Manx Rover's Ramblings

Magnus's nascent pneuma is captivated and charmed, yet senses utter isolation at his first encounter with ‘Liminal Time'. His habitation of the ‘Present Tense' is somewhat akin to reading the final page of a ‘Who-Done-It'. He knows whose throat was slit and by whom, but remains clueless of the Who, What, Where, When, How and Why of all else! He's in a dark place, and very much alone.A single chime from a tubular glass bell trembles the void, shattering the blackness, reviving and engaging Magnus's bewildered psyche for the next chapter of his erratic existence.

Magnus drifted through life with no defined purpose nor focused ambition. He enjoyed his own company and was perfectly content pursuing his current interests. One troublesome issue which dogged him throughout his life however, was the unwanted attention of others. These intrusions were generally sidestepped, but on occasion became difficult. Magnus never looked for trouble; it seemed to seek him out. On this occasion, supermarket checkout provocation proved impossible to avoid and ended in madness and broken bones.

Magnus's nascent pneuma is captivated and charmed, yet senses utter isolation at his first encounter with ‘Liminal Time'. His habitation of the ‘Present Tense' is somewhat akin to reading the final page of a ‘Who-Done-It'. He knows whose throat was slit and by whom, but remains clueless of the Who, What, Where, When, How and Why of all else! He's in a dark place, and very much alone.A single chime from a tubular glass bell trembles the void, shattering the blackness, reviving and engaging Magnus's bewildered psyche for the next chapter of his erratic existence.

Congested tension generates checkout mayhem and worse.He lay still, as though resting, as his father had done on Little Mill Road, Kerrowdhoo, on that chilly Saturday morning 1948.

Soothing noises were emanating from Paris concerning the authentication of Magnus's Picasso plate.The French Canals looked promising as a lifestyle alternative to suburbia.Magnus never looked for trouble; it seemed to seek him out. Even the Saturday madhouse of a local supermarket provided its challenges. Checkout provocation usually ended in tears.

“Whilst perusing the Willie Leece photographs online(http://willieleece.blogspot.com), I noticed your other blog: Is this a Picasso?. (http://picassoceramic.blogspot.com) What the story?” “It's a magnificent piece,” Dorothea enthused. “It's even more wonderful than I imagined.”

“It reads like a Picasso. It's right in its vocabulary; more painting than ceramic,” the Sotheby's connoisseur affirmed enthusiastically, holding the plate securely in the crook of his arm. “It's alive with his wit and playfulness. Where did you get it?”The Paris based Picasso Administration's swift reply stated, ‘From the information provided, and only that, we do not think your plate is from the hands of Pablo Picasso'. Magnus's cause of action was clear. He'd take the plate to Paris so they could see for themselves that they'd made a mistake!-( Chech it out yourself: - http://picassoceramic.blogspot.com)

Meet our vibratingly sexy Sybil Fawlty lookalike landlady who instigated the ‘dookling foot' episode.And: -At the back of the shop, on a chair seat, alongside a red rusty, two-metre-tall, cast iron Jesus sat a grubby heavily glazed ceramic plate which catapulted Magnus deeper into the secretive, murky and unregulated world of fine arts.

Robin's Croft was a dilapidated seventeenth century stone cottage with the luxury of a cold water tap, but having no kitchen, gas, electricity nor sanitation. However, they'd survived the war and had a roof over their heads.For the first time four-year-old Magnus had a friend his own age. Andrew lived nearby beneath the trees of Fairy Glen and was the only son of a Polish taxidermist who dealt in rabbit skins and feathers.A catastrophic death in the family may, or may not have resulted from the maniacal ambitions of the now also dead, Adolf Hitler. 

Extra Sensory Perception (ESP) may activate Arterial Fibrillation amongst susceptible pilgrims.A cubist inspired shrine in which 80year old Yoko Ono's power of imagination shine.Magnus is one of millions who remain impacted by Hitler's ambitions.

Magnus records the unique artistry of Willie Leece, the modest creator of a unique style of rural assemblage sculpture. The ‘Hedge' art works of this quietly thoughtful Manx farmer are selected to be hung alongside a blockbuster travelling Tate Gallery exhibition for a giant of the twentieth century's artistic fraternity, Herr Kurt Schwitters. An unforeseen consequence of the Dadaist's exhibition propels Magnus towards entering his artistic endeavours for London's Royal Academy of Art summer exhibition. . ‘Commander Benedict Forksbeard – The Startled Speed Reader' and ‘Longnose Peggchin – The Sentimental Viking Poet' are hung, but not as expected.

Magnus's photographs preserve the singular contribution made to the world art scene by a modest Manx farmer's unique creative flair.The incomparable and unrecognised ‘Hedge' sculptures of Willie Leece are jointly exhibited with a giant of the twentieth century's avant-garde art fraternity; a onetime ‘Most Loyal Enemy Alien' of King George VI, Herr Kurt Schwitters.

It wasn't all misery! The shore-side base was Singapore, and in the early 1970's it remained a mysterious and exotic place to explore. The ancient DC3 bounded and skipped along the rough grass airstrip rapidly gathering speed. With an almighty explosion, the starboard propeller stopped dead, the plane slewed violently sideways, and all was white-faced stillness and silence. And there they were, with a broken aeroplane, somewhere in the South China Sea, trapped on a narrow strip of land on the coastal flank of a monstrous volcano.

Magnus lived under no delusions about his own importance. If he was injured or killed on the rig, he'd be flown ashore, immediately replaced, and just as quickly forgotten On shore leave, Magnus, at one of Darwin's notorious ‘Late Nights' dance parties met the mascara-eyed, choker-wearing, adventurous blond, Sophia Elizabeth. Over the coming months, they became wonderfully close, spending most of their time together when he was ashore.

Just three weeks after leaving England, Magnus was bouncing across the Algerian Desert in the back of a long-wheel-based Land Rover. The vehicle was jam-packed with robed and turban clad Arabs and desert dwelling Berbers.Before heading Down Under, our hero enjoyed a stint aboard off-shore rigs drilling the Adriatic Sea bed for oil. Perhaps Magnus was bad luck as no oil was found.

Magnus started work with Hawker Siddeley in the autumn of 1964. Providence, destiny, or mere chance guided Magnus to the greener pastures of aviation and away from a seafarer's life toiling in the oppressive and claustrophobic hell-hole of ships engine rooms.

After a stint in the dole queue, Magnus's receives a new job offer. His potential employer was one of the biggest whaling companies in the world, with a blubber rendering slaughterhouse on the isolated island of South Georgia. This icy and windswept hell was located in the South Atlantic Ocean approximated due east of Cape Horn and a mere 12 degrees of latitude north of the Antarctic Circle.For Magnus, working in a ship's engine room was akin to going on a country drive whilst cooped up under the bonnet of the car with only an unbearably noisy engine for company.

It wasn't only appearances that needed to be spruced-up to meet the required standard of the officers' dining saloon; a sailor's immune system also needed a booster. Magnus was pleased to benefit from the years of research into tetanus, cholera, yellow fever, typhoid and smallpox.In January 1963, Magnus joined the steam turbine powered, semi-refrigeration ship, City of Winchester, outbound for Australia.

Magnus subconsciously writes and star in his own erratic play. Act one exposes the dangers of self-reliance at the tender age of sixteen.Initially our ‘star' opted for hedonism over applied scholarship, but fate intervenes to nudge him towards resurrection.

After failing to become a budding Field Marshal Montgomery understudy in the British Army, Magnus was obliged take a different tack. The call of the sea was in his blood, or so he was lead to believe. It looked as though a life on the ocean waves lay ahead, or was it a hazardous lee shore?

Following the Army entrance exams, the aspirants, predominantly from privileged private schools, awaited their fate in a small conference room. When ‘Mr McAulay' was called, Magnus followed the subaltern into a stark room that veritably crackled with razor-edged military crispness. The seeds of Magnus's guarded approach to authority were sown well before the art teacher denied him entry for the GCE school leaving certificate: Magnus wasn't even entered for the examination even though he'd topped the class in art.

Apart from observing what those around him on the island did to earn a living, Magnus remained ignorant of what employment possibilities existed, what job requirements were, or what most professions entailed. Like everybody else, he didn't know what he didn't know, and didn't even know that.Magnus's naïve reasoning was that, if somebody who was unable to master disciplined walking was acceptable to the British Army, anyone could get in.

This is the FINAL episode of Retirement Blues GoodbyeIn wasn't just the smell of the flowers; the enchantment of rolling hills, dales and moors; slow motion walking through torrential rain; being in good company; or breakfast with the ‘Mad Hatter' that made our adventure worthwhile, it was ‘letting things go'. Along the way, issues that had previously seemed important were forgotten or relegated to a place where they could be attended to in due course.Or, to paraphrase Socrates's critique of life: ‘It is not living that matters, but living rightly' - which roughly rejigged becomes: ‘Retirement Blues – Goodbye!'The next series of Podcasts deal with a different aspect of a Manx Rover's Ramblings. The podcasts are the serialisation of his novel, The Reluctant Conformist. This tale exposes the uncanny influence that chance may play in a seeker's life.

The heavens, having rained themselves dry, radiated a pale greenish glow which brightened the tumbled stack of cottages that is Robin Hood's Bay. The higgledy-piggledy houses appeared to cling limpet-like to the cliff face to prevent them sliding into the sea far below. That evening, near the beach, Peter was drawn to a signpost that pointed south towards the distant cliff. The sign displayed two weathered words: ‘Cleveland Way'.“I don't want to stop now,” Peter said with deep regret resonating in his voice. “I want to go on.”

Suddenly a mighty squall was upon us. A lashing headwind drove raindrops straight at us. Rain on the face and the curiously comforting staccato drumming of heavy raindrops on the tight fitting hood, close against my ears, gave the final day a hint of the surreal. It was like main-streaming Morse code directly into the brain's pleasure centre. The message was loud and clear: ‘Fantastic! Wouldn't be dead for quids.'

Getting lost wasn't easy, but we did. After a wretched time battling the quagmire of bog holes and waist high tussock grass, we arrived where we started, and, knowing the place for the second time, found the path almost immediately. Dinner was a rare and incomparable experience. Perhaps an outsider would have regarded it as an ordinary three course meal. For those dining it was a mammoth undertaking that left everyone replete, exhausted and content.

The trek from The Lion Inn to Glaisdale was the shortest section we'd walked and so we had time for a little sightseeing at the North Sea fishing port of Whitby. This seaside town is high on the tourist must visit list, not only for its crispy cod and chips, but also thanks to a notorious visitor. In July 1890, Bram Stoker's Count Dracula was hoist ashore in Whitby, accompanied by a shipment of wooden casks filled with earth from the ancestral grave. There's no shortage of things to eat and suck in Whitby. On our return to Glaisdale we visited the make believe village of 'Aidensfield', the film location for the long running TV series ‘Heartbeat'. That evening we feasted on delicious wild salmon, possibly poached by the Heartbeat ne'er-do-well, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.

There was no need for sunscreen this morning. The besieging mist limited visibility with a veil of damp greyness that chilled the face and numbed the hands. The opaque blanket clung low to the soggy earth squeezing the acrid stench of marsh gas between its folds. All sound was stifled, like the muffled oars of a smuggler's skiff passing close offshore on a raw winter's night. Walking on the springy grass proved to be a surprisingly agreeable experience. A grey world of misty dampness parted with each step, and then closed in behind. The eerie cocoon in which I existed was a private and curiously comforting place to be. Having established an effortless rhythm and pace, a mood of wellbeing settled on me – a feeling forgotten since childhood; a contented familiarity with nature in which I felt acknowledged and silently understood.

The air was heavy with the scent of heather and the musky tang of damp moorland soil. For miles around the yellow, green, russet and purple/browns fused like the dusty autumnal tones of a well-worn Bedouin rug. “I've walked New Zealand's Milford Sound and to the Base Camp on Everest,” the Aussie stated. “But the walk I've enjoyed most is the Coast to Coast going as you are, west to east.”

From the beginning, Peter and I had regarded the trek as a sort of quest, a diversion from the norm rather than a test of our fortitude or stamina. As our journey progressed, it evolved into an on-going adventure to be lived within – a taste of forgotten freedom. In Great Broughton there were two places to dine. For only the third time on the trip someone called heads when they should have chosen tails. The result was stale, flat beer and bad food. Even the horror of Hugh's gravy encrusted elephant ear ‘Yorkshire Pudding' would have rated more stars than the food we endured.

“You're not having another shower are you?” our diminutive landlord protested in dismay. “You had one only yesterday.” Later, we chanced upon Hugh of Gibbsland who was still grappling with the mysteries of map and compass. Needless to say, he was heading in the wrong direction and became ensnared in a clump of tall reeds and briars on an overgrown river bank.

In a secluded corner a slightly groggy and bewildered beast stood next to the path. It watched over a calf lying on the grass trying to raise its head. Both animals were exhausted and bloodied. Clearly the cow had given birth to the calf only moments before. We stood quietly by and watched the calf scrambling to raise itself. I felt extremely privileged to have witnessed the newborn calf stand and suckle for the first time. There was no evidence of hospitality in Danby Wiske. The inn locked people out and our digs were deserted. On that drizzly Saturday afternoon desperate measures were called for. We struggled into our wet weather gear and sought sanctuary in the local church and graveyard.

Further on, the landscape changed. Stone walls gave way to hawthorn hedges, cattle replaced sheep and fallow meadow were tilled and sawn. We had entered the Vale of York, the long flat wooded plain between Swaledale and the Cleveland Hills. The rich farmland wasn't solely good for cash crops; it was also a winemakers' field of plenty with wide swaths of elder bush hedges, heavy with purple berries waiting to be harvested for fermentation.

In the space of two hours we'd glimpsed garlic heaven and endured culinary hell. No mean achievement for a Friday night in a small North Yorkshire market town. The landlady proved to be a gem. Her helpfulness and, more importantly, her stylish smoked salmon with scrambled eggs, made our stay at the Old Brewery such a pleasure it assuaged sad memories of Richmond's missed opportunities and the ‘hold-the-spuds' Lamb Henry of the night before.

Walking at a steady pace in the rain promoted a pleasant feeling of detached solitude, a state of mind similar to meditation. The rhythmically paced footfalls became the mantra that freed the observer within to watch the mind at play. The close patter of rain on my hood was wonderfully personal and intimate. In no time, my feet were sloshing about in spongy misshapen boots. The combination of wet grass, pouring rain and the run-off from my leggings had turned each boot into a footbath. 

From Keld, there was little doubt we'd make it to Robin Hood's Bay provided we avoided accidents or the hailed Rumpsfeltish – unknown unknowns. Keld is the only place where the ‘best' walk in England (The Coast to Coast Path) and the ‘best known' walk in the British Isles (The Pennine Way) merged. Like many in competition, their meeting is furtive and brief, with no outright winner evident.

The cool breeze strengthened to a squall, pressing clothes close and tight. A light drizzle flurried in the air making it a woollen-hat-over-the-ears day. Mother Nature had called to say “hello” and give us a gentle reminder that the Pennine Hills could be a changeable, bleak and dangerous place to be. A cantankerous Texel ram froze Peter and I with a challenging Catalan stare that proclaimed, ‘This is my patch and don't you forget it'. Not before the ram was sure we'd got the message, did it saunter away to let us pass.

It was easy to visualise a stagecoach and four rounding the corner on a quiet Sunday afternoon, and draw to a halt at the steps of the King's Arms Hotel. The Cumberland Sausage at the Black Bull was the real thing, an appetising coil, nearly a foot and a half long, that covered the large dinner plate. It appeared the Cumberland Sausage had moved on and forsaken its homeland to take up residence in Yorkshire.

A nearby cairn marked the final resting place of Robin Hood. What with Robin Hood's Chair overlooking Ennerdale Water, Robin Hood's grave at Wicker Street, and our final destination of Robin Hood's Bay, the names, even if imaginary, lent a sense of place and time to the overall trail. Back at the farm, Sheila sent us off to bed with a cup of tea and a wedge of homemade cake.

“To come here, I disregarded my doctor's advice, pooh-poohed my son's pleas, and didn't once pray for divine intervention,” stated Bryn with defiant steeliness. “And you know what? I don't give a Continental!”Occasionally, birdsong brightened the sharp morning air with the magic trills not heard on the mountain tops. The stark beauty of the Lake District National Park gave way to the well-tended patchwork of a tamed landscape.

Dew Drop, or Bryn as we later learned, was lively and engaging company. It took only a couple of pints to transform the mischievous rapscallion of the mountain tops, into an independently minded nonconformist. Even though he experienced great difficulty walking, Bryn was eager to revisit the Lake District; the playground of his youth. The staggering shuffle across the mountain tops was his first respite in many years.

At Angle Tarn it was easy to understand the bond that connects mankind with the land. No claim of contracted possession, only the ‘oneness' that extends back to ‘The Beginning'. Our Land! An extension of ourselves! The land we sprang from, the earth we're part of, the place where we belong and to which we will return.

Our farm-stay digs were a foxhunters Mecca. Mounted above the sideboard, in a display cabinet, a fox sat perfectly still amidst a stage-set rural scene. The stuffed animal fixed would-be diners with an unblinking glassy stare.It was madness to overlook Wainwright's haven whilst distracted by a ‘Test Match' silly mid-off or long leg. After all, ‘the wise man, when he walks, just walks'.

Neither birdsong nor creaking trees are heard in that desolate place. A chorus of gushing waterfalls and gurgling streams is the music of the mountaintops.That night, the long forgotten sleep of the innocent came to call. Not a single sound spoiled the silence of the black night. The farmhouse, well-rehearsed over centuries, was up to the task of refreshing guests with the spiritual nourishment of untroubled slumber.

The air was chilled and humid, the breeze strong and blustery, and the sky dark and low. Unlike the furtive mist that caressed the cheeks, the storm's calling card was a shotgun blast of icy droplets full in the face. It was when battling the misty storm that Mr Catastrophe whispered, ‘G'day'.

Ramblers get lost at Greenup Edge! However, just below this confusing ridge is the easiest walking of all the high-level sections from St Bees to Robin Hood's Bay, and is certainly something not to be missed. The all-round views are amongst the most dramatic in all Lakeland.Below, nestling by a lake is Grasmere – reputed to be one of the prettiest villages in England, and once home to the eighteenth century poet, William Wordsworth.

‘Good morning', everywhere to everybody by everyone.Often the path was a stony rivulet with runoff gushing around large boulders that doubled as steppingstones.Gaelic ‘drumlins', formed during the last Ice Age adorned the landscape.

Even though the day had been dull, damp and dismal, the walking had been exciting, the weather exhilarating and the landscape spectacular.The Royal Oak Hotel, ‘William Wordsworth slept here'. Minestrone soup, Cumbrian roast ham with the biggest jacket potato I'd ever seen, and to finish off – pear Bakewell tart. Good night!

What lay ahead wasn't suburbia in the greenbelt, but untamed mountainous country, made wrinkle-free during the last Ice Age.A ragged ceiling of cloud hung close and dark overhead. All about, exhausted climbers lay scattered on the marshy yellow ground recovering from their exertion.

The Keeper of the Keys boot fetish, and ‘Thank you for NOT smoking'.A mist shrouded funeral as diversion from Guantanamo Bay style strobe lighting torture.

Arduous Dent Hill; tough and tiring - ‘If your legs don't give-up first'.Peaceful Nannycatch Beck, a bogus ‘Stone Circle', a hoodwinked postdoctoral Eskimo and the welcome prospect of a suntrap beer garden.