheetie in the car, missed checking for plugs on the boat’s hull. I had nobody to blame but myself. At the time I met these minor events with a muttered expletive and “How could I be so stupid?” But all of these incidents and there have been many more in my long life are useful lessons in humility which were good for me. And, Dear Reader, I did enjoy my friend’s company for many years, a part of my life and his which might not have been! To finish:-

“There is strife in a churning world but existence will always carry with it the seeds of its own redemption.”

‘How to Be’ by Adam Nicolson

Thanks for reading.