Come Smile With Me - Episode 5

When I left Stanmore almost six years ago I promised myself that I would do everything that was available to me as life is so very precious. Many polio victims that I have met, and will meet in the future, have an inner force that drives us onwards. We are a determined group of people with a zest for life and all that it throws at us. We have beaten the virus (many of us take with us constant reminders of the battle), and through this battle have developed a force of mind and will power that drives us to achieve the almost unachievable.

I am constantly conscious of my physical appearance and aware of my limitations but this only forces me to try harder.

The decision to take the HGV driving course and subsequent test was, I suspect, an attempt to prove to myself that anything is possible. This was again the motive when I decided to take gliding lessons with a large well-established gliding club near Eastbourne. I would leave home at about seven o'clock in the morning, travel thirty miles to the club and then sit in the clubs' meeting room, sometimes all day, waiting for the weather to clear. But what a sensational feeling when eventually we were airborne. Standing ready at the top of a long hill, the glider is launched by a winch way below us to lift us high into the air, when with a tug of the release cable, we are free and alone. The sky is crystal blue, and the landscape is laid out neatly below us. We can see for miles. The only sound is the wind as we glide around seeking pockets of warm air to maintain or increase our height, or as we slowly wind our way back to earth to a graceful landing.

I loved it, I wanted more and more, but the costs, travel and unreliability of the weather gradually took their toll and I had to cease the sport.

I was married in the month of July in 1972 and before it ended in divorce twelve years later we had three wonderful sons. I instantly became a single parent and whilst trying to maintain full employment was mother and father to all three. They were hard times, difficult times, exhausting times, and great fun, and my feelings of satisfaction and achievement as I look at the three lovely young men today is immense.

There is an entire lifetime built around the period when I was a single father, and maybe in a future book I will express my thoughts and memories as I am today.

Taking to the air is too expensive and yet I want to be able to undertake a hobby that is both rewarding spiritually, but also physically, so my decision to purchase an ex-lifeboat recently converted to a sea-going fishing boat would seem to fit the bill completely. I can't swim, but with life jackets and buoys this needn't be a concern. The boat has a mud mooring in the middle of one of the fastest flowing rivers in the UK, and access is at specific heights of tide by a small powered dinghy housed on the quayside. The form of attack is to launch the dinghy in a heading approximately two hundred yards up or down riveraccording to the direction of the tide. With full throttle on the outboard and the drift of the tide, we arrive about in line with our anchor point and reach out to grab the passing line attached to the stern of the boat. This manoeuvre forces the dinghy to swing round in line and tuck in behind the boat. For much of the time.

Miss the connection point and it is head for the opposite bank, walk up or down as required, dragging the dinghy, and then re-launch. Sometimes this would require several attempts.

Re-mooring the boat after a day's fishing expedition would require a similar approach. With the need to approach the mooring at speed, aim for the mooring buoy, grab the line, preventing yourself being pulled out of the boat and into the river by the force of the sudden stop, and if all fails, do it again.

This particular Sunday morning is blowing a heavy gale with gusts of force nine predicted at the harbour entrance. This has the affect of producing a formidable wall of churning sea usually up to six feet high across the entrance as the storm tossed sea in the channel meets the rushing tide trying to escape the harbour. My newly pregnant wife, and an old school friend and her husband have suggested that perhaps we could motor down the river and watch (from a safe distance), this natural phenomenon. We have arrived at our planned viewpoint and the sight is truly spectacular. The wind is blowing a good force eight and we are finding it very difficult to stand on deck. The sea in the channel some one hundred yards away is in torment; it is a mass of water in a filthy shade of grey with long white rollers capping each angry wave as they try to get through the harbour entrance. I decide that I have seen enough and start the engine, moving slowly forward towards theentrance so that I could safely turn back towards our mooring up river.

Disaster has struck with the snapping of the throttle cable linkage from the controls to the engine housed down in the bilge of the boat. Without power, the boat is being carried by the outgoing tide into the rapidly developing sea wall. I am screaming for my wife to lift of the engine cover while I try and steer the drifting boat away from the harbour entrance whilst praying that the engine does not stall. No good, the howling wind and increasing roughness of the sea is preventing my wife from lifting the cover, so dropping everything I raise the cover my self and by using the engines carburettor bring the engines to full power, and we move forward. My friend by this time has grasped how serious the situation is and has taken control of the wheel and by swinging around to full starboard, narrowly avoiding colliding with the stone harbour wall itself, we slowly gain ground and begin heading up river to safety. We were the only people on the river that day, and within a few minutes there were none.

We did have many enjoyable times on the boat and in the time that we were proud owners we had not one accident or injury. We did have a couple of other misadventures though; the first was about five weeks after the cable incident.

Every year, Shoreham Airport hold their annual air display and today we have decided to watch the display from the comfort of our boat whilst moored just off the airport perimeter. Sandwiches are made and packed and with the same two friends as before we board the boat and head up river to find an ideal vantage spot. Within the hour we have anchored and am enjoying the display of aircraft and flying displays, many of which are passing right over our heads. It is a long day and yet before we realise it the displays are over and it is time for us to raise anchor and head back.

We lift the anchor, stowing it carefully away for next time, begin the engines, and at this stage I wonder why we are not moving. The tide has come in, we have drifted onto a sandbank, and the tide is now going out, rapidly. I suggest that we could, perhaps, rock the boat off the bank, but this is to no avail. We have water, but just not enough and the tide is continuing to go out. Wading to the bank is considered and dismissed after seeing the depth of mud we would have to wade through, so we need a plan B. I suddenly remember that our dinghy is attached at the stern and we could get back to the quay side in this. Ladies first of course, followed by friend and then the captain last, but as my friend left the boat, I could feel it move slightly towards the main channel. With a large rolling movement the boat without the major part of its load had found sufficient depth to re-float and was drifting down river towards our mooring. Restarting the engines and towing my passengers back to ourmooring was not the ideal way to finish the day, but we were safe and dry.

I love sea fishing and the boat gave us many opportunities to go out into the Channel for a day, about three or four miles offshore, where we could catch some excellent fish.

This afternoon we had have had a very successful catch, with Bass, Plaice, Flounders, loads of Mackerel and a couple of Pollack and rounding into the harbour entrance I can see a dredger working to one side of the harbour channel. The boat is displaying an attractive array of different coloured flags and some of the men on deck begin waving to us. My friends and I wave back of course. There is the sound of a horn blasting, and continuing my way into the harbour I am now parallel with the dredger and about sixty feet away. Suddenly the men on deck are signalling to us to get out of the way and to move forward as fast as we can. I am completely at a loss as to why they are referring to us, but do as they say and move quickly forward. The steel cable was about four inches in diameter and came up out of the water like a cheese wire, vibrating to a halt showering water as it did so. The cable was approximately ten feet above our heads and no more than two feet from the stern of our boat.

Had we been slower or seven or so feet further back, the cable would have cut our boat in half like slicing through a ripe cheese. The dredger was working its way from side to side in the harbour entrance and using two guide cables attached to each side of the channel to pull it self broadside across whilst clearing the bed of silt.

Shortly afterwards I sold the boat and dinghy and swore never again. I have always been a keen outdoor type of person and love to watch 'The Good Life' on television. The thought of being fully self-sufficient inspires me to enquire about renting a small parcel of woodland close to where I live. I am lucky and one of the local landowners is prepared to rent me two acres of land next door to a riding stables located off a quiet lane about five mile from home.

One of the conditions set down by the owner is that I must completely enclose the plot with a reasonable quality fence as there are several people with gaming rights within the remainder of the woodland and a definite boundary must be maintained. I purchase rolls of wire mesh fencing and hundreds of fence posts and start about erecting the boundary. I am fully employed now by a local company so my time is limited, but every weekend is spent fence erecting until eventually the work is finished. I decide that we must have power and water on the site so this is arranged with the local statutory undertakings, and I purchase a second-hand beach-hut which will be the site hut. Hours and hours are spent laying down tons of rubble to form a drive in to the site and I manage to install a line of lights to guide the way during the long winter nights.

Stock; we needed to stock our plot with some animals, but the choice was difficult until we heard that my eczema could be eased by drinking goat's milk and other produce such as the curd and solid cheeses. Several of my wife's friends mentioned that they too would purchase the milk and cheese, so the hunt was on.

Scouring the local newspapers we read an advertisement for the sale of a young nanny goat not too far away and within the hour we are on our way.

The address is down a long unmade track opening on to a range of near derelict buildings laughingly called a farm, where a range of very unhappy animals can be seen scratching around for food. The owner, a miserable looking man in a scruffy overcoat and wellingtons greets us and we are directed to a small paddock to one side of the main building.

She is lovely; the sweetest looking goat that we have ever seen and we immediately fall in love with her. A deal is made and I make arrangements to collect her next weekend.

According to the farming magazines that we read, electric fencing is the latest method of keeping in stock and guided by the articles, I purchase and install a small paddock of electric fencing on a corner of our plot.

It is the weekend at last and after emptying our small Renault van we head off to collect our goat.

I suppose I should have suspected something was wrong at our first visit, but we were so taken by the nanny that all common sense had been forgotten. Apparently, the nanny was only part of the package which also included a fierce looking Billy. His horns were knurled and twisted with one end missing (probably in a fight), and the smell was appalling.

Still we had made a deal, and the nanny we wanted, so we bundle both goats into our tiny van and head home. Goats, like most animals, have one major reaction when frightened or distressed, and these were no exception. The Billy completely disgraces himself several times, but by the look on his face, doesn't give a damn. The nanny is a lot more refined but just as frightened.

It has taken us a horrendous hour and a half to reach the land and driving into our entrance I am pleased to see our neighbour, the stable manager, waiting by the gate.

He has looked at our goat enclosure and on seeing the Billy a shy grin begins to form on his face. "Do you intend keeping the Billy in there?" glancing towards the enclosure, "You do, well I'm not so sure that that is a good idea. Still it's your decision" Slightly put off by this remark, I lead the goats by their collars, open the enclosure gate and let them wander into their new home.

It has taken three minutes for the Billy to weigh up the electric fence, locate the weakest point, and with horns down clear the fence in one leap. The nanny, on the other hand, is pleased to see him go, and begins munching into a bag of fresh hay.

It is two hours later, and tired and filthy dirty, our neighbour and I have rounded up the Billy. We have tried to calm the many people that he attempted to mount, and are staking him to the ground with a length of rope that even King Kong would have found it difficult to escape from

He lasted two days, the smell was unbearable, he continually charged anyone who attempted to go anywhere near him, and he had begun chewinghis way through the rope. His departure in the back of a truck heading for slaughter was full of mixed emotions, most of them relief.

Our nanny is a dream, she has produced two lovely kids, (she was pregnant when we bought her), gallons of fresh milk and my excema has cleared.

Chickens are next and very soon we have two hundred free range chickenslaying over one hundred and fifty large brown eggs every day. The problem is collecting the eggs every morning on the way to work. The chickens need a series of nesting boxes where they can lay their eggs for easy collection, so over the next few weekends I build a smart new chicken house with shelved nesting boxes and areas where the hens can roost at night if they wish. I also purchased a cockerel to keep the hens amused. Rasputin is evil. He sees every human as a potential enemy and guards his hens as fiercely as a Sheikh would guard his harem. It takes skillful planning and the patience of Job to outwit him, and every visit to collect the eggs becomes a battle of wits and sheer determination. I didn't always win and Rasputin would retreat with a conqueror stride on many an occasion. The eggs can wait until tomorrow.

Having built a very sound, spacious, warm, dry, and comfortable, series of nesting boxes, complete with feeders, etc., the design and construction of which I painstakingly followed from an ‘expert’ in poultry, I would often just set about waiting for the eggs to be produced!

This morning still employed full-time as a building surveyor I arrive at our site to feed and check on the live-stock, and of course, collect the eggs, before going on to work.

I think the main problem is that the chickens have not read the same books as I, and have decided to lay their eggs (almost 180 or so a day at the moment), anywhere but in the net boxes. It is surprising how difficult it is to find new laid brown eggs in an area of 2 acres of woodland, particularly so when it is pouring with rain.

This particular morning I think we are probably having one of our heaviest downpours, and it is still ‘chucking ‘ it down as I enter the ‘ so called ‘ nest box. I have collected about 150 eggs and have decided to take advantage of the dry, very welcoming, hen house for a short spell.

I will never know, or understand, why I do what I do next. Without thinking, noticing that the roof of the hen house has begun to sag under the weight of the over night rainfall, (probably aggravated by a mountain of fallen leaves, etc.,), I reach up with my arm and gently lift the roof to throw off the water.

Water, as you may know, weighs 1 Tonne per cubic metre, and with the leaves and other debris, the gross weight that descended on me through the hole in the roof as my arm disappeared skywards, was potentially fatal. This did not include the eggs that I drop in the panic.

Needless to say there are no hens in the house at the time, they are probably under a series of trees and bushes, enjoying every minute. It takes a while for me to recover from the shock, and several weeks to repair the damage. I am also late for work.

The 'Good Life' continues with the introduction of six piglets bought from a friendly pig-farmer just up the road from us and these are installed in another corner of our plot with a sty made from old straw bales. Very warm and comfortable it is too. The plan is to fatten up the piglets as free range, and then have them slaughtered at the correct weight for pork. I have arranged a deal whereby the local slaughterhouse will prepare the meat into joints, and swap two of our pork pigs for two bacon pigs in lieu of any payment.

The difficulties come when it is time to load the pigs into the trailer ready for the journey. Pigs are very smart and highly intelligent and it didn't take them long to work out that the trailer ride was not for them. I have formed a tight passage from the sty to the trailer using straw bales and am carefully guiding the pigs towards the ramp. I didn't hear the signal, but as one, all six pigs cleared the bales and stood panting and staring at us some fifty yards away. It is time for plan B.

This involves chasing each pig individually round and round the compounduntil one of us is exhausted. Hopefully it is the pig, whereby he is dragged unceremoniously into the trailer.

Shortly after this, our neighbour farmer who had helped us with the pigs gave up farming and move away to become a tree surgeon. I suspect that we may have had some influence on his decision. We also decide that pigs are not for us and concentrate on our chickens and goats. The woodland that we rent comprises mainly Dutch Elm and many of these have become dangerously unstable, so with our young family running around, I decide to fell a few of the more dangerous ones. I purchase a second-hand petrol driven chain saw, read the manual, and begin felling the first. I cut a horizontal groove into the back of the tree about four feet of the ground in the opposite direction to where I want the tree to fall. Then gingerly begin to form a 'V' shaped cut on the front face of the tree just below the horizontal cut. I didn't hear the dreadful cracking sound, only that of my wife shouting at me to get out of the way. I manage to get ten feet or so from the tree, still carrying the chain saw. With an almighty thud the tree slides vertically along the 'V' cut and buries the sawn end into the ground only two feet from where it started, ending up perfectly upright, as if it had never moved.

Now what, there is absolutely no way that I am going to get near the tree now, as it could fall in any direction, at any moment. Ropes are the answer, and my wife and I pass a rope around the back of the tree, and begin walking away from the tree in opposite directions.

The rope is drawn tight and with an equal pull the tree is felled to fall between us. The impact as it hits the ground, fills the air with masses of broken branches, leaves, debris and clouds of choking dust from decades of decay and uncultivated scrub. But it is down and safe.

I am getting quite good at this now, and the last one to do today is close to the road, so we have decided to ask some friends of ours to stand in the road to stop any traffic that may pass along as the tree falls, just in case.

The horizontal cut is made and I am completing the final 'V' cut away from the road. I warn my friends to stop the traffic and with my back to the road begin driving a wedge into the horizontal slot. The noise is deafening and it takes me only a split second to realise that something is wrong.

The tree trunk where I have been cutting is hollow in the middle, and as the wedge is driven in the entire tree begins to collapse downwards. The wedge is forced out of the slot like an arrow, and with an ear-splitting crack the tree begins to fall towards the road. My friends frantically try to convince an irate car driver that it will be safer to stop where she is. Suddenly through the thick undergrowth and several smaller trees, the Elm crashes down on to the road, bouncing as it hits the tarmac. Smaller branches are thrown in every direction until it comes to a halt with a deadly hush. Everyone is stunned.

/- Episode 6