Daniel.

I never knew Daniel.

If anyone had an idyllic growing up it was me. Many Friday nights I would sleep down at Nana and Da's because they lived down the harbour so it was less far to go on Saturday morning but Saturday evenings was bathtime, and bed unless I slept in Nana and Granda's at "Elhanan" 9a Bowling Green Terrace, in which case I was bathed at home, dressed in Sunday Best and with pyjamas wrapped in a dressing gown I walked down the road to their house.

Usually it was being allowed to beat Nana at checkers or dummies before being told that it was bedtime and asked, "what did I want for supper?"that I liked. I think it was the suppers that I most looked forward to.

One night a year was always different. She tended to look sideways at the TV in the corner as she glanced at it over her knitting rather than looked at it properly. But each November for "The Royal British Legion's Service of Remembrance live from The Royal Albert Hall" as the ever so formal BBC announcer began to intone she was right there in front of it.

I'd be sat next to her in a big brown high back chair with wooden flat arms that cut into you so I needed the shiny dark red cushions. I liked the Royal Navy Gun Carriage Teams racing about throwing tons of equipment around with such precision and control but the marching bands and stertorous voices were a bit of a bore, really. It didn't matter as I'd fall asleep and wake up in uncle John's bed even though he'd left home years before it was always his bed.

Later on, I guess by the time I was 6 or 7 the suppers had taken their toll so I'd wake up where I went to sleep but with the matching brown chair placed under my feet so making a bed between two chairs.

Only once that I can remember did I ask her what it was all about but I've never forgotten her reply. "This is for Daniel," she said nodding at the telly.

All I knew of Daniel was that he was killed in the war and little else. Nana said that he was "a breaa handsome boy" which was a bit odd because everyone who ever lived was " a breaa handsome cheeld" but I don't remember her mentioning "boy", a "maid" occasionally. Like "Maid Dorcas" who was Daniel's sister and lived up the road. Dorcas has always been in St.Ives. Jane, his other sister, lived in London and we visited once or twice but eventually she and Ted came back and now live down Gulval, I think. The last time I saw them was at uncle John and aunt Joan's 50th anniversary.

Nana's sister, Dorcas was Daniel's mum and lived down Carnglaze Place and from her front window you could see right down the quay.  Later she moved in with Maid Dorcas and her husband, Jimmy.

Mum said Daniel was quiet and really gentle, a lovely chap, others have said he was a fine mason so he had a trade. I also heard that he was killed by mortar fire in Caen.

Between Nana's fireplace and the telly in the corner was a large wood glass fronted bookcase cabinet. It  was huge, it was taller than me but that meant that it was really only about 4' tall and about the same wide. It had sliding glass doors and four shelves, three full of Granda's books and the top shelf full of trinkets, Granda's cufflinks, arm bands and hearing aids. And photos. One was of a smart uniformed young man, about a two-and-a-quarter square photo sandwiched between two bits of glass and held in a wooden base. That was Daniel. The other photo was of uncle John stood next to a headstone, I think with his left hand on it. That was Daniel, too.

I never knew what happened to Daniel, either.

Today I went to where uncle John stood and we've unravelled a bit more about Daniel. When I say "we" I really mean my research assistant who sits behind me waiting for me to stop tapping away but beside me is a sheaf of papers, official documents, photocopies and all sorts. Her methodical and intense way of going about finding stuff is amazing but, hey, I've done googling. And we went to the Turisme Information Centre yesterday, here in Caen. Maps. They have maps and I love maps.

So, this is what we have found out.

Daniel was part of 3 Brigade who landed on Sword beach. He was in 2nd. Batt. Kings Shropshire Light Infantry and would have landed at Queen Beach at 1000 . This beach is the western most end of Sword Beach. The Eastern extremity of Sword was the Port of Ouistreham, the western end was at or before the start of St.Aubin-sur-Mer.

They met fierce resistance as they fought to move inland but eventually Douvres, Hermanville and Colleville were taken but the rate of advance was slow. Most of the information comes from the armoured division personnel, they had 3 squadrons of Sherman Tanks and were the spearhead but progress was slow as they were up against SS troops and Hitler Youth Brigades.

Montgomery wanted Caen taken and decided to launch Operation Charnwood. This would last from 7th - 9th July. Over the night of 7th-8th heavy bombers struck in force at the northern edge of Caen, a strip about 2 1/2 miles long and a mile or so wide. So great was the destruction that it hampered the eventual march into the town . Today, on the tourist office map it notes the "unbecoming architecture" that now is found there.

 The armoured division and KSLI were tasked with taking "Libesey Wood"which was the last defended high ground between them and Caen. After the bombing at 0420 the ground assault began with a bombardment of the units 25lb guns and the tanks.

Tanks can not batter a way through established woodland so their strategy was to bombard the position with artillery and then the tanks would encircle it. If the bombardment didn't kill all the defenders or scare then off it was utterly imperative that once ground troops went in there was no possibility of further troops moving up from Caen to reinforce the position.

At 1000 the tank commander signalled that it was encircled and the KSLI went in to mop up the wood. This they did, emerging on the southern side of the wood at 1500. Now they were to advance on "Ring Contour 60". They were fighting the recently arrived infantry of the 21st Panzer Division.

At some time after that an 88mm field gun, deadly accurate and efficient opened up. The Shermans couldn't engage with the 88mm from their current position so they had to withdraw, which they did, but not before losing five tanks and their crews. It was at this point that the most senior KSLI officer was badly wounded. He was found beside a wrecked tank and was taken to the Forward Casualty Post at Bieville-Beuville. He is quoted as saying that he was unaware of how tired he was having been active for at least 48hours.

The enemy kept the infantry pinned down using observers from the chimneys on the outskirts of Caen. The infantry dug in"with the utmost rapidity."A tank gunner, Sid Moore in a Sherman of 144th Regt.Royal Armoured Corps and the rest of his squadron were advanced from 2 miles north of Libesey wood to give cover to the dug in infantry. Which they did. One tank commander said that the infantry had no where to go and just had to take it.

A member of The Royal Ulster Rifles reported that as night fell we heard the first mortars open up.
A short time later the enemy was "liquidated" and the mortars fell silent.

On one website there is a footnote to the effect that one Hugh Patrick Maguire single handedly took out the 88mm killing two of it's four man crew and capturing the others but no time for this action is given.

There are conflicting numbers of casualties given, one document says 80, one 107 and one 118. Daniel was dead when he arrived at the Casualty Post at Bieville-Beuville. Where he was buried. I know this because Dad knewThomas Berriman another St.Ives man, who was there as a medic, who told Dad that he was praying that Daniel would be brought in wounded. But he wasn't.

Daniel was later reburied in the cemetery at Douvres-la-Deliverande. 

Daniel died at the end of a hot and sunny Saturday, the 8th of July 1944 somewhere south of Libesey Wood during Operation Charnwood at the age of 22.

As near to the centre of Queen Beach as I could work it out to be

Believed to be the approach to Libesey Wood from the north. It was obviously much bigger and not full of houses in 1944.

A clue that we're in the right area

This is believed to be all that's left of Libesey Wood, the large trees, the small ones are obviously recent. None are likely to be there in a week or two.

Looking south towards Caen from Libesey Wood. There are concrete and steel units all the way in from here and the land rises gently before gently falling away right down into Caen itself. Contour Ring 60 may be the highpoint of the rise. It's just about where the trees are in the background. It's much easier to see on the road.

Poppies in Libesey Wood today, Sunday October 4th 2015

Poppy moved from Libesey Wood.

 I never knew Daniel but had he survived the war and lived his threescore years and ten I would have

 As Nana said, "this is for Daniel."

Notes:
The KSLI enbarked and disembarked in Newhaven on 3rd June. They embarked finally on the afternoon of 5th.

The KSLI entered Caen on 9th July but the town was not completely taken until 18th.

To give a sense of scale as we were driving back this afternoon it occured to me that it's like he landed at Marazion and Caen was home, there was a battle at Crowlas, he died up The Steeple and is buried down St,Erth. It really is that sort of geographic scale.

In the Museum of The Battle of Normandy in Bayeux the painfully slow advance on Caen is forcibly and dramatically displayed through maps of the first weeks of the invasion. These maps also show just how much importance Rommel placed on defending Caen. Of 9 divisions brough from the  Pas-de-Calais 7 were sent to Caen. Initally at least 4 divisions of SS Panzer Infantry were in place in a short time, the rest followed. The armour was sent by train and greatly delayed by the efforts of the RAF.

There is one map which pinpoints troop movements at Libesey but does not name any other settlements around it thus making a wholly reliable position of the engagement impossible but the general vicinity is where we thought.

There is a book called "Sword" written by a Frenchman. I wish I'd got a copy but it's in French. However, in it there is a photo of a hand annotated map of the beachhead in which Queen beach is far more extensive than the  official map we saw in Caen and Queen beach is shown in three sectors, white, green and red. The photo above is still in the right area, maybe not exactly but not far away.

This book also mentions that the enemy in this sector was very determined being mainly brigades of Hitler Youth and SS Infantry.

In there, too, there is an incident recorded when Eisenhower told a gathering of the press corps that "the blood it cost for every foot of ground at Caen would have got ten miles anywhere else."

Dorcas Benny, eldest sister of Daniel. d.12th October 2015 St.Ives
Jane Allen, youngest sister of Daniel. d.                      2019 Gulval

Pondering On A Quiet Day

The executive management wisely decided against further battlefield visits today, instead it was suggested that because it was hot (20C) and not as windy a gentle bimble was called for.

Thus it was that we stopped for a look at Bray-sur-Somme, pleasant but hardly worth more than a second or two. Nope, one's enough. On to Cappy then. Delightful but brief pedal on the Bromptons. Stop for coffee. Grrrrr.

On to somewhere else via a no through road which caused numerous oooooohs and aaaaaaaaaghs as the multi point turn was ingloriously executed and eventually ... an oasis. Actually, Le Oasis at Chipilli where a beer and lemonade was had for €4.50. I was even pleasant and polite to the locals especially when one opened the door to a panoramic balcony for us to sit at whilst drinking.

Now I'd probably think I was being set up but that was before I knew that the Frenchman was a thief. Oh, well. I've been without a mobile phone before.

Anyway, from said window we spied a proper velo path. It went as far as Amiens and further but after about 15k we met a decent Englishman with his H&S lifejacket adorned wife/partner/mistress on a very smart and shiny barge who told us that Amiens was lovely but from here where we were to there was a bit industrial.

So we turned tail and began to aggravate the locals. This one repeatedly landed in front of me and then took off to do it again. You'd think he lived here.

The Kingfishers were amazing, as always but much slower than ours. Unfortunately I only had my Fuji with me and as that has taken to exasperating me as well it wasn't a great photographic experience. It'll have to go back. Great camera, though. When it chooses to respond to your shutter finger and where has all the viewfinder information gone? After all it's because of said information that I got it. That and the delightful shutter.

Did get time to consider though.

Two days of well planned and apposite visits have left one more drained than I'd have expected. At first the multitude of cemeteries that you pass with indecent frequency cause you to slow, look and think but today? It's not that the novelty has worn off it's just that you can't respond to all of them. We saw a sign yesterday to "Euston Road Cemetery" and looked but it contained "only" a few tens of graves. Only! See, that's what's happened. There are so many and some have very few, some a hundred or so, some many hundreds and some have many, many more.

Along Le Vallee Somme today there are no cemeteries but as soon as you ascend it's north bank they appear

The CWGC does a marvellous job. Each grave is clean and legible. Beautifully tended and landscaped. They are also all open. That is testimony to the high regard in which their sacrifice is held locally. Union flags abound. The "Lions led by donkeys" revisionist history driven by war poets of varied political persuasion is not held here. Yes, some British commanders were inept, incompetent and class riven. Fortunately most were weeded out fairly soon if they were not shot first. Officer attrition was horrendous below Majors. Majors and above were generally not "in the front" lower ranked officers were and they led by example and paid the price.

It's when you see the landscape that you begin to understand why the casualties were so great. This gently rolling countryside extends as far and beyond where we have been. It is a machine gunners delight. There is no cover. Thus trenches are inevitable. If you are going to defeat the enemy you have to kill more of his soldiers than he kills of yours. This is what both sides did. There doesn't seem to be any option and in 1914 they still rode horses into battle. They represented the height of mobility in a field at that time. Sadly, only a few years before 1914 all the combatant nations had invented the machine gun.

Gentle undulations with a white cemetery in the centre. So many like this adorn the countryside everywhere we've been.

I do think that we must be careful not to judge decision makers by our late 20th century experience.

However, my overriding impression is of the wisdom, a century later, of burying the dead where (or very close to where) they fell. It gives context but mostly it gives an idea of the scale of their deeds in a way nothing else can. To see the names inscribed on walls of limestone, the white limestone head stones arranged in vast lines and columns makes certain that it has an effect on you.

Kaiser Wilhelm, considered eccentric at best (some say psychotic) and Moltke, his Christian Scientist secretary of war who was utterly determined to take France using a plan that he'd drawn up for the Franco-Prussian War 30 years earlier were never reasonable in the first place so reasoning with them was never going to happen. Thus WW1 was inevitable and France stepped up to defend itself and Britain undertook to stand by its' treaty defending the neutrality of Belgium.

That was a morally right thing to do. It was a terrible war, obviously not the war to end all wars but a brave and responsible reaction against a nation whose leaders were seeking to overwhelm and subjugate their neighbours. The right response was considered to be more important than to count the cost. Just as well.

I'm so glad that Germany didn't take over France in 1914 because had they done so they'd have taken Britain, too. Eventually.

This has been an experience and I shall never look at Black Adder goes forth and see it quite as I did the first few times.

Caen, 300kms away tomorrow and no Leffe Blonde left.

"we never heard him speak about the war"

These are on a wall behind a screen in a corner of the Newfoundland Regiment Information centre at Beaumont Hamel and this, below, is in the underground Somme 1916 Museum in Albert.

Scale.

Thursday 1st October 2015.

Faubourg - D'Amiens Memorial, Arras. Thomas Kilpatrick, miner from New Cumnock, Scotland, carved in limestone along with nearly 40,000 others with no known grave.

Lochnagar Crater. Blown at 0728, Saturday 1st July 1916. One big hole in the ground. You can walk around it but it's too steep to go down into let alone get out again.
24 tons of HE placed under the German trenches. The explosion was heard in London.

Thiepval British and French Memorial to The Missing of The Somme.
Nearly 80,000 names carved in limestone.


Beaumont Hamel. Google it.

Left as it was.
You can walk through the trenches, albeit grassed over and at least 2' shallower than they were.
You can look across a piece of ground no more than two football pitches in size and probably less.
That piece of ground was no man's land and the German lines are easily visible.

You can walk around to them in a few minutes.

They blew their mine at Hawthorn Ridge at 0720 on Saturday 1st July 1916 because the divisional commander, a British MP wanted to be first. This is the mine explosion that was filmed by a film unit and frequently shown in documentaries.

The troops were required to go over the top at 0730.

Those 10 minutes allowed the Germans to clean the soil from their weapons, bring up reserves and accurately site machine guns so that when the first attack began the Newfoundland Regiment was decimated.
The second attack took place at 0845 but failed because there were too many bodies from the first to allow any meaningful progress under machine gun fire.

Further attacks were mounted throughout the day.
By day's end the Newfoundland Regiment numbered 86 men and no officers.

As you stand in the front line trench it's hard to describe how small it all is but straight ahead  the Germans lay in "Y-Ravine" which curves around to your lower right and ends at what now a cemetery called "Y-Ravine Cemetery."
Along the crest to your left is another cemetery called "Hawthorn Ridge Cemetery."
It is where the mine was detonated and was the Newfoundlanders objective on Saturday 1st of July 1916.

Hawthorn Ridge was taken by The Highland Regiment in November 1916.

 A Caribou looks out above the Newfoundlanders trenches and from his position you look directly along the Ridge through a beautifully manicured avenue of trees at Hawthorn Ridge Cemetery.

It took us less than five minutes to stroll from Hawthorn Ridge Cemetery to The Caribou.

Yesterday I was struck quite forcibly by the fact that the front moved over a mere 12kms between July 1st and Mid-November but this, this is something else.

The area between the lines is roped off as the Canadians are unsure if it has been completely cleared of munitions or of the fallen. And, yes, I know that The Newfoundland Regiment was not Canadian. They were Newfoundlanders. I learned that yesterday, too.

Sheila's Grandad joined The Newfoundland Regiment on active service on The Somme on 12th July 1916.
His brother, Percy, had been wounded with them at Gallipoli.

Foreground stakes marks front line trench. Red board in centre of frame marks German front line. On the left you can see the memorial to the Highland Regiment. That monument lies behind the German lines. Extreme right is the edge of "Y-Ravine Cemetery."

Taken from outside "Hawthorn Ridge Cemetery." Just off to my left is the Highland Regiment Memorial in the photo above. This position is the site of the objective for The Newfoundland Regiment on 1st July 1916.. In the exact centre of the frame is the Caribou which lies behind the forward three trenches that they occupied.

15 minutes, 2 million dead.

At about 1400 today I left a motorway and found myself passing a sign that said 24th November 1916.
At about 1415 I passed a sign on that same arrow straight road from Bapaume to Albert which said 1st July 1916.

Less than 12km apart and yet over those five months in 1916 hundreds of thousands died. 88,000 Allied of which 56,000 British on July 1st 1916 alone. The French at Verdun is another story.

From August 1914 - November 1918, 750,00  British, 200,000 Commonwealth soldiers, 800,000 French ones. and over 350,00 civilains died along this front. No one seems to want to say how many Germans but over 800,000. 23,000,000 rounds of allied ammunition was expended on this front by the Allies.

I'm sitting here looking out of a window from a new Ibis just outside Albert with a laptop, baguette, cafe eclair, a dozen bottles of Leffe Blonde and the road runs just a few metres away. I can hear the cars. See the road. I'm watching the shadows stretching and the leaves detaching from their branches.

This road between the fence and the trees, arrow straight, smooth as silk and not exactly busy.

Yet this afternoon for the first time it has dawned on me the scale of the slaughter in WW1. If I were to cover all the ground on which British and Commonwealth troops were killed in WW2 I'd be travelling for ages covering continents, traipsing for miles but in WW1 it (nearly) all took place within a very narrow strip of land on this, The Western Front.

It has been a most sobering experience. Two million young men killed, not counting the enemy, in just a few months of a five year confrontation over a strip of land which took me less than 15 minutes to traverse at a legal speed

Two million deaths to take less than 12km of mud and barbed wire. Fighting petered out because of the weather and exhaustion but when it all began in the spring of 1917 those 12kms were lost again.

Driving here past the small neat cemeteries it all looks a bit too neat really, a bit romantic almost but an hour or two in the Somme 1916 museum in Albert destroys any latent romanticism. This was a deadly existence endured by many, survived by a few, forgotten by none.

In one action involving 3500 Canadians tasked with taking a wood one day in that July of 1916 the wood was taken and 143 were left to tell the tale. But they didn't tell the tale. They didn't talk about it. They didn't mention it. They just carried on. Sent to another unit. Another task. Another experience the horror of which I couldn't imagine.

No counselling, no understanding, no respite.

In that museum there's a Kilt and Sporran. Given by the granddaughter of a survivor of the horrors of July 1916. Her Grandad, wounded and unable to get back to his line and would have died but for a wounded Scot who carried him to safety and was further injured in doing so. The Scot, fatally wounded, gave her Grandad his Kilt and Sporran as "he had no one at home to send it to." They donated it to the museum with a photo of her Grandad. No one knows the name of the Scot.

The small neat cemeteries are dwarfed by the monuments on which the names of those with no graves are chiseled. But that's for tomorrow when we go to see the places where my wife's grandad fought his war.

A visit to the Somme 1916 museum in Albert is highly recommended, although ours was enriched by a group of British Primary schoolkids who were a credit to their parents and teachers but spoiled or at least overshadowed by a group of French teenagers accompanied by a thoroughly disinterested teacher whose behaviour was atrocious to say the least.

I'm glad I read "Catastrophe" by Sir Max Hastings and I'd recommend that, too.

A salutary day. 

From Prawn to be Wild to Jazz

Christmas Day 2003 was a great day after a hesitant start. Awaiting my unwrapping skills was a box and a card. The card was a year's subscription to "Bike" and in the box was this mug. "Prawn to be Wild."  I was not a happy teddy.

"Look in the mug, dad" I was instructed.

2003 had been, and remains my annus horribilis. A quarter century working with like minds, similar attitudes and independent characters had been as much a joy as work can be but during 2003 they all went their ways and newly reorganised management decided that targets were no longer aspirational. Thus the joy of working with conviction gave way to the despair of working to meet managerially connived targets which had little relevance to those of us at the sharp edge of confrontation and thus began the bad years of powerlessness, pointlessness and pension securing drudgery.

For almost decade previously I had endured motorcycle emptiness, occasional rides on friends machines and having Yamaha Townmates (akin to Trigger's broom) does not really qualify as having a bike. However, after my left shoulder took out the windscreen of a Rover 216 as my pelvis simultaneously destroyed the A pillar followed milliseconds later my left knee going through the drivers window I was reliably informed that I was not having another bike.

In the mug was a note, "If I can have a new kitchen you can have a new bike." Did I feel humbled? Yup. Had I been that miserable? Obviously. Was it worth it? Oh, yes! Probably.

For the first Boxing Day (and the last) we went shopping. I found an interest in all things "kitchen," volunteered to do some of the work myself and spent every available moment investigating bikes.

It's not like I didn't know bikes, I'd always seemed to have one, two or.... A Suzuki GT380 tried to kill me before I had a license, a RD almost succeeded in scaring me to death and a Yamaha 125 AS3 saw me get my knee down and not follow it with the rest of me. A Superdream bored me, a TS90 took me everywhere and brought me back, a GS250 carried my bulk for over 50k miles finally ending up bent with bits strewn over a road junction. It now hangs from a RSJ not a million miles from where I am typing, in a workshop for which I once had responsibility. Good days.
 
Lurking on UKRM I noted that whenever anyone asked for advice about a new bike the answer was always "Gixxer thou" so I tried one. I'd ridden a Fireblade and felt that the bike was better than me but I felt that it was mostly benign, the GSXR 1000 was a malicious beast. Awesome but not for me. I took a Hornet over Dartmoor and loved it but almost ran the tank dry and wondered why it seemed to be such hard work. Then a SV1000 that seemed inordinately heavy but I loved the torque and thus a SV650 it was. I went to Bridge with the folding stuff in my pocket as they told me that they had a new one in blue. Unfortunately it turned out to be a K3 with an oil leak. I was told (seriously) that it was chain oil and it was to be expected. It wasn't chain oil and you shouldn't expect to see oil under a bike unless it's old and British.

A phone call to Crescent Suzuki and on 8th of April 2004 the bike arrived.

A not too swift ride 120 miles west for a maternally made pasty and back then a jaunt over Dartmoor followed by a bimble over Exmoor and it was time to go to Verwood for the first service. It rained. This was the first wet ride. They were so sorry for me in my Musto apparel and yellow wellies that whilst waiting they sorted me out with a full set of Belstaff gear and a pair of Frank Thomas's finest boots.

My gratitude to Crescent was as immense as the discount they afforded me and suitably immunised from the weather the ride home was almost pleasant.

The opportunity to do a Police organised returning to biking course was the second wet ride. Meeting at Westpoint on a wet Saturday fully expecting abandonment the policeman duly observed my St.Piran flags and Belstaff suit and said, "We Cornishmen don't mind the weather, do we? We'll meet at Axminster station, keep up if you can, overtake me if you dare but observe all the speed limits." He was from Camborne. Good chap nonetheless.

Overtake? I couldn't see him to keep up with but eventually met him at the meeting point. "This time," he said "I'll let you stay with me and follow my lines, exactly. You may find duct tape on your wrists will stop your hands getting wet." I did.  A great day out and if they still do them the course was a hoot and I learned rather too much, far more than I expected. Chastened.

On the worst of the bad days getting home from work, getting the gear on and within seconds the total concentration on the road ahead drove all the days angst out and sanity reigned for a while.

Umpteen figures of eight over Dartmoor via Moretonhampstead crossing over at Two Bridges Hotel, westwards over Gunnislake bridge and eastwards over The Tamar bridge just because bikes go free and back via Yelverton became a favourite as did The Exe Valley, the toe of a Frank Thomas boot in the Exe, a ride up the Exe Valley past Dunkery Beacon and wetting the boot in the Bristol Channel at Porlock was just wonderful. Early season evening rides to Lyme became the first sign of spring. Fortunate.

The summer of 2004 saw my father in law in hospital 120 miles eastwards and my mum in hospital 100 miles westwards so the miles accumulated and Crescent saw me for another service but after that I did my own, until last month when the thought of selling it was becoming more fixed. Mum survived that time, sadly my father in law didn't.

Mum had a kidney removed on 16th August 2004. I left here at just after 1130, by Okehampton there was rain, not a lot but ahead someone had drawn along the horizon with a black marker. I had taped my boots and wrist with gaffer tape because the forecast was not good but no one said it was going to be like that. At 1300(ish) I was under a bridge on the A30 just before the A38 joins. I stopped because the rain was hurting. The cars were hammering along and exited and re entered the two curtains of water pouring over each side of the roadway above. I was a bit apprehensive but needs must so I did. To this day I can't see how but the Camborne by pass dip had so much water at the bottom that I had to walk the bike through with a bit of throttle as it was knee deep and more.

At Hayle I stopped at the garage to fill up and a police motorcyclist came alongside. "It wasn't me," I said, he smiled and I said "it's just as well you have the gear." He unzipped his leathers and was utterly sodden. "How far are you going," he asked. I told him, he offered to lead and let me follow. A couple of miles up the road at St.Erth someone had drawn a line in the road and the sun was shining. We stopped, burst out laughing and said our goodbyes. Wish I'd met him at Okehampton.

20 minutes later, on Dad's front door step looking east there was the same black horizon I'd seen earlier. I boiled the kettle, put the news on and it was all about Boscastle being washed away. The third and last time the bike was out in the rain. By1600 for the drive to hospital it was a blazing summer's day.

Mum had another four years - and seven years ago, in this week when I finally decided to sell the SV, she passed away. She'd have been happy because she never did like me riding motor bikes. Fortunately, she blamed her brother. In her last days we had one of "those" phone calls and I must say the SV performed wonderfully and I still don't know how I managed to ride it like that. When I arrived at her bedside sweating in the Belstaff sauna, clumping along in boots with a Shoei and gloves under my arm and all she said was "My, come on your bike have you? I wish you wouldn't ride motor bikes," I was glad I did. My uncle, who first put me on a motor bike laughed. Worth it just for that.


Each year since the miles have decreased and since they've been putting previous mileages on MOT certificates you can't hide the reality.

So, herewith one Suzuki SV650 K4, for sale.
One owner from new.
Delivered 8th April 2004.
11336 miles
£2000
addenuff@gmail.com

Genuine SV gel seat, original included.


HEL Performance brake lines fitted, original lines went to HEL to sort their K3/K4 fitting issues.
Original banjo bolts included.

Thanks to one AG, proprietor of NSR-World.com. Cheers, Andy.

 All paperwork, MOTs, service records, spare keys included

MOT till April 2016
Serviced at last MOT.

Been caught in rain on three occasions, incriminatingly photographed once.

Close to mint.

Abba stands, front and rear,
Oxford panniers and unused no name tank bag available.



 

 

 Hugger, Scottoiler fitted from new.
Original chain guard unused included along with the original banjo bolts and washers.

 

11336 miles when this was taken, 19th May 2015

 

Chicken strips to be ashamed of. The previous set of Metzlers didn't look like this apart from when they were new. I felt sorry for the elephants. No more. The way I ride now these will last a lifetime.

HEL brake lines with alloy bracket that was going to be the pattern from which I was going to shape a piece carbon. Another thing I never did. Nice rim tape, though, eh? I made them with AutoCAD and a vinyl cutter. I have spares you can have but I'd need reminding. I probably have the .dxf files on a tape somewhere. They'd peel off quite easily I expect. Ask me if I have any Bike Paint.co.uk touch up paint. I have, on a shelf in the garage. Buy the bike and it's yours. It may be all dried up, I suppose.


Scottoiler and J-cloths. Not because the reservoir leaks but because I used to keep a camera in there. Note that the tank prop is still there. The tool kit is present and unmolested as well.

I recently fitted a new battery, albeit a tad prematurely so the old one is available if required.
 

 Security included.













Last Boxing Day my Dad announced "Here's the keys to the Jazz, do with it what you like, my driving days are done."

We all sighed with relief but ended up with the Jazz. Another one. This was the first unignorable sign that it was time to consider selling the SV. In the back of my mind I'd justified keeping it in case there's ever another one of "those" phone calls. Now without a car in his garage going home to see him on the bike was pointless as I couldn't very well strap a crash helmet on him and take him wherever he needed to go, could I? Besides, this bike has only carried a pillion once and she said never again. I have photos, though.

Thus there are two Jazz's, both once owned by Dad on our drive so I'll have to sell one soon, I guess.

From Prawn to be Wild to Jazz, a wonderful journey that's kept me as sane as I needed to be but now that work is what I choose or am instructed to do by my managerial organiser I owe it to her to sell it. After all, last year she let me dispense with the Raleigh Banana and buy a Specialized something on which I've done far more miles than on the SV in that period and when the MOT man laughed at my Townmate last August she let me replace it with an Innova 125.

Can't complain.
Life's wonderful.

FOR SALE: Suzuki SV650 K4

One owner, me.
Bought Crescent Suzuki April 2004.

Hugger, Scottoiler fitted from new.
Original chain guard unused included

Genuine SV gel seat, original included.






HEL Performance brake lines fitted, original lines went to HEL to sort their K3/K4 fitting issues.
Original banjo bolts included.



Abba stands, front and rear.
Oxford panniers and unused no name tank bag available.

All paperwork, service records spare keys included.

Groundchain, security cable and Kryptonite lock included.

MOT till April 2016
Serviced at last MOT
New battery, a tad premature so the old one is available if required.



Been caught in rain on three occasions, incriminatingly photographed once.

Close to mint.

Still under 12,000 miles
£2000.
Contact: addenuff@gmail.com

East Devon.

Chocolat

Monday morning.
Bright, sunny, bit of cumulus here and there
North easterly, right into the balcony, a joile brise, as they'd say up north.
Never been here in a NEly before.
A proper change of direction and thoughts of Chocolat. Not the brown stuff but the film.
Time for a change.
Time to make a move.
Time to go home.

No shopping to do bar a card for "Loli" and some flowers to leave on the table but that's for tomorrow. Just slung the last of the fridge fodder in the frying pan, half a bottle of tomato frito, a drop of red and simmered it for a while. Leave if for a few hours to develop or whatever it is that food does. Another variation on the slop my spectacle providing sister showed me years ago. No chili sauce, though.
All that's left to do is the spaghetti tonight and that's the cooking finished.

Wandering aimlessly about town, apart from card shopping, where the farmacia signs were pretty much agreed on 14 we thought of ending our sojourn with a full on sit down restaurant meal tomorrow night.

Down along the prom there are various restaurants, none of the local ones open in the evenings yet and the others seem to display north European languages and photos of their offerings. It is a principle that we only rarely dispense with that if a restaurant needs photos of their food we'll pass. Besides, buergeurs, one of umpteen spellings on a board with bingo and beer is not really our sort of place for a last night out.

Exactly what we were looking for

There is an Italian which we thought of last year (but ended up in Alicante instead) which we considered as our only option. Mainly because it is.

Tuesday Closed for rest

We made our way there, hesitated at the market as it has a kind of magnetism that is hard to resist, and consulted the menu behind a glass screen.

Offerings, excellent, price, reasonable, opening times, convenient.

Hang on, Lunes, Mericoles, Jeuves, Viernes, Sabbado, Domingo. Where's Martes?

North easterly winds of change.
Yup, time to go.

Flashing blades, lasers and an optimist, or two....

An incomplete Sunday, not a bad one, though.

I had breakfast on the balcony and watched carefully but she didn't show up.
I drank my freshly squeezed orange on the balcony and watched carefully, camera ready but she didn't show up.
I had my morning coffees on the balcony and watched carefully but she didn't show up.
We paddled the whole length of the beach and back but the surfer dudette didn't show up.

She must have been aware that there was more surf this Sunday than on any of the others that she's been here for as this photo proves. It might not be much but it looks good.

However, it was a no show and it may have been my fault as I must confess that in view of the deserted seafront and glorious sunshine I was taking breakfast in my boxers before the fact was pointed out to me causing a most undignified rush for the shorts.

However, the paddle was undertaken by the pair of us along the whole length of a pretty much deserted beach. The return leg was shared by a few anglers, kids and adults, a very serious looking hiker lady and one or two joggers who were obviously late.

It was so quiet that as we approached Club Nautic the only noise heard above the gently moving surf  and sand was the high pitched babble emanating from excited and enthusiastic youngsters in lasers, kayaks and optimists.
Exactly as it ought to be.
I do hope that they realise what they've got here.

We still have to keep reminding ourselves that it is February. 

This time next week the shorts will be in their drawer and unlikely to see the light of day till May, or June. Can't complain, I suppose.

Bet I will, though.

Mind games

Sometimes you just know something's not right.

Last night late, well, an hour later than in UK I watched the rugby. The trouble is that nowadays we have a very, very close association with that Principality and yet, I'm sorry, but I was so pleased with the result. I'd have been pleased whoever was playing as long as them what lost last night lost again.

It still didn't feel right, though. Not enough to feel any sorrow or guilt, it was the right result and had the referee enough courage to go with his first decision it would have been even better. He was French though, so what else would you expect?

It wasn't until crossing the road barefoot in shirt sleeves and shorts to paddle the length of the beach and back that the "wrongness" of it all became clear. I associate the internationals with cold, wet and wind. Every time I've watched them the most important preparations to make have been to fill the coal bucket and stack some wood so that all is ready. Watching last night with a balcony door ajar listening to the gentle wash of water on sand just wasn't right.

Paddling along a beach for an hour or two before another match taking place a few miles east of us in the rain seems very strange indeed. Inevitable result, I guess but another match is about to start and I'm not really bothered about the result as there's drop of white to finish and a bottle of red to open. Opened.

Paddling along the beach late this morning the big Guardia Civil boat came along and began exercising with her rib, a bit of pacing but ever so slowly, then a bit of towing, again not in any haste, but one of the thoughts I had whilst watching was that with weather as nice as this why would you bother employing haste?

I seem to remember doing exercises like that but it was always dark, cold, wet, windy and even when it was daylight it wasn't like this.

The other thought I had was this.

Would I ever cheer for the principality? Could I do it?

I concluded that if the World Cup Final was being played by them against Argentina then I might.

Unless the RFU decided to present the cup to the winners and invited Andy Willman and the Top Gear team to do the presentation. Then I'd root for the Argentines. You'd have to, wouldn't you?

Perhaps they would make commemorative scarves with H982FKL accidentally emblazoned on them.

I bet the scarf makers would earn a fortune.
Probably wouldn't go down too well on the other side of the bridge, though.

Best time of day

If  you're a jogger then  first thing in the morning before non joggers are up is best. After this you may get noticed and I can't imaging that's much fun, eh?

For some of us mornings are the times when one's consciousness gradually becomes self aware in direct proportion to the decency of the coffee available. At home the Gaggia and La Pavoni grinder ensure a reasonably swift transition twixt unconsciousness and alive if not alert. Here we have some half decent coffee, already ground and vacuum packed which is filtered and although it's rather nice it doesn't deliver the kick that the real thing does.

However, no worries. I can do shoppering and carry bags without totally being aware of my actions, as long as I do what I'm told it's OK. By lunchtime I'm there, the next few hours of the day are as good as it's likely to get which is very appropriate as the fleet returns between 1500 and 1700. This year with an iPad AIS has given a heads up and the binoculars on the balcony confirm the imminent arrivals so the walk down the harbour is timed to perfection. Always. Good, eh?

Friday sees the fleet's arrival earlier than weekdays as once landed they wash down properly. Fairy liquid liberally spread, deckwashes pushing all the bits through the scuppers, well used brooms doing the gantry, wheelhouse and anything higher than an arm's stretch and buckets of soapy water and rags doing the hull down to the waterline. Like I said a proper washdown.

Much good natured cranting about is in evidence and although I don't understand a word apart from when they don't like to see foreigners around, it's not difficult to understand the gist of what's going on.

Today they came alongside in dribs and drabs. There  was nowhere near as much fish as "usual" and I did my best to look sorry and empathise but I probably didn't try as hard as I might .



Being left alone I was able to watch to my heart's content, loiter with no intent whatsoever and just watch and take photos.

Last year I had a proper camera with me and every time I lifted it to my eye it was made clear to me that I oughtn't do that. No words but backs turned, young deck hands with deckwash hoses hesitating in their traverse of the deck they were washing and adjacent shoulders closing. With this new gem of a camera no one seems to notice and when they do they smile and one today showed off his t-shirt with an English slogan emblazoned across it. I think it had been worn for a while.

Good natured tolerance of this foreigner with the inane smile was gratefully acknowledged as best it could be with a wave here, a nod there, a gracias, a hola buenos tardes help too. I wish I knew what "any chance of a trip?" is in Spanish. Too late now, though.

Once alongside the gear is stowed and the fish sorted. They all sit aft around the pile of fish and sorting begins. One or two arrange the boxes and stop the octopus escaping, re-sort fish that end up in the wrong box.

It doesn't take long as most of these boats have seven or eight hands and they don't gut any of the catch. Of course, a tribe of "old blokes" leave the net mending to come along to watch, sit and yarn as they too lend a hand. Lots of octopus chasing does have it's amusing moments.

When I was a kid we caught monk and some you could put a two gallon bucket in their mouth. They land monk here that could be put comfortably in a Swan Vesta box.

This photo shows the start of sorting, crabs you would put back in the mulley pool and look at the monk who's tail overhangs the deckwash hose! That's not a small one by these standards, either.

In no time at all these boxes are full and eventually 20-30 are put ashore and taken on a trolley to the market into which I can not go. I have tried and failed without a word being spoken.

Last week there would have been 30-50 boxes, maybe many more especially from the bigger 25m boats, next week there probably will be again but for now the landings are down by 30% according to the local paper and the fishermen have lost over €500 a boat since the "storms" of last week. I jest not, the local (English translation) paper says so.

I do try to feel sorry, really, I do but there's no tide so they work office hours, they have shelter decks but it's mostly a shelter from sunshine and if last week's "storm" was enough to keep them in last Friday and Monday (they stay ashore Saturday and Sunday anyway) I'd worry if any of them ever seen some of the poor weather that get's worked in from Brixham, Newlyn or anywhere else above 50⁰N. Even the Frenchmen know about poor weather and I guess that these men do as well.

It's just relative values of "poor" isn't it?

Come Wednesday and we'll know all about poor weather again, too.
Not many more glasses on the balcony I'm afraid.

Can't wait.


Couldn't ever have taken these with my Canon, though. So chuffed with the new camera, just don't mention batteries .....