tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62923227572839641752024-03-14T12:35:29.983+00:00Wild Hareszanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-31875301658864197612024-02-08T10:31:00.003+00:002024-02-08T12:37:15.595+00:00<p><span style="font-size: large;"> <br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">MERCURY</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">(Hg, Atomic # 80)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Cyborg</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I knew there was something out there, because I heard the crack of twigs breaking underfoot. It could have been a bear of course, or a moose: some large animal of some kind. In fact the birds were taking little notice. There were some Lincoln’s sparrows lining a branch which would have flown away if a man was out there. So I took my old Steinschiesser rifle, opened the door to the cabin and stood there, staring out into the unravelling dawn.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Lay down, girl,’ I said to my collie, ‘Stay, stay.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Frankie did as she was told. She remained just inside the cabin doorway, looking out towards the distant peaks with those large liquid brown eyes, alert but not showing any anxiety. There was no sound from her either, which made me even more puzzled about the identification of my visitor. If it was a man, bear or wolf out there, Frankie would have smelled it and would be growling low and steadily. Maybe, I thought, it was just a moose or a caribou, something fairly harmless?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I am not a happy killer of beasts. I feel the animals are just as entitled as I am to share what’s left of the outdoors. However, I didn’t want to get injured out of stupidity either. I let out a loud, ‘HEY!’ to scare away any timid creature and hoped that if it was a belligerent grizzly then it too might decide not to come any nearer. The sound of the twigs breaking stopped for a few seconds and then continued as if the walker had decided it was not in any danger.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The shape of a man then emerged from the line of pines. It was a fine morning, around 15 Celsius, and the sun was directly behind the person walking, or rather stumping, towards me. He was big, well-built by his stature, and came at a slow but determined pace.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘That’s far enough,’ I called, raising the rifle level with the ground, but not right up to my shoulder. ‘What the hell do you want? This is private land.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It wasn’t that private, it was a gold mine a few dozen miles from the conflux of Klondike-Yukon rivers. People were entitled to walk through the land on which my claim stood, but I wasn’t about to split hairs. We prospectors are very jealous of our mining rights. I wasn’t going to let some stranger nose around to see if I had a good spot. Even in these times, far from the rush and scramble of 1899, there were those who would rob you of your findings.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There was no answer from the figure, who then stepped out into a clear area of direct sunlight and thus I could see it was actually not a man or a woman. At first I thought it might be a robot, but then it seemed too well human-formed for that. A cyborg, then.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">The rays of the sun glinted on his bio-plastic shoulders and I observed quite plainly its electric-ink eyes. There was a look of distress about the thing, even though I had been told cyborgs don’t feel emotion, not in the way real humans do.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Just stop there, where you’re standing,’ I warned. ‘Who do you belong to? Where’s your owner?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The cyborg halted and gestured with his palms.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Dead. Mr Spalding’s dead.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Spalding?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Yes, I am lucky not to be dead like him. The aircar crashed. I was thrown clear.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Anyone else on board?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘No, only the two us.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was a mute point whether a machine could be considered ‘dead’ but I let that one pass. The cyborg in front of me remained standing, still staring at me with those weird electric-ink eyes. No matter how long these devices have been part of our lives, I was still uncomfortable in a one-to-one conversation with anything unhuman.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I remembered now about a news item I had heard. The name Turnbull-Spalding rang a bell. Search-and-Rescue had found the body of the businessman, homing in on an emergency signal from the aircar. What I recalled though was that the vehicle was found intact, which didn’t fit with this cyborg’s story exactly. However, I didn’t want to go into any interrogation mode. I wanted to get rid of the intruder and get back to work. Summers were short here.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Well, no need to tarry here – what’s the name they gave you?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Cicero.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘No need to tarry here, Cicero. You can go on to Dawson. It’s less than a hundred miles down the track. You can walk it, easily.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘I – I need succour. I won’t make it, otherwise.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘What kind of succour does a cyborg need?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘My bio-plastics and electronics need stimulating.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I raised my eyebrows. ‘How long have been wandering around in the wilderness?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Over a month. I had a survival, pack with me, but it ran out two weeks ago.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I studied my visitor for a while, then motioned with the rifle towards an outhouse where I kept my fuel logs.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘See that tree stump over by the shed? You go and sit on that. What do you need for your electrics?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Mercury. Not too much. Just enough to excite and revive the synapses I rely on to keep refreshed. Do you have anything like an antique thermometer, or barometer? You’d have to break it though.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘I’ll see what I can do. Now you just trot on over to that stump. I want to see you sitting still.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Cicero did as he was told, though he hardly trotted. He clumped over the spot and sat down. Each movement seemed to be laboured. Clearly his system was not in good shape. I’m no bio-engineer, so I couldn’t tell whether he was close to seizing up. He could of course be faking it, but again, I couldn’t see what there was for him to gain by doing so. If there was someone in the woods, managing him in the hope of robbing me, they would be disappointed. My claim produces enough gold to keep me in supplies and maybe a few small luxuries, but it doesn’t yield riches.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I went inside, stepping over Frankie, who then followed me into the depths of the cabin.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After I had provided the Cicero with what he wanted, the cyborg brightened up a little and said, ‘I hope you didn’t have to destroy anything to obtain the mercury? I was so desperate for succour I could have licked the back of a mirror.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That sounded very like a joke, which surprised me. I wondered how close this cyborg was to thinking like a human. Probably he had heard a human use the phrase when imitating a cyborg. I had been told comedians mimicked everything that moved in their stand up shows.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘No,’ I replied. ‘No damage to anything. Now, are you on your way?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘This Dawson, is it a large city?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘No, pretty small as cities go.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Describe it to me.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was getting just a tad impatient with this machine.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘It’s mostly wooden buildings - saloons, hotels, shops with false wooden fronts, all based on the originals from the late 1890s gold rush. The streets aren’t metalled, they’re still dust, but there’re boardwalks and . . . look, it’s a tourist town. You can buy mammoth bones and gewgaws – even gold nuggets – but there’re no cyborgs there to keep you company, which I think is what you’re asking me. This is still the wilderness out here, thank God, and I personally don’t give a damn about the rest of the world. Now are you going to get off your plastic backside and go on your way?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Cicero turned his gaze on me. ‘No, I think I’ll stay with you.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I frowned. ‘You’re not invited.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Nevertheless, I shall stay.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I hadn’t expected this. I wasn’t that knowledgeable about cyborgs, but I understood they did what you told them to do. Of course, I was not the master of this one. He was very big and no doubt immensely strong. I was left wondering what choices I had. I couldn’t actually force him to leave, if he remained stubborn. I could indeed call the authorities to have him removed by force, but that would mean my short summer interrupted by a bunch of outsiders. I didn’t like outsiders. They tended to ask a lot of stupid questions and hang around longer than you wanted them to.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘If you stay here, it’ll be outside my cabin. You can’t enter, you realise that. If you do, I shall have to shoot you.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘With that old weapon I saw?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘It might be old, but it’s powerful enough to make goddamn mess of your circuits.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He nodded, sagely. ‘This is true. I shall remain without.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Outside.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘That’s what I meant.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I called Frankie, who came trotting to my side.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘See here, Frankie and me, we don’t like strangers. You’re a stranger. Not just that, you’re a foreigner, because I see by that plate on your shoulder you were put together in Japan. Moreover, you’re not even a human. You’re a damn cyborg and no one would blink an eye if I shot you to pieces. I hope you understand me?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Cybernetic organism.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘You what?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘I don’t refer to you as a homosap. You are a homo sapiens sapiens. I think it would be good etiquette to refer to me by my full title.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Fuck you, you heap of junk,’ I growled, ‘and strode back to the cabin, with Frankie at my heels. ‘Etiquette?’ I said to Frankie, once we were inside. ‘Fucking etiquette?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I could tell by Frankie’s look that she agreed with me.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For the next few days I got on with my work, which is artisanal mining for small amounts of gold. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">The way it works is this. You search the hills and valleys of the wilderness for alluvial deposits with gold in them – naturally, that’s the hardest part – then when you find a likely source you mix those deposits with mercury which allows the gold and mercury to form an amalgam – gold is easily amalgamated with mercury, though I don’t know why – then you heat the mercury until it evaporates and that leaves the gold behind to be scraped up, or ladled up, depending on how lucky you are with the amount of gold in the ground you’re working. This method of extracting the precious heavy yellow metal is used by many, many small-time miners all over the world.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">I really don’t know how I came to live out here in the middle of nowhere, where the winters are killers and the summers full of wild animals like grizzlies, wolves and more recently even cougars which have drifted north-west to the Yukon from Saskatchewan. I had a wife once, but after she died all the ambition went out of me, to be replaced with a yearning to be away from civilization. Once I’d let the forests and mountains into my heart, there was no getting rid of them. I shall stay here until I either die or they come and get me, and take me to a place where I can jabber along with other seniles.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Prospecting was a good excuse for coming here. It’s not the gold that brought me here, it was something else, something intangible and without a name. The poet Robert Service knew what he was talking about when he wrote, ‘ . . . it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting, so much as finding the gold.’ What I think he meant was, the interesting part is the looking for the gold in a place where stillness is the precious commodity and the forests hold the beauty. Once you’ve found gold, that’s okay too, but it doesn’t fill you with euphoria. In fact at first there’s a falling off in one’s emotions, a sort of sadness about it all. Then you realise, all right, it’s fine. I can take this stuff out of the ground and it’ll provide me with enough to keep me here.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">The next morning, after a breakfast of sourdough bread and some cheese, and coffee of course, I went out with Frankie at my heels and strolled down to my claim at the bottom of the slope. I deliberately did not look towards the outhouse in case the cyborg was still there. I expected him to be gone, walking the track and forest path to Dawson.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the middle of the day I went back, and groaned, seeing Cicero standing outside the cabin watching for my return. I ignored him and went into my cabin, to see if he had been inside. However, nothing appeared to have been disturbed. I settled down to continue carving a model of a bear out of a wapiti bone. I sold such scrimshaws to shopkeeper in Dawson for a pittance. A man must keep his hands and mind busy if he’s to stay sane. Later I went back to my hut at the claim to extract the gold from the earth deposits. The result was much as expected. I was never going to be a rich man, but things were jogging along and I didn’t foresee any changes looming.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">For three weeks I managed to keep the cyborg at bay. I couldn’t imagine what was going on in that head of his? Did his circuits have the capability of producing a state of boredom? Could he just switch off all his power, allow himself to slip into a state of dormancy, while he waited for me to crack? How much of him was human and how much machine? Did he have a real heart or brain, or were they manufactured synthetically? – no doubt that parts of him were real in the sense that they were organic, but not from the chest or head of a human. Maybe his organic bits came from an animal, like a pig or a cow? Which begged the question, did pigs and cows have emotions, dreams, desires? Hell, I could go on forever surmising this and that. I was no philosopher either.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Perhaps he was able to stand there like an old steam engine and simply let the elements bring him to his knees? Or maybe, just maybe, he was fuming inside – angry, bitter – and was a spark away from felling me with one of those large iron fists?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">It all came to a head one morning down at the claim. I had just finished shovelling grit and stones into a barrow, when I heard loud snorting sound quite close by. When I looked up, there was a blond grizzly just a hundred metres away. It was coming straight for me and it looked mad for some reason. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">My rifle was twenty metres away. Frankie went down on her haunches, her hackles came up and she began barking and snarling at the oncoming beast. There was no use fleeing. You can no more outrun a bear than you can a horse. It never fails to surprise me how big these guys are. This one was over two metres tall on his hind legs and he must have weighed six-hundred pounds. I tipped the gavel out of the barrow and held it up on its wheel in front of me, using it as a shield. No barrow was going to stop this bear though. It’s eyes were blazing with wrath and I knew one swipe would send my makeshift shield flying away from me. My legs went weak with fear and I have to say I wet myself. I was a dead man, I was absolutely sure.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then suddenly, out of the treeline a figure came loping to intervene between me and the beast. It was Cicero, who placed himself squarely in front of me and when the bear reached him, he struck it with his fist on the snout. The bear squealed in pain and swung a great paw full of claws at the cyborg. Cicero however had planted himself firmly in the damp mast of the forest floor and though the jolt rocked him, he did not go down. He struck again, a mighty blow to the side of the bear’s head. The creature whined again and this time shook itself, turned, dropped on all fours, and galloped from the scene. I was left with very wet underwear and a sense of relief that almost made me wilt in my shoes.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Thank you,’ I croaked, when I could speak. ‘You saved my life.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Perhaps,’ replied Cicero, turning those electric-ink eyes onto me. ‘One never knows, though. He might have halted at the last moment.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘I doubt it.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Yes, I too doubt it. And now you smell of urine.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Ah, that, yes, too much coffee. It’s a diuretic.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘A diuretic. That would explain it,’ said Cicero, his features giving nothing away.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That night I let Cicero into the cabin, though having thought over the incident in the day I wondered why the bear had attacked me. There were no cubs to be seen and the beast had come to me, rather than me surprising it on the trail. Also, the cyborg had been very quickly on the scene given that the cabin was a good way away. It was difficult not to come to the conclusion that Cicero had engineered the whole episode.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Do you want any mercury?’ I asked him, as Frankie, lay dutifully on the rug, glaring up at the cyborg. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yes, a small cupful would be excellent, thank you.’ He looked down at Frankie, adding, ‘I don’t think your hound likes me.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘She’s not used to strangers, that’s all. And she gets jealous whenever I talk with someone else. She expects to be the centre of my world – and in a way, she is.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Will she bite me? It will hurt her teeth.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘No, she’s not stupid.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A cupful of mercury. That was a lot. That first time, I had given Cicero a much smaller quantity. However, he had been standing out in the open for nearly a month now. Maybe his circuitry was corroding? How was I to know? I didn’t even know how he got the stuff inside him. Anyway, once I had eaten and was imbibing of a whisky or two, we got to talking. He asked me about Dawson and how a city came to be out here in the wilderness. I explained about the 1899 gold rush, how thousands got the fever and flooded north up the trails and rivers, many of them dying on the way.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘There were clerks who had worked in banks, schoolteachers, lords from England, schoolboys still with their caps and blazers on, train drivers, coal miners, rogues and tramps, even Indians – you name it, once they got the fever they walked out of their homes and jobs, and came north towards Alaska hoping to make themselves rich. Some of them did, but mostly it was the saloon owners, the brothels, the hardware stores, the boat builders – these were they who made their fortunes. It wasn’t as exciting of course, to be selling goods and wares, rather than to be out there seeking gold, but people’s priorities are different. Those who came seeking gold were also seeking adventure. You don’t find adventure in a hardware store, but you do get steadily richer if the time and place are right.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Fascinating. And only two centuries ago?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Indeed.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘But what about law and order? Surely it was chaos? I know humans well enough to realise that when there are crowds, or mobs of them, and they get that excited, especially where money is concerned, there can be violence and mayhem.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘This is sadly true, but there were the Mounties, that’s the Mounted Police, up here to keep order. Not many, that’s a fact, but they were commanded by a sergeant called Steel. Sergeant Steel. Sounds as if I’m making the name up, doesn’t it? But I’m not. Sergeant Steel was police, judge, jury and prison warden all rolled into one. Happily, he was a fair man, but hard as iron. An iron man with the name Steel. Could be one of your lot. A robot.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Cicero stiffened in his chair and exhibited annoyance. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘I am not a robot. Robots are simply machines. Yes, I am a device of sorts, but I have organic materials, which place me above robots. My status is superior to a common collection of metals.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Whoa. Touched a nerve there. So this cyborg did have emotions of a sort. Indignation and anger, plus a sensitivity to his correct place on the chain of being. Well, that was a little eye-opener for me. I would have to watch my tongue in future. He was after all a powerful device. One blow of his fist would crush my skull.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Okay,’ I continue, ‘I accept that. But on the theme of Sergeant Steel, he was completely incorruptible man in a place where gold ruled the hearts and minds of most other men. The stories of him are legend. He wanted none of the unlawful miner’s courts that had held sway in the California gold stampede of 1849, where men were lynched for very little and the gun was law. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘When he first laid down his rules Sergeant Steel jailed a miner for hanging out his washing on a Sunday, a day which in that era people considered it necessary to keep holy. Bylaws were in place in many towns and cities to make sure it damn well was. Don’t ask me why. When someone asked him quietly, why such a harsh sentence for a little infringement? Why not a fine? Steel replied “If I imprison a man for hanging out his washing, it gives them cause to wonder what sort of sentence they’ll get for a major crime.” </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘In another case, he fined a miner a thousand dollars for a misdemeanour. The convicted man, who owned a successful claim that produced gold, simply laughed and said, “I don’t mind, sergeant. I’ve got that in my right-hand pocket, as we speak.” And Sergeant Steel immediately came back with, ‘. . . and six months in the stockade. Maybe you’ve got that in your left-hand pocket?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘They say that when he gave his opening public speech to the would-be prospectors, shopkeepers, gamblers, bawdy house people, he didn’t want to crease his starched uniform and was carried out by four of his men and planted on the platform.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">After his ingestion of mercury, Cicero’s eyes, indeed his whole face, glowed. He looked more ‘alive’ than I’d ever seen him.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Sergeant Steel sounds a very interesting person. These days the policing is mostly done by cyborgs like myself. However, they don’t have the same powers this man seemed to have.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘It was all due to being out here in the wilderness – you can get away with such informalities when the stiff collars are thousands of miles away. You seem to like that stuff, the quicksilver? It does you good, eh?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Quicksilver! What a beautiful name for it. You mean, the mercury.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Yes, I mean the mercury.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Well, it’s the same to me as that stuff you carry in that leather bag on a string around your neck.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">He pointed to my small pouch of starter yeast for my sourdough bread. I touched the pouch. ‘How did you know about this?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘I’ve seen you through the window. You use it when you make your food. Is it precious?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘It is to me, and any other miner who gets locked in a cabin for the winter. It’s a live fungus that helps to leaven my bread.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Live? Oh, that word. It makes me so envious. Even a bit of clay-like substance can call itself “live” – while I? I am a concoction of bits of metal and biological plasti-tissue. Yet I, who can play chess, do calculus, ride a bike, climb mountains, punch bears on the nose, cannot. I am not permitted to call myself “live”, though I am more alive than many organisms made of tissue, blood and bone.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Cicero sounded deeply bitter over what I would call merely a question of semantics.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Over the next few weeks, Cicero made himself useful. He joined me at the claim and his muscle power – shovelling the Yukon into barrows and wheeling it to my furnace – proved that indeed he was more alive than those who claimed the word. He was no dunce either and we discussed many subjects, from art to politics, from literature to sport, from music to mountain climbing. His questions and answers were well-considered and I came to believe my own intellect inferior to his. Certainly he could argue most subjects without getting heated or emotional, which many humans find very difficult. He was a natural debater and could take either side of a subject and make you believe he was right in his assessment.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">One evening he asked me about gold mining in general. I told him there were still large companies who mined gold, but there remained, two hundred years after the last gold rush, several millions of solitary miners making a living at the prospecting and mining the dense yellow metal.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Not as many as at the beginning of this century,’ I told him, ‘when there were ten to fifteen million small-time miners in the world, many of them women with children. In those days, when there were fewer federations of states, over 70 countries were home to such miners. At that time, 15 percent of the world’s gold was produced by men like me, using mercury to form an amalgam with gold and then heating the mercury to make the separation.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Mercury,’ he murmured. ‘To me, that is the metal which is precious, not the gold.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Frankie had got used to Cicero’s voice now and she looked up because the tone had changed quite dramatically.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">I frowned. ‘Speaking of which, my stock of mercury is mysteriously low. You’ve been imbibing, haven’t you?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">He straightened in his chair, which he sat in only to be level with me when I sat in mine. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, I do take the odd dribble, to keep me primed. Have I been taking too much?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Well, I’ve never had to keep count before now, so I don’t know what too much is – however, we can go into Dawson tomorrow and buy a drum. I need to sell the gold we’ve taken out anyway. You can make enquiries there about what you should do, now your master has been killed in the accident. If you’re up for sale, I can purchase you. I’m not as poor as my circumstances imply. We should keep it legal.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Oh, you must go in alone,’ he came back at me. ‘I can’t go – and you must not mention me.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘And the reason for that?’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">He let out what would be the equivalent of a human sigh.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘I lied to you. There was no crash. I killed Mr Spalding.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">I sat there, stunned for a moment, then gathered my thoughts.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘You mean you killed him accident.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘No, I killed him on purpose. They will know I was on board the aircar. I’m sure there were cameras on the craft. Where can you go these days, without being imaged. They will have my imago.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Here,’ I said. ‘No cameras here.’ I shook my head in disappointment. ‘You murdered your master.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Cicero shook his head and the gesture was almost human.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Now we come to it. Semantics. According to the scientific label placed on cyborgs by your own race, I am not a living creature. I am a man-made device, closer to a robot than a human. Thus, not being human I cannot murder anyone. An animal like Frankie . . .’ she lifted her head at hearing her name and stared at Cicero ‘ . . . cannot murder. A rogue vacuum cleaner cannot commit murder. Only humans can murder each other. I did not belong to Mr Spalding, I belonged to his wife. She left him, so he set out to punish her by stealing me and then ordering me to leap from the aircar while we flew over a great lake. I refused the order. Mr Spalding tried to push me out, but I pushed him instead. He died on hitting the water. The aircar then began running out of power and automatically landed itself on the beach of the lake. I left it there and began my long walk.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">I hung my head and stared at the floor.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘I don’t know what to say or do.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Cicero replied, ‘Then do nothing. That seems to be the best option. You cannot be blamed for doing nothing.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘If not legally, morally . . .’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Morally, it is the same. I am a device, a machine. You can’t feel morally obliged to destroy a crane that’s fallen over and crushed someone. Morals only come into it, when dealing with another human.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">And so indeed, I did nothing. I left the next morning, taking Frankie with me. She liked going to town too. There were new smells there to be investigated and the chance of meeting other dogs to make friends with or fight. Dogs need to live interesting lives too. Once in Dawson, I sold my gold, bought provisions, including a drum of mercury, and returned without mentioning Cicero to anyone. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’m not sure I completely agreed with his arguments and I knew that there were plenty who would happily smash him to pieces for killing a man. As a race of beings we don’t always, in fact we rarely, do anything that makes sense. We kill each other in the hundred-thousands, yet we are often appalled by a single murder. Some of us amass huge fortunes we can never in ten lifetimes spend, yet leave others to starve in gutters. There are those of us who own houses with twenty bedrooms, while in the same town there are less fortunate people sleeping in the street. There is no sense to it all and indeed, Cicero’s arguments would convince no one I knew, especially those whose politics worked on an eye-for-an-eye principle.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, indeed I did nothing. We carried on as we had done for the whole summer, into an early autumn, then winter hit us hard. I began to notice that my new drum of mercury was going down quicker than expected. I tackled Cicero, during a game of cards one evening, knowing his craving was the culprit. I didn’t want to criticise too fiercely, since I was still a little wary of this unpredictable cyborg. Yes he had killed a man, but perhaps, just perhaps, he felt something akin to friendship for me, the human who had taken him in and given him a home. But friends had killed each other before now and Cicero did not seem to exhibit any remorse for his crime. He had never said anything or indicated in any way by his gestures that he felt guilty or sorrowful for having caused the death of Turnbull-Spalding.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Yes, I have been using more of the lovely quicksilver,’ he said. ‘Perhaps just a quarter of litre a day.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘A day?’ I cried.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Most likely just a quarter. Perhaps a little more.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">I really did have an addict on my hands. Locked in for the winter with junky! A cyborg who had killed his master.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Cicero, this can’t be good for you.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">He squirmed in his chair, making it creak.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘But it makes me feel so good. My synapses spark, vibrate, jangle even. My brain is much clearer after a good dose. I believe my judgement improves . . .’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Definitely an alcoholic, or whatever the term is for someone, something, addicted to quicksilver.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘You have to moderate your intake,’ I said, severely, as he fanned his cards with his nimble fingers. ‘That stuff is lethal to humans and I’m sure in small doses it might assist your system, but a litre every four days is not to be contemplated.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Gin!’ he yelled, laying down a run of seven diamonds. Frankie jumped out of a deep sleep and glared at us. ‘I win again.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was like talking to a child. I gave up for the evening, thinking I would have to tackle him again in the morning, or at least some time when he hadn’t just guzzled my precious mercury.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">A week later the temperature began to drop. The pair of us managed to get to the log pile a few metres from the cabin and we stacked up enough to last us four more days. Then one evening, just as we ran out of fuel, it fairly plummeted.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘We’re going to freeze,’ I grumbled. ‘I’m not going out there until the temperature rises.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘I’ll go out,’ replied Cicero. ‘You stay in here.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘It’s too damn cold out there, even for a cyborg.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">He let out that imitation laugh he had been practising: the cackle that annoyed the hell out of me.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘What? You think I’ll feel the bite of the wind? I’m 70 percent plastic and even my organic parts are melded with plastic. I’ll be fine.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">He was extremely animated this particular evening, his eyes burning like small suns. I guessed he’d been at the mercury again. I’m was certain he had increased the dose beyond his last confession of quarter of a litre a day. I was determined to put a stop to it and decided that while he was outside, I would check the level of the quicksilver in the drum. One thing Cicero would accept, was factual evidence. I was hoping to give him an amount which would alarm him, because like most addicts, he had probably deliberately not taken note of his usage. I needed to shock him into going back to the small dosages he actually needed to keep his circuits and connections in prime condition. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Cicero was now quite prized by me. We got on extremely well together and he helped pass the lonely days with a wit and cheerfulness I could not muster on my own. I had not realised how inward-looking, detached and narrow my life had been before he arrived. Since then I had revived the enquiring mind I had owned in my youth and actually cared that I lived through another Klondike winter. I found I could share memories again and much of the bitterness had dissipated. I needed Cicero. I couldn’t let him turn himself into some kind of junkie, if that was the right word for a cyborg addict. A junkie with a mercury-clogged mind, who would be a burden not just to himself, but also to Frankie and me.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Okay,’ I said. ‘You get the logs.’</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">I watched him go to the door and out into the silent frozen night, where the stars were so clear they looked close enough to touch. Firstly, I took the time to feed Frankie, who had been waiting patiently for her supper while the two bipeds played their usual evening game of cards. I have to admit I do forget her when I’m trying to beat that tin man at gin rummy.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Once I’d given Frankie the left-overs of my own supper, I went to the back of the cabin, where I kept the drum of mercury. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Opening the lid I was horrified to see that it was almost empty. Cicero must at that moment be sloshing around inside with liquid, silver metal. Then suddenly, staring down into that drum, a terrible thought struck me like a blow in the stomach. My brain must have been fogged by too many days locked in the cabin not to realise it sooner. I remembered now why I always brought the drum of mercury up from the shed on the site of the claim. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was because mercury freezes in very low temperatures.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">The freezing point of quicksilver is -38.83 Celcius.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Outside, in the yard where the Cicero had gone to collect logs, it was 40 degrees below.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">I ran back to the front room and tried to look through the window, but it was iced over and its visibility too poor. I put on a pile of clothes, covered most of my face, and then with Frankie staring at me as if I were crazy, I opened the door and stepped out into the yard. Cicero was standing perfectly still, one arm bent, the closed metal hand gripping a single log. Even in the poor glow from the lamp behind me, its light shining through the open doorway, I could see fissures in his body. The electric-ink eyes were as dull as mountainside shale. The mouth was open in an surprised oval. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Even as I stood there, the tall statue fell like a sawn tree, the head striking a frozen log and cracking open. I stared at my friend, lying broken in the cold crisp snow. Poor Cicero. There was nothing I could do to help him. Wild thoughts raged through my mind. Some of them even made sense. He could, perhaps, be repaired, but not out here where there were still wolves who roamed the forests and miners who were throw-backs to a far distant age. Taken to a city he would be identified and thrown on the junk heap as the killer of businessman, Maximilian Turnbull-Spalding.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Finally, before I froze to death myself, I went back inside the cabin and closed the door. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘It’s just you and me again, old girl,’ I said to Frankie, as I removed the coats and my fur hat.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Her liquid brown eyes gave nothing away.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div>zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-8561822128365900482024-01-25T10:46:00.000+00:002024-01-25T10:46:36.031+00:00<p> <span style="font-size: large;">It's a while since I last blogged (if that's the correct past tense) but now I've decided to do so on a regular basis, maybe at least 4 times a year. I'm going to publish those stories on here which have been rejected a good many times by the magazines, hoping they will find a small readership on the net. The first of these stories is entitled IN WHICH POOH IS SHOT TO DEATH WHILE ROBBING A BANK. Pooh and his friends are now out of copyright. I wrote this story many years ago to amuse children on my visits to schools. Hopefully I will find a wider audience of at least six or seven on my blog pages.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>In Which Pooh is Shot to Pieces</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>While Robbing a Bank</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">By</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Garry Kilworth</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We planned the raid in the basement of a downtown tenement. Pooh was holding forth, saying, ‘I see it this way, Rabbit: we go in, three of us, Eeyore takes the doors, you move to the counter and I stand (he pointed to a pencilled cross on the ground plan of the bank which we had pinned to the wall) here.’ He put his paw on a spot under the bank clock. ‘Then I can see the whole layout: the teller and the clients, and of course, the guard. It’s my special job to cover the guard, so don’t do anything to distract me, will you?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Eeyore looked up, briefly, from his task of cleaning the guns. His mournful expression revealed his thoughts: we had been through all this, several times, but Pooh needed to travel old paths a dozen times before he felt the knowledge was securely buried in that famous little brain. Eeyore was also aware of the extent of the danger, how desperate this enterprise was. Pooh was a creature of instinct, unable to view possible future consequences. It was his reaction to instinct which led to our downfall, but I attach no blame to the bear. He had been created thus and the fault lay elsewhere.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘That’s fine, Pooh,’ I heard myself saying, ‘we seem to have it all worked out now.’ </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I was watching Piglet – poor, unhappy, nervous piglet – playing with a rosery he had found in the corner of the basement, counting the beads and frequently losing his place. Piglet was our wheels man, but I had arranged for Owl to sit in the car with him. Owl couldn’t drive of course, his anatomy not being fit for such a task. Piglet had trouble too, even though the vehicle had been modified to enable use with trotters. Piglet was Piglet, good behind a wheel, but very, very nervous if you know what I mean. Owl was a calming influence. I was just thankful that Tigger was not one of the gang. Kanga had taken him and Roo to Florida some time back, thinking to get work in Disneyland as guides or something. Tigger would have been too gung-ho, would have been bouncing all over the bank, would have begun blasting at the flicker of an eyelash. We couldn’t afford to take the risk on his excited temperament.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I had seen the notices: Bank Robbery is a Federal Offence, Punishable by Life imprisonment. We all knew the possible consequences, and God knows, we didn’t want to hurt anyone, but what the hell was left to us? We had tried everything else, in England, France, Australia and finally, the land of opportunity and cartoons, where characters such as ourselves might find openings in the movie industry, these United States. We had chosen a bad time to migrate, however. There was a recession on, the Wall Street index had slumped so badly people were wondering if it had a prolapsed spinal column and the movie business was suffering from investment malnutrition. I mean, I felt I had a responsibility towards this motley bunch of lovable characters and all my efforts at finding some sort life for us had ended in failure.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Pooh was still talking and reached out for his honey jar instinctively. Piglet cried, ‘Pooh, y-y-you promised . . .’ making the bear pause and frown at his little friend. He stopped his speech in mid-sentence and let his paw drop to his side, the protestations forming on his lips, knowing he had vowed to kick the obsessive habit, if just for the period of the robbery. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">‘I wasn’t . . .’ he started to say, but Eeyore snapped a gun breech shut, loudly, the sound startling the whole room. The donkey looked up and said in a gloomy tone, ‘Sorry,’ before putting the oiled weapon down carefully on the newspapers he had spread to keep the carpet from getting stained.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Pooh came and sat beside me, on the overstuffed sofa. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">‘There’s too much sentiment in the world, Rabbit– and not enough compassion,’ he said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I agreed with him for once. I mean, that schmaltzy goodbye at the end of Pooh Corner might be fine for some, but where did it leave the animals of Hundred Acre Wood? Where did we go after that? We couldn’t stay in the forest. There was nothing there for us. The end to our story had not been written in sufficiently definite terms for us to know what to do with ourselves, once we had ceased gambolling through the trees. You can’t live on old, dry leaves and sentiment.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Owl come in from the kitchen. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week and his shoulders were hunched. Owl’s weighty concerns were of the type carried by those who worried about the world and its children as opposed to Eeyore’s whose interest was personal doom. Let’s face it, Eeyore held the monopoly on dreary statements in which the word VICTIM appeared in capital letters, bold type, black border round the edges.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Owl nodded at me, but kept quiet, since Pooh was still talking, though to no one in particular. Before we left England, Owl, being the most intelligent of this group of friends, had tried to help Piglet trace his ancestors and build a family tree. They started and ended with Piglet’s famous grandfather, Trespassers Will, failing in their attempts to get any further, even though there were more than one or two Williams on the gravestones in the churchyard abutting the wood. It was a bitter disappointment to Piglet, who even asked a passing sparrow if she had heard the name. ‘He was a writer,’ Piglet told the bird. ‘You can see that. He wrote his own name, or most of it. Perhaps he was interrupted before he could finish it?’ The sparrow said she would look in Highgate Cemetery where several famous authors were buried, including Karl Marx and Bram Stoker, but Piglet never heard from her again.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">‘It’s doubtful T.W, was a writer of any kind,’ Owl told me privately, ‘given that Piglet’s ancestors – if of the same make-up as our friend – would have the attention span of a butterfly. Yes, he could obviously write his own name – the sign bears witness to that – but a whole novel or manifesto?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I had to agree with him. He was a wonderful guy, Owly. I loved him like a brother. I loved him because he spoke good sense, and he knew, he knew the fate of each one of us was inextricably bound up with the fate of us all. He once said to me that we were like the beads of Piglet’s rosery, strung together, inseparable. When one of us suffered, we all suffered. There’s a French term for it: Folie a deux, malady of two, but it could equally apply to multiples. Heck, one of us only has to get a cold in the head and we all walk about in the dumps.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Pooh was talking too loudly again. ‘It was all too open-ended. A feeble fade-out, leaving us wondering what we were going to do now the last full stop had gone on the last sentence of the last book. Look at Alice’s adventures. She gets crowned queen and then wakes up in bed realising it was all a dream. She could get on with her normal life. We didn’t have that luxury. We were just left in limbo while that traitor Christopher Robin walked away to his normal life.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I said, ‘That’s not quite fair, Pooh. Chris had to go. He was leaving childhood behind him. You can’t blame him for growing up.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">‘Oh, you, Rabbit. You were always his favourite,’ growled Pooh, savagely.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> Pooh almost never growled like a real bear, so I thought it best to leave him to chunter on for a while. I could have pointed out that the two books were named after him, so the idea that I was Chris’s favourite was laughable. But there was little point in arguing with him when he was in this mood. I watched him kick a table leg and knew I was right to allow him to seethe on his own.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">‘I don’t even know what I am,’ cried Pooh, his paws high in the air. ‘What am I?’ For a moment I thought there were tears in his eyes, except I knew they were glass so that was not possible. ‘Am I a toy? An animated toy? It’s all so vague. It doesn’t say, anywhere, exactly what I am, or what you all are.’ He choked back the full force of his anger. ‘Christopher knew,’ there was resentment in his tone. ‘He knew what he was, all right - a real flesh and blood creature. Oh, yes. No worries there, for the wonderful Christopher Robin. But the rest of us were just left in a state of hollow ignorance. Bloody right.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Piglet was staring at his best friend with wide terrified eyes, his little front trotters shaking so much they were clicking against each other. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I decided I had to intervene again, even if it meant a shouting match.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I spoke quietly. ‘Have you ever stopped to think, Pooh. Do you ever, stop to think? What are we all doing on this desperate enterprise? Good grief, robbing a bank? Thieves, perhaps murderers if we have to use these weapons Eeyore got from us in Chicago. You aren’t helping, you know. We’re all in this together and if you lose it now, we’re done for. Each and every one of us will end up with nothing and our pockets and a jail sentence to boot. We’re relying on you to stay strong. I think you can. I think you’re made of stern stuff, that’s who I think you are. A bear of little brain, perhaps, but one with a strong backbone, a bear with grit and full of purpose. I admire you.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He calmed down and looked contrite. ‘Am I really? Grit?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">‘Yes, you are. A true friend. Solid and steadfast.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">‘Thank you, Rabbit. I’m sorry, I truly am.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Eeyore muttered, ‘When you two have stopped kissing each other . . .’ and handed me a thirty-eight, modified for a rabbit’s paws and fully loaded. ‘I’ll use the machine gun,’ he said. ‘I want them to remember Eeyore. This donkey’s going out in style. All my life I’ve been full of self-pity, whining and moaning about my condition, but by the lush green grass on the old millpond’s bank, they’ll know Eeyore’s been in town.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Piglet cried, ‘Wha . . . what does he mean? I want them to remember? We are going to pull this off, aren’t we?’ His tone was full of anxiety.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I wish then I could have painted the picture for him, of just how it might go, so that we had the choice of dropping the idea there and then and letting it lay where it fell. Even then I think we might still have gone ahead. We had come to the end of the line. There was nothing more for us. Our fate was inextricably bound to the idea that we would either end up rich, dead or in prison.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">How it went in the end.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">How Piglet panicked once the alarms started ringing and despite Owl’s protest roarrf away from the scene, only to bury the Chevy in the concrete corner of 2nd and 30th, killing them both instantly. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">How Pooh, once a junky always a junky, took his eyes off the guard, when the word ‘money’ was mentioned, thinking he had heard something else. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And Eeyore, spraying the ceiling with a whole mag of slugs, careful not to hit anyone because that was Eeyore’s way.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And then Pooh – Pooh, lying on the cold tiles, blasted to pieces by the agitated bank guard, an ear by the door, a leg torn off and guts spilling out through the wounds ripped in his stomach by the guard’s forty-five. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Pooh, his voice full of shocked surprise, saying, ‘Jesus and Mary, look what’s coming out of my belly – common fluff and sawdust?’ </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then he said, ‘Rabbit, get going, get out of here. Don’t worry about me.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">One of the customers leaned over his scattered remains and cried, ‘It’s Winnie-the-Pooh!’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">‘Don’t call me Winnie,’ croaked the bear. ‘I hate that name.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We had had our good times, in the Hundred Acre Wood, when none of us knew what was in the stars for us. Blustery days, campion days, days full of bees and honey, when searches for the Small were organazised by Pooh and stornery twee rhymes filled the flower-scented air. Days when the wind got tangled in the trees and days when weak winter suns formed a haze of light behind the wickerwork of branches. Gone, all gone. Every one.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I told all this to Kanga, when she came visiting me in the slammer. I saw the sympathy behind her eyes and I had to look away because there was a lump in my throat. But what do you do, when it’s all over, no hope of another book and no one needs you because you’re out of date, too old-fashioned.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Afterwards, I sat in my cell and thought about Pooh’s last words, as he lay strewn over the floor of that damned bank:</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘At least this is a real ending, Rabbit. I suppose that’s all we could have hoped for – what we all wanted, deep down. It certainly wasn’t the money.’</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now we’ve written our story, without any help from anyone else. Some may call it a tale of failure, but when you consider Eeyore’s suggested title - In Which Pooh Discovers that Death is a Happy Ending – well, you can see we look on it as a success story. I didn’t use Eeyore’s suggestion because I am</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> the author and the author always gets to choose his own title. Ha!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anyway, we were all involved and we all went down together. Even Tigger and Roo, who were in Miami when they heard the news. The pair of them went on a rampage, busting up the town. I hear Tigger bounced some seventeen cops before they took him down in a hail of lead. I wish I could have been there to see it.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And wherever Tigger is now, and Pooh, Piglet and Owl, well, I just know it’s better than that misty limbo we found ourselves after Pooh Corner.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Maybe they’ve found that elusive heffalump at last?</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> </span></p>zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-48942739127001756802022-07-18T14:21:00.001+01:002024-01-29T20:26:00.246+00:00<div class="page" title="Page 1"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 24pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;">SONGS OF THE EARTH, SEA AND SKY</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 18pt; font-style: italic;">(</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 18pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;">Personal Journeys) </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 18pt; font-style: italic;">Douglas Ciluird</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 10pt; font-weight: 700;">Crab-claw Books</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">Limited Edition ___ of 50</span></p></div></div><img alt="page1image16215008" height="144.000000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/87846379-42a2-4362-9536-a7fd78a14a66" width="104.050000" /></div><div class="page" title="Page 3"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 10pt;">This one is for Malcolm Edwards</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 4"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 10pt; font-weight: 700;">Songs of the Earth, Sea and Sky</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 10pt;">Copyright © Garry Kilworth 2022 Published in 2022 by Crab-claw Books. All rights reserved.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 10pt;">The right of Douglas Ciluird to<br />be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 10pt;">First Edition</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 10pt;">This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 10pt;">are products of the author’s imagination or are used </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 10pt;">fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or locals, or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 10pt; font-weight: 700;">Crab-claw Books</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 10pt;">38 Tropicana II Las Palomas La Herradura Almunecar Granada Spain</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 5"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">Author’s Note</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">I have written five books of poems, including this one, plus 76 novels and 11 collections of short stories. I can see th</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">ere’s a danger </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">here of quantity overshadowing quality. Naturally, not all my books are what I had wished them to be, but some are what I set out to achieve. There are several pieces of prose I would like to consign to an oubliette and others I hope will remain in the light. I have no idea yet where this particular volume of verses will fit in. I decided, as a homage to forebears who crossed the Irish Sea from the Kilworth Mountains in County Cork and for other less explicable inner reasons, to bring this volume out under the Gaelic version of my surname.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">Most of my poems are short and I wanted to write an epic in the sense that it is longer by far than any other I have penned. Here it is, along with the usual handful of briefer efforts. On the surface it looks like a long run of what we called in the Air Force </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">‘when</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">- </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">eyes’. </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">When I was in such-a-place. </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">Those who move home a great deal mark their individual memories by where they were living on a certain date. The</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">re’s a touch of </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">showing off, but </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">there’s </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">also an indelible recollection, </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">an impression that’s printed on one’s brain </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">which one is eager to share. One of the extra poems in here is dedicated to those men and women who live their lives in one city, town or village without ever having the desire to move. They are indeed just as blessed as those that trot around the globe. Both paths in life have their rewards. All in all, I hope the reader of this epic poem just enjoys the way I have embellished and flirted with</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">5</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 6"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">my visits to other lands and perhaps nudged the memories of their own travels abroad.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">I do not have good photographs of all the places I have been. In the 1990s and early 2000s I only used video, which does not provide good stills, any frozen frame being fuzzy. Any pictures I took in the days before I owned a digital camera are re- photographed prints and of poor resolution. The tiger we saw in Rambanthore is a good example. Where I have no acceptable photos at all I have taken a picture of a symbol or artefact to represent the subject.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">Douglas Ciluird, 2022.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page6image16154624" height="179.500000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/d8720070-7c37-4808-8915-53958856a8ef" width="164.650000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">6</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 7"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 18pt;">Songs of the Earth, Sea and Sky </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">(Personal Journeys)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">I</span></p><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to the Ran of Kutch to see in the wild hinterland<br />an ass as noble as a horse with two-tone coat of umber sand.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page7image16156288" height="187.600000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/aa7ab634-35ce-464b-bbef-324d75937224" width="283.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">7</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 8"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to Gujarat<br />where dark-maned Asian lions kill: smaller than their cousins yet they murder prey with matching skill.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page8image16157120" height="212.150000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/2ac15d80-e4b3-4fa5-8f2f-1911535bd1d4" width="283.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">8</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 9"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">An orangutan, gazing down,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">studied me from up on high. His gentle eyes revealed to me, he has a better soul than I.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page9image16156496" height="171.000000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/070b1cb8-199e-42ec-9e65-e617d1549a77" width="205.350000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">9</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 10"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to Ranthambore seeking cats with sheaths for paws: saw a tiger and his mate shred a deer with sickle claws.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page10image16157328" height="198.800000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/26d00069-886f-48b1-bcb8-c3445cdb0a4c" width="246.950000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">10</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 11"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to Raratonga, Tahiti, Fiji, Aitutaki - Oceania</span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">’s </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">lovely islands, sadly now too far for me.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page11image16157744" height="131.250000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/cd65579b-a338-4d9f-8cca-940166bdfb7e" width="269.250000" /> <img alt="page11image16157952" height="136.950000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/46408294-c9b8-4403-8a45-65a2b5884c6f" width="269.250000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">11</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 12"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have sailed Alaskan seas<br />where killer whales and humpbacks glide, churning the waters, stirring the deep, </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">mixing the hues of twilight’s tide.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page12image16158368" height="207.800000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/6ea3ad76-1206-4bb4-b5a9-b5cb60b8ad5d" width="283.200000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">12</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 13"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Off the Turkish Kerme Gulf I saw a rare Monk Seal. She was eating octopus:<br />a slimy, squirming meal.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page13image16158576" height="163.200000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/492418e9-72e5-45f7-9531-48d49ca453bb" width="283.350000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">13</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 14"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have slept in the Hadhramaut, found scorpions, spiders and skinks </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">escaping from the desert’s cold, </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">inside my boots and blanket fold.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page14image16158784" height="230.750000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/e8342fc1-721b-4d2c-beb3-aca238c04413" width="283.300000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">14</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 15"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have walked the Yukon Trail, watched a grizzly eating fruit: wanted to go to Yellowknife, but that was much too far to suit.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page15image16159200" height="188.850000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/ebc1346e-1742-45df-a919-83aa7a88e7be" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">15</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 16"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">In Addu Atoll’s jade lagoon </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I swam with giant rays, big as boardroom tabletops gliding over coral crops.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page16image16158992" height="201.000000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/eae65db1-75ec-44a6-afa8-c19867c31d3b" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">16</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 17"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">In Tamanagara I have sought</span></p><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">(aware I was a walking feast) a giant python, plump as me, a huge, reticulated beast.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page17image16159408" height="156.700000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/c0758277-b2a0-4165-80db-df78c95d7939" width="283.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">17</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 18"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">In Australia’s vast Outback, </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">where deadly snakes bask in the sun, I camped in a swag for several days without encountering a single one.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page18image16159824" height="195.350000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/a705354a-7fea-456c-9c37-a709ccd1a9a1" width="283.200000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">18</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 19"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to the Western Ghats</span></p><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">and seen long-legged lizards leap from leaf to twig, from twig to leaf: kangaroos of the reptile heap.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page19image16160656" height="191.250000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/2d942caa-ca3b-40b1-9431-543d58eb6b93" width="283.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">19</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 20"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">A fact I learned in Rajasthan (a most peculiar thing) not every Singh is a Sikh but every Sikh is a Singh.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page20image16160240" height="210.200000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/fc91b25c-10c5-4cec-a482-9e4d1f444a10" width="283.650000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">20</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 21"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I once roamed the Serengeti, found a splendid greater cat, a leopard lazing in a tree, </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">nature’s prime ar</span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">istocrat.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page21image16161072" height="204.700000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/023ac145-6ef0-43bb-88ad-28f6cc67b298" width="283.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">21</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 22"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to Hiroshima<br />in the cherry-blossomed spring: first the bomb and then the silence, now - again - the linnets sing.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page22image16160864" height="161.150000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/c64b5408-e21c-486a-bd82-314d38d69b05" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">22</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 23"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to green Guilin,<br /></span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">its mountains ‘sharp as pins’,<br /></span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">where crooked dwarf pines hang their hair and the River Li begins.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page23image16161280" height="307.650000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/0d2b8a69-d879-44db-9dc1-6efe86b4e995" width="207.000000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">23</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 24"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to Yosemite<br />and climbed El Capitan: meadows, domes and valley trails, lay below in spindrift veils.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page24image16161488" height="181.800000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/75f5994b-0831-4bf8-b445-1b18d7b1e9f7" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">24</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 25"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I was caught out in a typhoon, where high winds and water meet:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Hong Kong junks and harbour sampans tossed up on a Kowloon street.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page25image16161904" height="195.000000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/ee7b0430-6f91-4418-811a-5761862c43c2" width="283.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">25</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 26"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to Istanbul<br />and have sailed the Golden Horn: </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I wish I’d been a Byzantine </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">before the Christ was born.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page26image16161696" height="213.600000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/50d886e1-007c-4f63-bc88-60616b5d75f1" width="283.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">26</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 27"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have seen the Grecian ruins where democracy was sown:<br />with those seeds, you ancient Hellenes, western politics were grown.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page27image16162528" height="196.550000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/f03adb44-8107-4adf-99df-76646d1321a5" width="283.350000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">27</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 28"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have seen Tunisia,<br />the place where Carthage stood, </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">where Romans razed Queen Dido’s city </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">leaving naught but blood.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page28image16162112" height="188.600000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/bb994a1b-aff6-48f3-a027-76240ca04879" width="283.300000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">28</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 29"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to Uppsala,<br />saw tombs of royal Viking dead: their kings lay underneath the earth on which my Saxon boots did tread.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page29image16159616" height="162.350000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/4a54f613-354a-4f92-bf34-0562e4c85f85" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">29</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 30"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I saw bowls of coloured spices,<br />in the souk of Tangier town: cumin, cinnamon, fenugreek, cloves </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">– </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">subtle shades of downy brown.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page30image16160032" height="193.550000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/0d88b46d-b71a-4d13-b3a9-3cab040c7e08" width="283.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">30</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 31"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I skated with her on the Rideau Canal on a magical midnight hour when my pronoun changed from me to us and never went it back again.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page31image16162736" height="190.050000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/a3e23158-e5fb-4416-b37a-26a01ff6598d" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">31</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 32"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to Ecuador, taking pictures on the line - the Condor bird, I never saw, but capybara, he was mine.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page32image16162944" height="191.600000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/2d952893-11a8-4532-8df6-497f1f01afac" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">32</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 33"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have stepped on solid lava, pocked and pointed underfoot: </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Bali’s aa and pahoehoe<br /></span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">cut right through my leather boot.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page33image16163152" height="205.300000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/7cfc0f79-a18d-4243-81cb-d8858efdd1cb" width="283.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">33</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 34"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to far Malacca where the Nonya man agrees: </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">‘Oran Cina bukan Cina’ –<br />‘I am not Chinese Chinese’.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page34image16163360" height="164.500000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/4eb62a14-8c9e-4133-9be8-2f1d4c08f970" width="283.200000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">34</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 35"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Once were garbage tips where children from Manila fought for scraps: chicken bones and slops were stuffed in pockets and in filthy caps.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: grey; font-family: MysticalWoodsSmoothScript; font-size: 28pt;">Junkrubbishtrash</span></p></div></div><img alt="page35image16163984" height="19.800000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/85e4947b-da2a-431c-80be-8ab599bf02ce" width="28.800000" /> <img alt="page35image16163776" height="19.800000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/60ef1748-e539-4325-8df1-86ead1835a64" width="38.400000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">35</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 36"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to London town<br />to see our Liz, the Queen:<br />I rang the bell three times but she was nowhere to be seen.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page36image16164400" height="187.200000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/cabf5e36-88f7-48df-a6c2-dfc95ac66104" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">36</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 37"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have lived in Leeward, Windward, islands in a turquoise sea:<br />full of music, laughter, colour </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">– </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">each one owns a piece of me.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page37image16164816" height="197.150000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/490951c3-3fdf-44e6-a53d-df2a30bd2713" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">37</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 38"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">We canoed in Sarawak<br />to a longhouse hung with heads: enemies of a Dyak tribe, bunched and dangling over beds.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page38image16164192" height="233.850000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/188b16a6-799c-47cf-a41a-bd15b5692af9" width="283.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">38</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 39"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">have been to Delphi’s ruins, </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">asked the Oracle my fate: she told me I would have to wait and wait and wait and wait.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page39image16165024" height="274.050000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/7d008b74-9fa5-463d-9901-da8d057a0122" width="242.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">39</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 40"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to Iceland’s fields </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">and stood in awe before Law Rock. The Althing sat in year 930 -</span></p><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">parliaments were on the clock.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page40image16165440" height="160.200000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/d0dc70b8-7082-4346-b14c-e40c893e184e" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">40</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 41"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I tried to scale the steep ice wall, Franz Josef Glacier in NZ:<br />it was too sheer and so I climbed the smoother glacier, Fox, instead.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page41image16165648" height="210.600000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/12674bbc-db4f-4941-835f-62a3e1de05e2" width="283.350000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">41</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 42"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I swam warm in seas called Red,<br />in Meds and Blacks and seas named Dead, China, Coral, Caribbean:<br />just our North was cold and mean.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page42image16165232" height="197.250000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/51d342b8-ef73-45ed-bf9d-24679fe76a0c" width="283.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">42</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 43"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to Arnhem Land where the Yolngu live still: there the rock art is superb carved into Injalak Hill.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page43image16164608" height="185.000000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/01559c93-6a6e-4227-9868-e76fd31cef05" width="283.350000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">43</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 44"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to Rotorua: volcanic beauty in the raw: one requires a nose of stone where rotten-egg-smells soar.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page44image16166064" height="139.050000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/139b0a69-7802-45af-9d5f-2a8073f569df" width="283.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">44</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 45"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I crawled through a Cu Chi tunnel, deep and tight and long and black: the more I tried to flout my fear,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">the more the world weighed on my back.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page45image16165856" height="189.800000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/68bb6010-ab89-46b7-a311-e5c7bc849bae" width="283.200000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">45</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 46"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have sailed in ancient seas,<br />on the waves Odysseus used<br />to reach his home in Ithaca, bewitched, bedevilled, sadly bruised.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page46image16166272" height="188.500000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/4659a06a-342a-45b6-9623-0dbd9d378e08" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">46</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 47"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I have been to Tuscany, imbibed the beauty of a land, where the finest art appeared, created by an A</span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">ngel’s hand.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page47image16166480" height="200.400000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/7ea57c51-e443-42b1-9ba0-5f695567b27d" width="283.650000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">47</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 48"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">48</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 49"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">II</span></p><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you been to Trollfjord where eagles poise on peaks, then hurtle from an Arctic sky to snatch up silver streaks?</span></p></div></div><img alt="page49image16166688" height="241.200000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/ef4fad94-8cff-4cd1-8e3b-0482e661f0f8" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">49</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 50"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you been to the Taj Mahal? T</span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">his sultan’s symbol must </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">be seen, blinding in its marble white, </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">tomb of Jahan’s Mughal queen.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page50image16166896" height="197.600000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/b88ac9ff-5f10-4f0b-b685-67531e61c4fd" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">50</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 51"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you walked in Chang Mai’s hills – </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">met Kayan Lawhi on the way?<br />At night the trails are cool and dark, though blistering hot the live-long day.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page51image16167104" height="192.100000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/dc02d9ea-5b86-406a-b3e2-2c95be6088cb" width="283.350000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">51</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 52"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you seen Kuala Lumpur </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">railway station’</span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">s deft design:<br />a wedding cake with stilt cupola, fretwork arches, serpentine.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page52image16167312" height="171.200000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/ce68c655-23bc-40a6-91e1-b4c57dc1150c" width="283.300000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">52</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 53"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you seen the red Alhambra? Bathed by moons and kissed by suns: honeycombed its halls and pathways where its precious water runs.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page53image16167520" height="197.500000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/8b47f646-1ff6-4072-9ea8-ff26e6ef41c0" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">53</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 54"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you seen that ancient wonder, flayed by days and stroked by nights: Petra, home of Nabataeans, carved by hand from sandstone heights?</span></p></div></div><img alt="page54image16167728" height="218.600000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/41bc8eb7-68a3-41bd-9010-b841752803e8" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">54</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 55"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you seen that marvellous city, sitting on a sea of light? Venice, its basilica<br /></span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">and Ca’d’Oro’s golden sight</span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page55image16167936" height="183.950000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/9728621b-e282-4ab4-93ab-307fc63c57ee" width="283.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">55</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 56"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you seen the Aussie croc: the Saltie that can eat young boys? - </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">or sweet girls, it doesn’t care, </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">even if a lassie cloys.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page56image16168352" height="194.000000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/d9d6eb57-e0e3-41e4-a211-d933398d8ca8" width="283.300000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">56</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 57"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you been to Kinabalu,<br /></span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">seen the gully known as Low’s?<br /></span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">A deep, green gorge that swallows people on whose bones the star moss grows.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page57image16168768" height="147.600000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/e1e8fc97-a68a-490b-bc40-19d8bf86882a" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">57</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 58"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you seen my Spanish village, white-washed house with red-tiled roof? </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">La Herradura is ‘The Horseshoe’ </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">scalloped like a giant hoof.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">(¿Has visto mi pueblo español?<br />¿Mi casa encalada, su techo de tejas rojas? La Herradura es </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">’The horseshoe’ </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">impreso por una pezuña gigante.)</span></p></div></div><img alt="page58image16168144" height="159.000000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/caa3864a-0593-4205-a0a2-aa725ff24357" width="283.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">58</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 59"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you seen Semana Santa’s </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">deep, mysterious parades? Sombre, sinister to strangers, dark, profound arcane displays.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page59image16168976" height="310.200000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/c97215cb-9128-48ac-8e89-2fbf429811c4" width="178.650000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">59</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 60"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you seen Aguila village? Their fiesta will enthral. Eat your heart out, Rio folk, this carnival surpasses all.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page60image16168560" height="202.400000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/fe75e3ab-e8b8-4209-84ae-e8c15ece62e3" width="283.200000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">60</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 61"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you seen Al Jebel Shamsan’s </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">wide, volcanic hollow cone? There the white-housed town of Aden nestles in its well of stone.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page61image16169184" height="183.100000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/cc8be5a1-55d2-4454-a25e-61fc4ef3988d" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">61</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 62"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you been inside the boatyard of the Viking town, Roskilde? There lay nine enormous longships crafted by a long-dead builder.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page62image16169392" height="175.050000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/24a59fa0-cb4b-4714-a8ab-63c555913ee1" width="283.100000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">62</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 63"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you seen the golden cone, Wat Saket in Bangkok,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">blinding in its brilliance when </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">the sun’s at noon o’clock?</span></p></div></div><img alt="page63image16169600" height="167.600000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/40f17902-1bb6-415b-abba-657af7c8daec" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">63</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 64"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you been to Napier,<br />for which New Zealand is renown? Art Deco architecture reigns<br />in every house throughout the town.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page64image16169808" height="200.750000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/a5b7818f-a91e-4eed-ac8a-8e579ebbd285" width="283.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">64</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 65"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you been to Corsica, where fragrance overflows and spills wild scents of flowers, herbs and bark, down its aromatic hills?</span></p></div></div><img alt="page65image16170016" height="246.200000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/4a086eec-de49-486a-b3ce-42c11827cf4e" width="283.550000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">65</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 66"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Or to far Macao’s casinos, </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">where obsessive gamblers play? There the old colonial houses lapse in elegant decay.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page66image16170224" height="157.300000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/ddad7af3-5389-4261-8f96-06d46a1cf23c" width="283.300000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">66</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 67"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you been to Chicken Town tucked inside Alaska State? Population seven souls, mining gold at paltry rate.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page67image16170432" height="194.500000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/2c7881c8-4a26-49ee-ad45-48d0735dd056" width="283.350000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">67</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 68"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you been to Wadi Rum? The sand is pink and fine. There the Bedu noses are</span></p><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">superbly aquiline.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page68image16170640" height="188.150000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/c724b93e-693e-4635-ad0c-dcd5bf48c6af" width="283.650000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">68</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 69"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you been to Bay of Fires, </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Tasmania’s mouth of golden sand </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">stretched along the wild, wild shore </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">of Van Diemen’s Land?</span></p></div></div><img alt="page69image16054912" height="212.400000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/9d32ff4e-8a02-4bb8-8b18-26115fb4e582" width="283.200000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">69</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 70"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Did you see Kowloon Walled City, the massive slum in old Hong Kong? One square mile of shanty dwellings, happily </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">it’s been and gone.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page70image16054080" height="101.250000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/25e3495d-05dd-475d-bd6e-31212463a12f" width="283.650000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">70</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 71"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Were you parked in Singapore when kampong villages were there? Now there is a Sky Park perched above a modern thoroughfare.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page71image16042224" height="205.800000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/65fcb027-3644-4b44-941b-c77090b74033" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">71</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 72"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you been to Quebec City where the proud St Lawrence flows: stiff in winter, swift in summer, prince of both the se</span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">asons’ s</span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">hows.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page72image16054288" height="184.650000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/28bf5e52-6883-47e7-b773-2222f5d7b7ba" width="283.300000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">72</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 73"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you seen the Amazon, shorter river than the Nile? </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">It’ll always </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">come in second, if by just a single mile.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page73image16051584" height="212.500000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/8b9bfeb8-3c4a-4b52-9359-fe17c02845c6" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">73</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 74"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">Have you seen Calypso’s Isle, slept on Gozo’s golden sand: </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">or Cyprus rock where Aphrodite stepped from seashell onto land?</span></p></div></div><img alt="page74image16127680" height="142.650000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/d722b505-ee9b-41b4-ac08-bc067318afef" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">74</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 75"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">III</span></p><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I will go to Everest, tallest mountain of them all: Mallory is buried up there somewhere in its snowy wall.</span></p><p><span style="color: #202124; font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 90pt; font-weight: 700;">A</span><span style="color: #202124; font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 120pt; font-weight: 700;">A</span><span style="color: #202124; font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 26pt; font-weight: 700;">A</span><span style="color: #202124; font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 36pt; font-weight: 700;">A</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">75</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 76"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I will go to Machu Picchu, famous ancient citadel, haunted by mad Incan ghosts, glaring at the tourist hosts.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: STCaiyun; font-size: 72pt;">Inca</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">76</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 77"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I will go to Samarkand,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">a city beautiful, arcane, on the </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">way to China’s riches: </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">rhubarb, silk and porcelain.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page77image16058400" height="72.000000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/d24284ad-2cd3-49b3-b93d-dc352e507ff8" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">77</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 78"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I will go to Galapagos where iguanas snort and spray Sally Lightfoot Crabs with sea salt every hour of every day.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page78image16058608" height="174.700000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/e543c06c-a070-4d07-94ca-267febb407df" width="283.450000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">78</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 79"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I will walk that wall in China keeping Mongols on their plain,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">walk from Shanhai Pass to Gansu </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">– then I’ll walk it back again.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page79image16060480" height="243.950000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/b7249bb0-be78-44b6-a2dc-512cc2ccf531" width="283.200000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">79</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 80"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I will go to Angel Falls,<br />that long and plaited rope of water dropping silken from the sky: </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">nature’s own Rapunzel’s daughter.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page80image16061520" height="163.400000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/9d9c4c8b-3ca4-4704-964f-9dfd8ec064b1" width="225.250000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">↓ ↓ ↓ ↓</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">80</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 81"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I want to visit many lands<br /></span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">but I’m running out of time: </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">mortal years spin round the clock </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">– </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">faint, the distant final chime.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page81image16061104" height="124.900000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/89d9cc75-15f0-4155-a3cb-adb42047169e" width="106.950000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">81</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 82"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">I will die and go quite soon, out to swim among the stars, </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">as I pass I’ll touch our sun, </span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">then drift on past Orio</span><span style="font-family: SegoePrint; font-size: 12pt;">n’s Bar.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page82image16061728" height="168.800000" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/728eae8c-39df-42f5-b416-166a64d6d260" width="283.650000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">82</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 83"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 18pt;">Extras</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">Bozburun, Turkey</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">Stacked<br />against the house,<br />a gable of olive logs, wonderfully ancient and ugly, contorted, knotted, gnarled, sawn from trunks<br />that once writhed slowly out of the arid earth<br />of Baba Dagi.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">After yielding<br />jade and dusky fruits, branches for peace, colours dragged<br />from a grudging soil, they will now warm<br />the wood-cutter and his wife, with a final brilliant blaze, before these craggy, tortured, iron-hard lumps of life become just wraiths.</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">83</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 84"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">Standing by Groyne B101 Felixstowe</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">When I was a boy, these groynes were blackened wood wearing garbs of green: ancient, slimy monsters crawling from the sea at low tide.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">In the new century, those groynes were gone, great granite rocks became breakwaters: magnificent sleeping dragons, mica glistening in the sun, feldspar, quartz, hornblende burnished by breakers, defying the pull of the moon, commanding the currents, the ebb and flow of tides, the North Sea drift,<br />the swells.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">Coming from Norway they were the new Vikings, invaders from over the sea, the legacy of King Canute </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">– </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">and this time they really did do what King Knut could not.</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">84</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 85"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">Great</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">Today I learn<br />I am<br />a great-grandfather<br />with three begats to my name. It feels<br />mythical<br />and I hold his little hand fusing four generations. Yesterday<br />his first smile<br />filled my world with light. </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">He is my grandson’s son. </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">He is my sun.</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">85</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 86"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">Domicile</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">To live and die in the same village, in the same house,<br />a life bookended by the same bricks, could be rich in many ways.<br />To know intimately every tree, every track, wood and glade;<br />to know most neighbours<br />since birth,<br />must be satisfying.<br />A soul would be safe in such<br />a cosy circle of dwellings and friends, the graveyard full of familiar names, the lodges, nests and dens<br />of local wild beasts and birds<br />no secret.<br />The world traveller is aware<br />of the general,<br />while the stay-at-home<br />privy to detail.</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">86</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 87"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">Pros and Cons</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">I like to be there,<br /></span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">but I don’t like the getting.<br /></span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">I enjoy a rainstorm,<br />but dislike the wetting.<br />I love cuckoos calling, though I hate their habits, </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">and I’m fond o</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">f the fox, </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">when he’s not ripping rabbits. </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">I love the ocean<br /></span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">when I’m not going under </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">and a lightning-filled sky, without loud thunder. </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">Life’s full of stuff<br /></span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">that one loves-and-hates, going in doorways<br />and out through its gates.</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">87</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 88"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">Sky and Sea</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">Next in might and wonder to planets, stars, comets, an awe-inspiring cosmos, the infinite universe, black holes and dark matter, the swish and whizz<br />of distant suns,<br />there is the sea.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">I can stare at the sea, ponder on impartial power, its many forms and shapes, many shades and hues, feel overwhelmed<br />by terrifying waves, heart beating in my breast like wild surf on shingle.</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">88</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 89"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">The Bird Ringer</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">He holds in his hand<br />a feathered ball with a beating heart, index and middle fingers forked gently round the nape<br />of its neck:<br />a wild thing with wild eyes.<br />I wonder at its fear,<br />rage or even contempt<br />for the holder.<br />The ringer blows on its belly, stirring the softest of down.<br /></span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">‘</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">A juvenile.<br />See the grey area?</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">’ </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">Minuscule measurements taken and logged and then, indignantly<br />the bird is upended in a paper cup to be weighed.<br />Freedom!<br />A wide-open sky<br />instantly swallows<br />the tiny speck,<br />leaving just marks in a ledger:<br />a banal code for a beautiful creature, a marvel of nature, whose home is not the earth,<br />but the infinite air.</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">89</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 90"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">The Silence</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">We sit in one room, one-minded, in quietude.<br />This we call Meeting for Worship initially a mental falling-away from the world around me,<br />a drift into calmness,<br />a shedding of personal cares, jagged thoughts, pressing problems.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">This is the Silence adored by Quakers<br />for being what it is:<br />one hour of<br />stillness,<br />severance from shopping lists, bills, boilers that break, dentists and doctors, Myself.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">A time to consider Concerns:<br />war and poverty, unnatural disasters and other lunacies at which we chip hoping to uncover a saner-shaped world beneath.</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">90</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 91"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">Death</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">Death is not something<br />you meet face to face<br />at the end of your life. Death is always right behind you, following you from birth, tapping you on the shoulder, nipping at your heels, trying to overtake you,<br />until finally,<br />he does.</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">91</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 92"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic;">Á Deux</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">You must </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700;">brace </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">yourself before roaring off on a Harley-Davidson Softail </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700;">Deuce, </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">with its </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700;">twin</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">-cam balanced engine.<br />The </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700;">Two</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">mey effect, which applies to clouds, counts </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700;">double </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">for this great machine.<br /></span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">I don’t want to sound </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700;">bi</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">partisan,<br />but in a </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700;">duel </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">with any other bike<br /></span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">ne’er </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">the </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700;">twain<br /></span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">shall meet again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">(That’s a rhyming </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700;">couplet </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">for those who like their lines in </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700;">tandem</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">.) Then again, a </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700;">pair </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">of these hogs can form a </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700;">duo </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">upon the motorway to give you </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700;">twice </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">the danger. Yeah. Yeah.</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">92</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 93"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">Pickin’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">When we were young </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">we would go pickin’ </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">hips and haws,<br />sloes from blackthorns, crab apples, blackberries from brambles, elderberries<br />to make wine, mushrooms from meadows, conkers to conquer, acorn cups<br />to make pixie pipes.</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">93</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 94"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">A Magical Morning</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">A magical winter morning:<br />the day of the first frost.<br />The pines have silver sheaths<br />and crab apples hang heavy<br />with shells of icing sugar. Fallen leaves have turned to glass and crackle underfoot. Everything glitters and sparkles<br />in the slanting winter sunshine. Overhead, the wide Suffolk sky<br />is blue, inlaid with white cloud. Somewhere in the trees, a bird sings: happy or sad I know not.<br />Cold, it is, but a cleansing cold.<br />A freshness is on the earth.<br /></span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">My skin feels alive to the wind’s touch </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">and my heart is thin, light crystal. This is a fleeting gift.</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">94</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 95"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">Incense</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">These wraiths that waft around my room fill my head with formless dreams and lift me on a fragrant cloud<br />into a place devoid of schemes:<br />a touchless, edgeless, floating space that frees me from the human race.</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">95</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 96"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">Blondes</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">Blonde, blonde, blonde sends me high into beyond. Lovely Scandinavian girls send my wilding dreams in whirls. Debbie Harry, Dragon Lady, nothing dark, nothing shady, Goldie Hawn and Shelley Long: how my heart blooms into song. How I love the luminesces<br />of long golden, golden, tresses: </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">Pony tails of sunlight’s rays </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">send my mind into a daze. Carole Lombard, Sandra Dee, Doris Day and Grace Kel-</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">ly </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">– </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">and yet, and yet, and yet, and yet, there is one who bests the best: my lovely, loving, blonde Annette.</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">96</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 97"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">Felixstowe </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">– </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 14pt;">Dusk over the North Sea</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">Night is drifting softly in, beyond the distant strand<br />Way out there a cloud bank, becomes another land<br />Pale blue melds with deep blues, forming darker rays Here on the quiet hinterland the borough slowly greys<br />One by one sharp squares of light appear around the town And busy roads and noisy streets begin to settle down Then suddenly a coruscation, rids the dusk of scars Dockland cranes have sprung to light, festooned with feral stars Next a strumpet ship arrives of several thousand tonnes<br />A gaudy hussy who has spun her own bright web of suns She drifts on slowly, slowly past the watchers of the earth Careless of the many eyes that guide her to her berth Then </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">the sky’s last pale</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 11pt;">-blue pools, seep silently away<br />Into the oil-dark ocean, to end the run of day.</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">97</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 98"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 10pt;">Paintings by Annette Kilworth </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 10pt;">‘</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 10pt;">Cranes </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 10pt;">by the River Li’ ‘Sally Lightfoot’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 10pt;">Cover art for ‘Tales from the Fragrant Harbour’ </span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 10pt;">by kind permission of Vincent Chong</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 10pt;">Kuala Lumpur Railway Station was licensed by iStock</span></p><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 10pt;">My thanks for assistance go to: Tamzin and Dean Howell Keith Brooke<br />Cath Beacher Deborah and Peter Bush Robin and Glynis Moseley Mara McCaffrey</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS; font-size: 9pt; font-style: italic;">98</span></p></div></div></div>zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-54887144563855569142021-04-22T18:33:00.000+01:002021-04-22T18:33:27.241+01:00<p> <span style="font-size: large;"><b>Inspirational People: No 3</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Julio Cortazar</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">An Argentine writer, born in Belgium 1914 and died in Paris 1984. There's a mixture! I was curious about the birth, but since discovered his father was a diplomat, perhaps an ambassador, so Belgium it was. Paris? Well, what writer does not want to die in Paris? If I can get there in time for my demise, I will happily use Paris as a gateway to whatever awaits me on the other side. Hopefully, Julio himself.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I was already a committed short story reader and writer when I first came across a story by Julio Cortazar. Ellen Datlow, the fiction editor for Omni Magazine, had just taken one of my own speculative fiction tales and of course I ordered half a dozen copies of the mag. In the same edition I found an absolute gem entitled 'The Most Profound Caress', a Kafka-esk tale of man who begins the day looking forward to his date with his girlfriend in the evening. The problem is, he's slowly sinking into the ground and continues to do so throughout the daylight hours - up to his knees by midday, up to his shoulders by late afternoon and by the time his beloved comes looking for him he is under the street and is only able to reach up and touch the sole of her shoe - the last caress before he sinks forever into the earth. It reads better than my explanation and I admired it most for its simplicity and its inventiveness. I suffered the usual short story writer's agony - I wished I had written it. I was now well and truly hooked as a follower of the Argentine writer, Julio Cortazar.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This introductory story was well enough, but I was unprepared for the absolute joy of finding that his other tales were not just simple and inventive, but blindingly brilliant. 'The Most Profound Caress' was merely a signpost to a golden library. These stories are superb:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">House Taken Over</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">End of the Game</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Blow Up (made into a film starring David Hemmings)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We Love Glenda So Much</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A Change of Light</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Southern Highway</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Hopscotch:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the rest of his tales are merely awe-inspiring.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now, here I should warn you of spoilers, because I'm going to talk about one or two of the stories above. Myself, I don't mind a spoiler when it's literature. I can reread Poe and Hawthorne time and again when I obviously know the endings of the tales. I read them for the style, structure and originality: the talent and wonder of the writing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, I'll start with the second of Cortazar's stories that I read, namely 'We Love Glenda So Much'. This has at its heart a fan club who meet regularly to discuss the films of their idol, Glenda. The scene opens with the fact that Glenda has retired from film making at the height of her career and every film she has made has been <i>perfect</i>. However, later in life she announces to the world that she's going to make a come-back. The fans are horrified and they meet to discuss this terrible news, certain in their minds that any film she now makes will be bound to have flaws. Thus, they draw lots to choose one of their number to act and though nothing is explicit, one gathers what is going to happen with the last line of the story. '<i>On the untouchable heights to which we had raised her in exaltation, we would save her from the fall, her faithful could go on adoring her without any decrease; one does not come down from the cross alive.'</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My second favourite is 'The Southern Highway' which at certain times has a traffic jam which goes back miles into the countryside south of Paris. The reader is taken onto the highway where traffic has come to a standstill for days. There are people foraging in the fields for food, there are love affaires between the occupants of different vehicles, gangs have been formed to protect themselves against rival gangs. Then suddenly one day things begin to move again and drivers and passengers rush back to their vehicles. The groups and communities shatter and scatter. Lovers part, foragers drop potatoes and cabbages and run for their cars. We follow one of the male lovers who once he enters Paris turns in a different direction to the woman who has been his temporary bedfellow. The sorrow is strong, deep.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The third and the last that I am going to spoil is 'House Taken Over'. This is truly a diamond of speculative fiction. A brother and sister live in a house left them by their parents. They seem content and occupy themselves with their own interests, but always in the same room. One day the brother says, 'They've taken over the back part of the house.' So, they lock the door that leads to that place and go on with their lives, until another room is 'taken over' and the door to that room is locked. Gradually there is no room left that has not been 'taken over' though we never learn who or what has invaded their peaceful lives. They leave, dropping the keys down a drain. Given that it is a brother and sister, my own conclusion is that it involves incest and once the act has soiled a room, entry is then barred to that room - but, I could be totally wrong and it could be aliens or ants.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">When asked once by a would-be creative writer, 'How do I start a story?' Julio replied, 'You start in the middle and develop the story into a tornado using concentric circles.' Well, that isn't an <i>actual </i>quote, but I can't find the original and that's how I remember it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Julio Cortazar was not keen on writing novels: he wrote six in all. Whereas he wrote many, many short stories and essays. He also wrote a wonderful non-fiction work 'Around the Day in 80 Worlds'. In one section he describes a boxing match, one of the combatants, Kid Azteca, being a favourite of his. The feints and dodges of the Kid, he writes, turned his opponent's chaos into a perfect absence by becoming <i>an encyclopedia of holes</i>. Those last four words thrilled me to the core. This man, I thought, is a master of his profession.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Cortazar was one of the founders of the Latin American Boom, along with Marquez and Llosa. A teacher and lecturer his poetic prose was used alongside his extensive knowledge of history to write stories that fill me with yearning to reach up and touch the pen in his hand.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD5wWxnbnRI8N_rEgctE275YuwfsXHdyeeoEGY7h4507HkvdMtipQ5qYBw6wL-gBfc_qi8k6SeDz6k34V3JtoGOqdiHM-asPmk3pbBuHqr3XRIZf_nNaLaVCdARTyzCnX2dMFh9Q7pjSE/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="675" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD5wWxnbnRI8N_rEgctE275YuwfsXHdyeeoEGY7h4507HkvdMtipQ5qYBw6wL-gBfc_qi8k6SeDz6k34V3JtoGOqdiHM-asPmk3pbBuHqr3XRIZf_nNaLaVCdARTyzCnX2dMFh9Q7pjSE/" width="180" /></a></div><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-64317907976060499732021-01-13T12:15:00.000+00:002021-01-13T12:15:04.834+00:00<p><u> <span style="font-size: large;"><b>Inspirational People: No 2</b></span></u></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Carson McCullers</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It appears that I haven't posted a blog since 2019! The last being my Inspirational People: No1. It's not that I've run out of people who have influenced my life: it's that 'interesting times' have intervened and also I've been immersed in my first love in the writing world, short stories. Since going into lockdown and beyond I've written ten speculative fiction short stories and have enjoyed immensely the freedom of not having to write a novel to keep bread on the table. The bread has been purchased with my two pensions, neither of which are great, but happily bread is still quite inexpensive. There are a few royalties still coming in, in dribs and drabs, and the backlist is still selling to translations abroad. So, being incarcerated has its benefits, but oh, I do miss my travels to cloudless climes and starry skies. A trip to Goa has been paid for and is on hold, a trip to Switzerland, likewise. Then there's my little hideaway in La Herradura, Spain, which is feeling neglected. I stare out of my apartment window in the port of Felixstowe at the mighty container ships going in and out, and dream of exotic lands beyond the cold, grey waves of the North Sea.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">However, to get to Carson McCullers, a writer of Southern Gothic tales. Now, you might think that with a name like that you would be looking at a pony express rider of the American west. In fact for those who are not familiar with McCullers she was indeed an American and yes, she was a she and not some dusty cowboy with a fast Pinto. Carson McCullers was an exceptionally brilliant writer of short novels and short stories. She rivals my all-time favourite short story writer, Julio Cortazar, who's next on my list of inspirers.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The first of her short novels which came to my attention is still the one I love the most: <i>Ballad of the Sad Cafe</i>. It's love triangle between a male dwarf (sic) called Cousin Lymon; Miss Amelia, a robust and tough cafe owner, feared by the townspeople; and Marvin Macy, who 'has been to Atlanta'. Macy is a vicious and cruel character who was once married to Miss Amelia. Miss Amelia falls in love with Cousin Lymon, who returns her affections until Marvin Macy comes back to the isolated small town. Almost immediately, Cousin Lymon falls in love with Marvin and his worldliness and keeps repeating, 'Oh, Marvin Macy, he has been to Atlanta.' Macy goes to prison and when he's released he goes back to physically fight with Miss Amelia. Amelia is on the point of winning the contest when Cousin Lymon leaps on her and allows Macy to get the better of her. The two men then ransack and rob the cafe of anything value and then leave the town. It's not the ending I would have chosen, but I am not the writer. What impressed the hell out of me and made me fall in love with the novel is the quality of the writing and the sense of backwoods folklore. It is like no other novel I have read, completely without parallel, and after I put the book down I raised a shrine to McCullers in my head and was determined to read everything she had written.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Carson McCullers was born in Columbus, Georgia, in 1917. Her first novel is <i>The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. </i>Again, the characters are a collection of misfits and pariahs in a deep South small town. Next came <i>Reflections in a Golden Eye, </i>which takes place in a military setting. The film starring Marlon Brando and Elizabeth Taylor was excellent. After that <i>The Member of the Wedding</i></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">, where the reader is allowed to inspect the thoughts and dreams of a young girl attending her brother's wedding. The play of this novel had a long run on Broadway in the early 1950s.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Of her short stories, my favourite is <i>The Jockey.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">If you haven't read her, do try. The novels are short, so you don't have to plough through something as long as <i>A Suitable Boy</i>, to discover whether you like her writing. I have recommended her to others who have not found her work to their taste, but of course we all have different mental channels: some lead to marshes and bogs, while others happily lead to wide, blue oceans. I will always have a place in my heart for Carson McCullers' oeuvre and even as I write about those of her novels I read many years ago, I feel a thrill. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Never without health problems Carson McCullers died at the age of 50 in Nyack, New York.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-31715012701673436282019-03-24T15:08:00.000+00:002019-03-24T15:08:16.125+00:00Ten Inspirational People - No. 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">David Grey Rattray</span></b></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">One of my most treasured possessions is a set of cds entitled '<b>Day
of the Dead Moon</b>' which is the oral recounting of the Battles of Isandlwana
and Rorke's Drift. Islandlwana took place on a day when a solar eclipse
occurred, hence the title. These battles were of course those which took place
in KwaZulu Natal in 1879 between the British and the AmaZulu nation who had refused to
accept British rule. Rorke's Drift is the conflict which is better known to the
British public, possibly because this was the fight in which that although the
British were not victorious, they managed to fend off enormous odds. The Zulus
though are more likely to recall Isandlwana, where their impis were wholly
triumphant, massacring almost 2,000 of the invaders of their land, an
engagement in which only a handful of British soldiers escaped with their
lives. At Isandlwana the British encampment was attacked and eventually
overrun by 20,000 Zulus. At Rorke’s Drift, just over 150 regular troops faced up to 4,000 Zulu warriors and managed to hold their ground.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">In the late 1990s I began planning two novels which would
cover the Anglo-Zulu War of 1879. The first would concentrate on the events at
Isandlwana and Rorke's Drift, the second on the final battles ending with the
British victory at Ulundi, the Zulu capital and seat of their king, Cetshwayo
kaMpande. During the period of my research I acquired fellowship of the Anglo-Zulu
War Historical Society and had access to a myriad of books and also the audio
tapes of a one David Rattray, a white South African who had grown up with Zulu
children and had heard, and had become fascinated by, the stories of
Isandlwana. He is the first of the ten people who have been the inspirational
writing gurus who I intend depicting in my blog. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">In the 1990's David Rattray lived at the site of Rorke's Drift and
conducted tours of the battlefields. When I played the tapes (I now have the
cds) I was totally mesmerised by this man's gift for oral storytelling. I had
never heard anything like his soft powerful voice and the tremendous talent he
had for recounting a war between a nation with primitive weapons and an army
bearing modern armaments. It was spears and hide shields against Martini-Henry
rifles and field artillery. I played those tapes over and over again,
absolutely lost in the hynotic retelling of two engagements that took place in
the shadow of the Drakensberg Mountains.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">In his recounting of the history of these battles, David Rattray
took no sides, praising the 24th Foot (later the South Wales Borderers) and the
Zulus alike for their courage. He did however state that Isandlwana should not
be looked on as a British defeat, but a Zulu victory, a subtlety that impressed
me. I am also a fellow of the Royal Geographical Society and in the early 2000s
I was privileged to hear him speak at the society's lecture hall in London.
When he visited my grandson's school at Felsted in Essex and gave a talk to the
students there, I spoke to the man and shook his hand. Sadly, he was murdered
at the age of 48 in his home at Rorke's Drift while being burgled by six men. I
understand the person who fired the killing shot was a young Zulu and one
wonders whether his killer knew that a great deal of the money David Rattray
earned lecturing and guided tours was spent on the education of poor Zulu
children.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">David Rattray was an inspirational man. Being a teller of tales
myself, albeit in print, he filled me with awe and admiration for his
storytelling. In 1999 some Welsh troopers visited the battlegrounds and held a
memorial service in the chapel at Rorke's Drift. Thousands of Zulus came from
their homes to meet their erstwhile enemy and the two groups, both famed for
their ability to sing, joined together in a chorus that soared into the
surrounding hills. David Rattray was present to witness the event and
apparently he stood in the audience and wept. He is survived by a wife, Nicky,
who I understand carries on the work he so loved, amongst the people he loved.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">(For those interested in the two historical novels I wrote on the
Anglo-Zulu War, they are: </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><b>The Scarlet Sash </b>and <b>Dragoons. </b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">I also wrote a poem on Isandlwana:</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Iron Wind<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">[In 1879 2000
Zulus charged into a hail of<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">fire from 2000
Martini-Henry rifles.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It was at a
place called Isandlwana and after their <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">total victory
the Zulu youths used the battle cry:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">‘We are the
boys of Isandlwana’.]</span></b></div>
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We are the boys of
Isandlwana</div>
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who faced the iron
wind.</div>
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A furnace wind, </div>
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like the Saharan
Simoom</div>
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or Haboob of
Khartoum,</div>
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bringing madness on
its breath.</div>
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No shield can turn
it,</div>
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no mask,</div>
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no magic cloak.</div>
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Warriors are whisked
away</div>
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like broken straws.</div>
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Sometimes</div>
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it takes our heads
clean off.</div>
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We are the boys of
Isandlwana</div>
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who race at the fiery
rush,</div>
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into the bulleting blast,</div>
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for wind is only wind</div>
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and tomorrow the
enemy</div>
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will be calm</div>
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and quiet</div>
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and utterly still.</div>
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<br /></div>
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zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-58025050603809845132019-01-31T12:06:00.002+00:002019-01-31T12:06:39.354+00:00What I did on my holiday by Garry Kilworth aged 77 and three quarters.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;">On the 7th of January, 2019 Annette and I flew to Sri Lanka and set foot on its soil for the first time. (Actually, I had done that in November 1958, but was on my way for a tour in Singapore as an airman and we had simply stopped to refuel the Britania aircraft which was taking us to the Far East). We had booked a cheapish hotel near the airport and were catching the 'Express' to Ella on the next morning from Colombo's Fort Railway Station. We had booked the Observation Car, since the train was travelling through some of the lushest and most beautiful countryside Sri Lanka had to offer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Big mistake</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Observation Car, which we had expected to be the sort of goldfish bowl you get in the Canadian Rockies. It was not. It was a dilapidated, seedy carriage at the end of an incredibly long train which fishtailed uncomfortably for the whole journey. The glass dome we had expected turned out to be a window at the very end of the carriage through which you could see where you'd been, but of course not where you were going or to the sides. The wonderful green mountains, covered in rainforest, sped by and yes, we did see them through the dirty side windows, but actually the whole thing turned out to be a great disappointment and a very trying ride. The book said the journey from Colombo to Ella would be 7 hours. It was not. It turned out to be 11 really heavy hours which landed us at our destination well after dark had thudded onto the landscape.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Once we had found our homestay, a delightful place called Sita's Heaven, high up in the mountains, overlooking an incredible valley covered in rainforest, our spirits felt lighter. The small town itself had given its soul over to coffee houses, cafes and bars where the young could indulge their palates. There was a beautiful waterfall just outside the town and 625 steps cut into the rockface which took you to a high cave. Annette and I managed 300 of the steep steps, while our Aussie friends, Carolyn and Peter went on to do the rest. (They're younger, dammit). We waited for them in a tiny rock overhang where an enterprising local woman made tea on a Primus shove and pointed out Langer monkeys clambering around in the rocks and trees below.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After two pleasant days of dithering the four us took a car to Tissamaharama to the south, where we hoped to visit Yalla National Park and Bundala National Park. We were staying at Lakeside Cabana, a homestay with four huts on stilts overlooking a wonderful lake full of waders and water birds. It was indeed the sort of venue we'd hoped for and I managed to photograph several birds there including the beautiful scarlet Flameback Woodpecker. I did see a Paradise Flycatcher with its long trailing tail feathers, but it was too quick for my camera. It was ever thus throughout the whole trip with this elusive ball of feathers. Our one day visit to Yalla was disappointing. There were over a hundred jeeps chasing the animals in the park and twice we got hemmed in by vehicles and couldn't move for 20 minutes or more. We had been warned that it would be so, but we'd taken no notice and booked anyway. In fact we didn't see the leopard we wanted to see and it was, as I say, a disappointing trip. Bundala was much better. Only six or seven jeeps and plenty of wildlife, though sadly no leopards in that park. One day out walking I was approached by two young local students who had seen me snapping birds with my Lumix bridge camera. They turned out to be studying local ornithology and took me to three hidden forest places where there were owls to be had. A Jungle Owlet, a pair of Scops Owls and pair of Brown Fish Owls.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After Tissa, Peter and Carolyn left us, to do their own thing at Galle, while we went north again to meet with our 25 year-old grandson, Jordy, who had been in Australia for a few weeks and had agreed to spend some time with the oldies in Sri Lanka on his way home to UK. The sad thing for Jordy was, he is a single good-looking guy and there were many Scandinavian and other continental girls backpacking too, but who was going to look at a young man travelling with his grandparents? Anyway, we met with him at Nuwara Eliya and stayed a couple of nights in the mountains before going south again, to Udawalawe. This was one of our favourite places, where we swam in the river and had a great day in the game park, seeing Crested Eagles, Serpent Eagles, mongooses (yes, not mongeese), many elephants, buffaloes and a fantastic Black-Shouldered Kite. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At the end of four days, we said goodbye to Jordy, who went north to Ella and Kandy, looking (I hope) for those girls we had been a barrier to. We haven't heard from him since. Annette and I then went to Sinharaja, to a lovely homestay where the owner's son was a rainforest guide. What a wealth of wildlife was in that forest where we trekked the next day! Kangaroo Lizards, rare Blue-Faced Leaf Monkeys, several snakes, kingfishers, Hump-Nosed Lizards, Tarantulas, a Sea Eagle, an air battle between to Black Eagles (the largest eagles in the sky of Sri Lanka), lots more. It was a perfect end to our search for wildlife and we made the most of it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We finished the tour of south Sri Lanka with three days in Marissa and Galle, where we went whale watching and saw two Blue Whales, the largest mammals on the face of the Earth. Well, truth be told, we saw bits of them, since you only get to witness the curve of their backs and the fluke of course. When I wrote home about it, I said, 'We saw two Blue Whales, but it was just a fluke'. Nobody got it, so far as I knew, because all that came back was, 'How wonderful.' Actually, yes, it was wonderful, the whole trip.</span></div>
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zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-92057939157146617632018-10-12T10:35:00.001+01:002019-01-06T16:38:06.712+00:00Bibliography plus<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;">This is a bit of an indulgence, but just in case people were searching for one of my books, here's a list of practically everything I've written, plus a few extra bits of information.</span><br />
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 16pt;">Garry Kilworth</span></b><span lang="EN-US">: <b>Bibliography.</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Garry Kilworth's pseudonyms are: Garry Douglas Kilworth, Garry Douglas,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">F. K. Salwood, Richard Argent and Kim Hunter.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Novels</span></u></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">IN SOLITARY</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1977, Faber and Faber, (Science Fiction), translated into German, Italian and Polish. Published in USA.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">SPLIT SECOND</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1979, Faber and Faber, (Science Fiction), translated into German, Italian and Portugese. Published in USA.</span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">GEMINI GOD</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1981, Faber and Faber, (Science Fiction), translated into German and Portugese.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">A THEATRE OF TIMESMITHS</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1984, Victor Gollancz, (Science Fiction), translated into German, French and Portugese. Published in USA.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">WITCHWATER COUNTRY</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1986, The Bodley Head, (General Fiction), translated into German.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">SPIRAL WINDS</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1987, The Bodley Head, (General Fiction).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">CLOUDROCK</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1988, Unwin Hyman, (Science Fiction), translated into German, French and Portugese.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">ABANDONATI</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1988, Unwin Hyman, (Dystopia), translated into French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">HUNTER'S MOON (A story of foxes)</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1989, Unwin Hyman, (Animal Fantasy), translated into Dutch, German and Russian. Published in the USA by Doubleday. Published in abridged form by Reader’s Digest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">MIDNIGHT'S SUN (A story of wolves)</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1990, Unwin Hyman, (Animal Fantasy), translated into German and Russian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">STANDING ON SHAMSAN</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1992, Harper Collins, (General Fiction).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">FROST DANCERS (A story of hares)</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1992, Harper Collins (Animal Fantasy) Translated into German and Russian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">ANGEL</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1993, Victor Gollancz, (Supernatural Thriller). Translated into German, Norwegian and Russian. Sold in USA.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">ARCHANGEL</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1994, Victor Gollancz, (Supernatural Thriller). Translated into Norwegian, German, Russian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">HOUSE OF TRIBES</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1995, Bantam Books, (Animal fantasy), Translated into German, Russian and Polish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE ROOF OF VOYAGING</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1996, First part of Trilogy <b><u>The Navigator Kings</u></b>, Little Brown. (Polynesian Fantasy) Translated into German, French, Russian and Czech.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">A MIDSUMMER'S NIGHTMARE</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1996, Bantam Books, (Shakespeare's faires) Translated into French (Gallimard and Mnemos) and German.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE PRINCELY FLOWER, </span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">1997, Second part of Trilogy <b><u>The Navigator Kings</u></b>, Little Brown. (Polynesian Fantasy). Translated into German, French, Russian and Czech.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">LAND-OF-MISTS</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1998, Third part of Trilogy <b><u>The Navigator Kings</u></b>, Little Brown. (Polynesian Fantasy), Translated into German, French, Russian and Czech.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">SHADOW-HAWK</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1999, Orbit (Dyak Indian Fantasy), Translated into Czech, Translated into Russian and German.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Novels (as Kim Hunter)</span></u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">KNIGHT’S DAWN</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2000, Orbit <b>The Red Pavilions Book 1 </b>(Fantasy), Translated into Russian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">WIZARD’S FUNERAL</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2002, Orbit <b>The Red Pavilions Book 2 </b>(Fantasy),<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Translated into Russian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">SCABBARD’S SONG</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2003, Orbit <b>The Red Pavilions Book 3 (</b>Fantasy), Translated into Russian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Novels (as Garry Douglas or Garry Douglas Kilworth)</span></u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">HIGHLANDER</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1986, Grafton Books, (Novelisation of SF film), translated into Hungarian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE STREET</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1988, Grafton Books, (Horror).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE DEVIL'S OWN</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1997, HarperCollins, (Historical War Novel) - all the Crossman books have been translated into Norwegian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE VALLEY OF DEATH</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1998, HarperCollins, (Historical War Novel)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">SOLDIERS IN THE MIST</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1999, HarperCollins, (Historical War Novel)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE WINTER SOLDIERS</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2002, ConstableRobinson (Historical War Novel). Published in USA by Carrol and Graf.<b><u><o:p></o:p></u></b></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">ATTACK ON THE REDAN</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2003, ConstableRobinson (Historical War Novel).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Published in the USA by Carrol and Graf.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">BROTHERS OF THE BLADE</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2004, ConstableRobinson (Historical War Novel).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">ROGUE OFFICER, </span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2006, SevernHouse (Historical War Novel). Audio tape with Isis Publishing, 2007.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">KIWI WARS</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2008, SevernHouse (Historical War Novel). Audio cd.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">SCARLET SASH,</span></u></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"></span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2010, SevernHouse (Historical War Novel). Audio cd.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">DRAGOONS</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2011, SevernHouse (Historical War Novel). Audio cd.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE IRON WIRE</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2014, Infinity Plus Books (Historical Novel).<b><u><o:p></o:p></u></b></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE SOMETIMES SPURIOUS TRAVELS THROUGH TIME AND SPACE OF JAMES OVIT, </span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2017, Infinity Plus Books, (Science Fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Novels (as F K Salwood)</span></u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE OYSTERCATCHER'S CRY</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1993, Headline Books, (Essex Saga).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE SAFFRON FIELDS</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1994, Headline Books, (Essex Saga).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE RAGGED SCHOOL</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1995, Headline Books, (Essex Saga).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Novels (as Richard Argent)<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">WINTER’S KNIGHT, </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2010, Atom Books (Young Adult Historical Fantasy).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Short Story Collections</span></u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE SONGBIRDS OF PAIN</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1984, Victor Gollancz, (Science Fiction and Contemporary Fantasy), <i>Contains: The Dissemblers, The Rose Bush, Blind Windows, Lord of the Dance, Let's Go To Golgotha!, Sumi Dreams of a Paper Frog, Scarlet Fever, The Man Who Collected Bridges, The Invisible Foe, Almost Heaven, God's Cold Lips, Oubliette, The Songbirds of Pain.</i> Translated into French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">IN THE HOLLOW OF THE DEEP-SEA WAVE</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1989, The Bodley Head, (General Fiction and Contemporary Fantasy), <i>Contains: Novel - In The Hollow Of The Deep-sea Wave, Filming the Making of the Film of the Making of <u>Fitzcarraldo</u>, Blood Orange, Glory of the Seas, The River-Sailor's Wife, Feral Moon, Thunder of the Captains, Island with the Stink of Ghosts.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">IN THE COUNTRY OF TATTOOED MEN</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1993, HarperCollins, (Fantasy, Science Fiction and Horror Stories), Contains: <i>Truman Capote's Trilby: The Facts, In the Country of Tattooed Men, Surfing Spanish Style, The Black Wedding, Murderers Walk, Hogfoot Right and Bird-hands, The Men's Room, Dop*elgan*er, 1948, Usurper, Networks, Hobblythick Lane, Giant, Beyond Byzantium, Spiral Sands, On the Watchtower at Plataea, The Wall, Memories of the Flying Ball Bike Shop, x-Calibre, Bronze Casket for a Mummified <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shrew-mouse</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">HOGFOOT RIGHT AND BIRD-HANDS</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1993, Edgewood Press, USA, (Fantasy, Science Fiction and Horror Stories, Contains: <i>Spiral Sands, The Looking-Glass Man, Island with the Stink of Ghosts, Truman Capote's Trilby: The Facts, Doppelganger, Inside The Walled City, On The Watchtower at Plataea, 1948, White Noise, Usurper, Murderers Walk, The Vivarium, Hogfoot Right and Bird-hands.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">MOBY JACK AND OTHER TALL TALES</span></u></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2006, PS Publishing<b>.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Sculptor,Black Drongo, Bonsai Tiger, Attack of the Charlie Chaplins, Cherub, The Council of Beasts, The Frog Chauffeur, Hamelin Nebraska, Hunter’s Hall, Something’s Wrong with the Sofa, Exploding Sparrows, Death of the Mocking Man, Wayang Kulit, Inside the Walled City, My Lady Lygia, Oracle Bones, Paper Moon, Store Wars, The Megowl, The Silver Collar, Moby Jack.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">TALES FROM THE FRAGRANT HARBOUR</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2010, PS Publishing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Once-told Tales: <i>Chandler’s Coffin, Shoot-out in the New Territories, The Snake-man Cometh, Moon Day, Face, Children of the Volcano, Walking Caged Birds, Triads, The River-sailor’s Wife, Typhoon, Blood Orange, Mr Ho</i>Twice-told Tales: <i>Inside the Walled City, The Hungry Ghosts, The Dragon Slayer, The Cave Painting, Island with the Stink of Ghosts, Love Child, Snake Dreams, Waiting by the Corpse, Mirrors, Memories of the Flying Ball Bike Shop.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">PHOENIX MAN – 13 ECLECTIC TALES</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2011, Infinity Plus ebooks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Atlantic Crossing, 12 Men Born of Woman, Murders in the White Garden, Phoenix Man, Sacrificial Anode, Sunday Lunch, The Book of Explorers, On the Eyelids of a Wolf, The Night We Drove the Aliens Back, The Human’s Child, Out Back, Monsters X 3.</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE FABULOUS BEAST, </span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"> 2013, Infinity Plus Books. <i>The Fabulous Beast, Murders in the White Garden, Stalking Moon, 12 Men Born of Woman, Atlantic Crossing, Sacrificial Anode, On the Eyelids of a Wolf, Moretta, Spice, Out Back, The Farrier’s Wife, Call Centre Incident, The Human’s Child, La Belle Dame Sans Grace, Phoenix Man, Gifts, Monsters X 3, The Elf Killer.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF GARRY KILWORTH</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2017, Infinity Plus Books.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
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<u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Novels for Children and Young Adults</span></u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE WIZARD OF WOODWORLD</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1987, Dragon Books (Collins), (Science Fiction/Fantasy).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE VOYAGE OF THE VIGILANCE</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1988, Armada Books (Collins), (Science Fiction/Fantasy).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE RAIN GHOST</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1989, Hippo Books (Scholastic), (Contemporary ghost). Published in the USA, translated into French and Dutch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE THIRD DRAGON</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1991, Hippo Books (Scholastic), (Mystery). Translated into Norwegian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE DROWNERS</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1991, Methuen Childrens' Books, (Historical ghost). Cassette tape made, Chivers, 1993.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">BILLY PINK'S PRIVATE DETECTIVE AGENCY</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1993, Methuen Children's Books (Historical ghost). Broadcast on BBC Jackanory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE PHANTOM PIPER</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1994, Methuen Children's Books (Historical ghost).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE ELECTRIC KID</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1994, Bantam Books, (Science Fiction). Translated into Italian. Translated into Russian. Sold in USA.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE BRONTE GIRLS</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1995, Methuen Children's Books, (General Fiction). Translated into Italian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">CYBERCATS</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1996, Bantam Books (Science Fiction). Translated into Russian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE RAIDERS</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">,1996, Mammoth Books. (Conservation and Adventure).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE GARGOYLE</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1997, Mammoth Books, (Fantasy).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE WELKIN WEASELS: BOOK ONE - THUNDER OAK</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1997, Corgi Books, (Animal Fantasy). Translated into Polish and Russian. Re-translated into Russian by Palmyra Publishers (All six Weasel books).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">DRUMMER BOY</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1998, Mammoth Children's Books (Historical fiction).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">HEAVENLY HOSTS VERSUS HELL UNITED</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1998, (Graphic novel with artist Mark Oliver) Mammoth Epix.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE WELKIN WEASELS: BOOK TWO - CASTLE STORM</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1998, Corgi Books, (Animal fantasy). Translated into Polish and Russian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE LANTERN FOX</span></u></b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">,</span></u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">1998, Mammoth Books, (Fantasy).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE WELKIN WEASELS: BOOK THREE - WINDJAMMER RUN</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1999, Corgi Books, (Animal Fantasy). Translated into Polish and Russian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">HEY, NEW KID</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1999, Mammoth Books, (Realist).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE WELKIN WEASELS BOOK FOUR - GASLIGHT GEEZERS</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2001, (Animal fantasy) Corgin books. Translated into Russian.<b><u><o:p></o:p></u></b></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">SOLDIER’S SON</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2001, (Historical fiction), A&C Black.<b><u><o:p></o:p></u></b></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">MONSTER SCHOOL</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2001, (Graphic novel), A&C Black. Translated into Korean.<b><u><o:p></o:p></u></b></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE WELKIN WEASELS BOOK FIVE - VAMPIRE VOLES</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2002, (Animal fantasy), Corgi Books. Translated into Russian. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">NIGHTDANCER</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2002, (Polynesian dark fantasy), Dolphin Books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">SPIGGOT’S QUEST</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2002, (Faerieland), Atom Books. Translated into Russian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE WELKIN WEASELS BOOK SIX - HEASTWARD HO!</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2003, (Animal fantasy), Corgi Books. Translated into Russian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">MALLMOC’S CASTLE</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2003, (Faerieland) Atom Books. Published in Russia.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">BOGGART AND FEN</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2004, (Faerieland) Atom Books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE SILVER CLAW</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2005, (Animal fantasy set in Venice), Corgi Books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">ATTICA</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2006, (fantasy mystery), Atom Books. Translated into Polish, Portugese, German, Romanian, Korean, Turkish, Thai, Greek, Czech, Lithuania, Russian (Geleos), Italian. Film rights sold to Initial Entertainment of the Warner Group. Blackstone Audio Books, USA.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">JIGSAW</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2007, (Fantasy), Atom Books. Translated into Lithuanian and Russian (Geleos).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE HUNDRED-TOWERED CITY,</span></u></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"></span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2008, (Time Travel), Atom Books.Translated into Russian (Geleos), into Indonesian (Limkata Pt Niaga Swadaya).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">TENNYSON’S GHOST,</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2015, (Ghost story), e-book only Draft2Digital.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">VICCY RULES OK and THE ICEHOUSE BOY</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2015, e-book, Amazon Kindle Direct.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Short Story Collections for Young Adults</span></u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">DARK HILLS, HOLLOW CLOCKS</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1990, Methuen Children's Books, (Folklore Fantasy), <i>Contains: Dogfaerie, Dark Hills Hollow Clocks, The Dragon Slayer, The Goblin Jag, Warrior Wizards, The Sleeping Giants, The Hungry Ghosts, Changelings, The Orkney Trows, Scarecrows.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Non-fiction<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">ON MY WAY TO SAMARKAND</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2012, Memoirs of a travelling writer, Infinity Plus Books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Poetry<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">TREE MESSIAH</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1985, Envoi Poets Publication.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">POEMS, PEOMS AND OTHER ATROCITIES</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2013, A collection of poems by Garry Kilworth and Robert Holdstock. Stanza Press (PS Publishing).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">A RURAL 1950s BOYHOOD</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2017, Wild Hare Books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">ALCHEMY IN REVERSE,</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2017, Stanza Press.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">POEMS WRITTEN IN MY YOUTH</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2017, Wild Hare Books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Individual Short Stories</span></u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Let's Go To Golgotha!</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1974, Sunday Times Weekly Review (Dec 15th), translated into Polish, Czechoslovakian, Spanish, French and Danish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Soul of Colonel 607</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1975, anthologised in Gollancz/Sunday Times Best SF Stories. No editor, but forward by Brian Aldiss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Reaching Out</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1976, Science Fiction Monthly (Vol3No3).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">A Warrior Falls</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1979, anthologised in Pulsar Two, Penguin Books, Edited by George Hay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Grenzkrieg</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1979, SF Story Reader, Heyne. (In German Only).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">God's Cold Lips</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1979, anthologised in Aries 1, David and Charles, Edited by John Grant, translated into French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Man Who Collected Bridges</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1980, Amazing Magazine USA, (May Vol27No7). Translated into Czechoslovakian and French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Lord of the Dance</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1980, Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine USA (Nov Vol59No5). Translated into French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Toomey's Circus</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1981, Ad Astra Magazine (Vol1No6).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Rose Bush</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1981, Ad Astra Magazine (Vol3No13), translated into Czechoslovakian and French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Sumi Dreams of a Paper Frog</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1982, Extro Magazine (Vol1No1).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Scarlet Fever</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1982, Extro Magazine (Vol1No3), translated into Czechoslovakian and French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Oubliette</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1982, Ambit Magazine, (No90).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Almost Heaven</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1982, Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine, USA, (Feb Vol62No2). Translated into French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Blind Windows</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1982, Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine, USA, (Jul Vol63No1). Translated into Czech.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Invisible Foe</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1982, Isaac Asimov's Magazine, USA, (Jan Vol6No1). Translated into French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Love Child</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1982, anthologised in Fontana Book of Horror Stories, edited by Mary Danby.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The lights of the City</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1982, anthologised in Alien Monsters, Sparrow Childrens' Books, edited by Peter Davidson.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Dissemblers</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1983, Interzone Magazine, (Vol1No3). Translated into French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Tryst</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1983, anthologised in Fontana Book of Ghost Stories, edited by R Chetwynd-Hayes).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The House that Joachim Jakober Built</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1984, anthologised in Allen and Unwins, Beyond The Lands of Never, edited by Maxim Jakubowski. Film rights sold to Columbia Pictures.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Image in a Dark Glass</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1985, Twilight Zone Magazine, USA, (Vol5No3).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Spiral Winds </span></i></b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">(later Spiral Sands)</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1985, Interzone Magazine (Autumn No9), translated into French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Lost Gardens of Enid Blyton, Lucy Atwell, Beatrix Potter and the Rest of the Lads of the 32nd Parachute Regiment</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1985, Isaac Asmimov's Magazine, USA, (Mar Vol9No3), appeared also in illustrated magazine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Thunder of the Captains</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1985, Isaac Asimov's Magazine, USA, (Jun Vol9No6).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Songbirds of Pain</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1985, Omni Magazine, USA, (Aug Vol7No11), translated into Czechoslovakian and French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Final Assassin</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1985, Isaac Asimov's Magazine, USA, (Jan Vol9No1). Czeckoslovakian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Paper Moon</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1986, Omni Magazine, USA, (Jan Vol9No4).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Hobblythick Lane</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1986, Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine, USA, (Jul Vol71No1).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Angel's Eyes</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1986, Twilight Zone Magazine, USA, (Aug Vol6No3).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Vivarium</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1986, Interzone Magazine, (Spring No15).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Feral Moon</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1987, The Fiction Magazine, (Jul/Aug Vol6No6).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Doppelganger</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1987, Interzone Magazine, (Autumn No21).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Hogfoot Right and Birdhands</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1987, one of three stories under general title of <i>Tryptych</i>anthologised in Other Edens, Unwin Hyman, edited by Christopher Evans and Robert Holdstock, translated into Japanese and Polish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Black Wedding</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">(see Hogfoot Right and Birdhands).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Murderers Walk</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">(see Hogfoot Right and Birdhands).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Earth is Flat and We're All Like to Drown</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1987, Tales from the Forbidden Planet, Titan Books, edited by Roz Kaveney.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Looking-glass Man</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1988, Omni Magazine, USA, (Mar Vol10No6).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">On the Watchtower at Platæa</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1988, anthologised in Other Edens II, Unwin Hyman, edited by Christopher Evans and Robert Holdstock. Translated into Polish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Beyond Byzantium</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1988, anthologised in the World Fantasy Convention Programme Book.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Cave,</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">1988, Trivial Tales, Novacon 18 Special, BSFG.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Wall, </span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">1988, Trivial Tales, Novacon 18 Special, BSFG.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Blood Orange</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1989, collected in In The Hollow of The Deep-sea Wave, The Bodley Head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Glory of the Seas</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, (see Blood Orange).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The River-sailor's Wife</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, (see Blood Orange).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Island with the Stink of Ghosts</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, (see Blood Orange).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Silver Collar</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1989, anthologised in Blood is not Enough, Morrow USA, edited by Ellen Datlow, translated into Japanese, Czechoslovakian, Finnish and Italian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Filming the Making of the Film of the Making of <u>Fitzcarraldo</u></span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1989, Omni Magazine, USA, (Mar Vol11No6).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Ifurin and the Fat Man</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1989, Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, USA, (Mar Vol76No3).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Dogfaerie</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1989, anthologised in Hidden Turnings, Methuen Books, edited by Dianna Wynne Jones.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Bowmen in the Mist</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1989, Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, USA, (Jun Vol76No6).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Men's Room</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1989, Interzone Magazine, (May/June No29).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">White Noise</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1989, anthologised in Zenith, Sphere Books, edited by David Garnett.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Usurper</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1989, anthologised in Dark Fantasies, Legend Books, edited by Chris Morgan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Snake Dreams</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1989, anthologised in Tarot Tales, Legend Books, edited by Rachel Pollack and Caitlin Matthews.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">When the Music Stopped</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1989, anthologised in Other Edens III, Unwin Hyman, edited by Christopher Evans and Robert Holdstock, co-written with Christian Lehmann.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Truman Capote's Trilby: The Facts</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1990, BBR Magazine, (Spring No 15).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Surfing, Spanish Style</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1990, The Gate Magazine, (No2). Translated into Polish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">X-Calibre</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1990, anthologised in Zenith II, Sphere Books, edited by David Garnett.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Dark Hills, Hollow Clocks</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1990, collected in Dark Hills, Hollow Clocks, Methuen Books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Goblin Jag</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, (see Dark Hills). Translated into French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Orkney Trows</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, (see Dark Hills).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Scarecrows</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, (see Dark Hills).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Warrior Wizards</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, (see Dark Hills).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Changelings</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, (see Dark Hills).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Sleeping Giants</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, (see Dark Hills).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Hungry Ghosts</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, (see Dark Hills).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Dragon Slayer</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, (see Dark Hills). Translated into French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Bronze Casket for a Mummified Shrew-Mouse</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1990, anthologised in Digital Dreams, New English Library, edited by David V Barrett.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Amorous Adventures of Hogfoot Right</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1990, anthologised in Arrows of Eros, New English Library, edited by Alex Stewart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Networks</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1990, anthologised in Fantasy Tales Magazine <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">(Vol12No5).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Inside The Walled City</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1990, anthologised in Walls of Fear, edited by Kathryn Cramer, Morrow Books, USA.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">In The Country of Tattooed Men</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1990, Omni Magazine, USA, (Sep Vol12No12). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Hamelin, Nebraska</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1991, Interzone Magazine (No48, June). Translated into French<i>Legendes</i>anthology.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Woodman's Enigma</span></i></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">,</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">1991, Haunting Christmas Tales, Scholastic Books. (Read by Edward de Suza, BBC5 21 Dec 92) Translated into Norwegian. Sold in USA.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Ragthorn</span></i></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">,</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">1991, The Whisper of Blood, Morrow (USA), anthology edited by Ellen Datlow. (Collaboration with Robert Holdstock). Translated into French and Czech. Stand-alone paperback, by Infinity Plus, 2015.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Memories of the Flying Ball Bike Shop</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1992, Isaac Asimov's Magazine, June Issue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Sculptor</span></i></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">,</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">1992, Interzone Magazine (No 60, June), translated into Czechoslovakian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Home</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1992, Works.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Megowl</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1992, Young adults' anthology Chilling Christmas Tales, Scholastic Books. Translated into Norwegian and Greek.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Elevator</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1992, Darklands 2, edited by Nicholas Royle, Egerton Press.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">My Lady Lygia</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1992, REM Sf and fantasy magazine Issue 2.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Cave Painting</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1992, Omni Best Science Fiction 2 anthology edited by Ellen Datlow, Omni Books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">1948</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1992, Strange Plasma Magazine, No.5, ed. Steve Pasechnick.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Fossils</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1993, Interzone Magazine, (No 69, March).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Hunter's Hall</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1993, Mysterious Christmas Tales, anthology, Scholastic Books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Giant</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1993, In The Country of Tattooed Men, collected stories, HarperCollins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Punctuated Evolution</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1993, CRANK! Magazine, Issue No.1.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Face</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1993, Trafika, International Literary Magazine, Prague,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Autumn, Issue No. One.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Oracle Bones</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1993, Touch Wood (Narrow Houses Vol.2), anthology, Little Brown, edited by Peter Crowther.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Black Drongo</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1994, Omni Magazine, (USA), (Vol.16 No.8), May.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Store Wars,</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">1994, The Anthology of Fantasy and Supernatural, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton (Tiger Books).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Nerves of Steel,</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">1994, New Worlds 4 Science Fiction anthology edited by David Garnett (Victor Gollancz).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Tallow Tree</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1994, Cold Cuts II (More tales of terror) edited by Paul Lewis and Steve Lockley (Alun Books).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Wayang Kulit</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1994, Interzone Magazine (No 90 December Issue) edited by David Pringle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The House That Jack Built</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1994, 13 More Tales of Horror, (Point Horror) edited by Anne Finnis (Scholastic).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Waiting by the Corpse</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1995, Maelstrom, edited by Malcolme E Wright (Sol Publications).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Cherub</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1995, Heaven Sent, anthology edited by Peter Crowther (Daw Books, USA). Translated into French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Rattan Collar</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">1995, 13 Again (Point Horror), Scholastic Books, edited by Anne Finnis. Translated into Czech.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Triads</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1995, Heart to Heart, Mammoth Books, Anthology edited by Miriam Hodgson.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Masterpiece</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1995, Ruby Slippers, Golden Tears, Morrow Books, Anthology edited by Ellen Datlow and Terry Windling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">{CENTURY! 100 STORIES PUBLISHED OVER 20 YEARS}<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Singing Rock</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1996, Kimota 4 SF Fantasy Magazine, edited by Graeme Hurry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Council of Beasts</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1996, Interzone Magazine (September Issue No. 111), edited by David Pringle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Goatboy and the Giant, </span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">1966, Fantasy Stories, Anthology edited by Mike Ashley with an Introduction by myself, Robinson Books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Something's Wrong With The Sofa</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1997, The Edge, edited by Graham Evans.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Trial of Hansel and Gretel</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1997, Black Swan, White Raven, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling, Avon Books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Attack of the Charlie Chaplins</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1997, New Worlds anthology edited by David Garnett, White Wolf Books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Moby Jack</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1997, The Edge, edited by Graham Evans.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Mirrors</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1998, Sirens and other Daemon Lovers, Edited by Terri Windling and Ellen Datlow, HarperCollins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">We Are The Music Makers</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1999, Zetnet Internet Website, Keith <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Frog Chauffeur</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1999, Silver Birch, Blood Moon, anthology by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling, Avon Fiction. Translated into French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Death of the Mocking Man</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 1999, Interzone Magazine No.147 edited by David Pringle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Bonsai Tiger</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2000, Spectrum SF 1 edited by Paul Fraser.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Stray, </span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2000, Spiral Words 5, edited by Mike Stone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Sharpshooter,</span></i></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"></span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2001, ‘Sword of Honour’ anthology edited by Mike Ashley, Robinson<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Elephant Island, </span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2002, SORTED!, a Rigby Navigator anthology of 3 children’s stories.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Phoenix Man, </span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2005, ‘Don’t Turn Out The Light’ anthology edited by Stephen Jones. PS Publishing.<b><i><o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Gifts,</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2005/6, Broadcast by BBC Radio.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Murders in the White Garden</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2006, Postscripts Magazine, edited by Peter Crowther.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">12 Men Born of Woman</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2006, Postscripts Magazine edited by Peter Crowther.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Human’s Child, </span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2006, In the Country of Tattooed Men and Other Cyphers, Humdrumming Books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Green Man Tennis Club, </span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2006, In the Country etc., Humdrumming Books.<b><i><o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Alien Embassy, </span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2006, In the Country etc., Humdrumming Books. [<b>Reprinted in the Penguin ‘Science Fiction Omnibus’ edited by Brian Aldiss].</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Sacrificial Anode, </span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2006, The First Humdrumming Book of Horror Stories, selected by Ian Alexander Martin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Atlantic Crossing, </span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"> 2008, Post Scripts 15, edited by Peter Crowther.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Alles in Ordnung, </span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2009, We Think, Therefore We Are, anthology edited by Peter Crowther.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">La Belle Dame Dans San Grace</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2009, The British Fantasy Society Yearbook.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Hats off to Mary, </span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2010, ‘Requiems for the Departed’ anthology edited by Mike Stone and Gerard Brennan. Morrigan Books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Out Back</span></i></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">,</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2010, BFS Convention Programme Booklet, edited by Guy Adams.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Moretta,</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2011, House of Fear Anthology, edited by Jonathan Oliver, Solaris.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Fabulous Beast</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2012, BFS Journal edited by Guy Adams, Lou Morgan, Ian Hunter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Stalking Moon, </span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2013, ‘The Fabulous Beast’ collection published by Infinity Plus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Spice,</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2013, ditto.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Call Centre Incident, Procyon 3</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2013, ditto.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Monsters x 3</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2013, ditto.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Elf Killer</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2013, ditto.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">On the Eyelids of a Wolf</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">, 2013, ditto.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Farrier’s Wife,</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2012, ditto.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Watchers,</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">‘Tales from the Vatican Vaults’, anthology edited by David V Barrett, 2015.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Secret Atlas, </span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2015,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Seducing an Angel, </span></i></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2016, ‘Scarlet Street Magazine’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">43 novels<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">33 young adult novels<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">9 collections of short stories<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2 Non-fiction books<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">145 individual short stories<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">5 Collections of Poetry<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Awards and near misses</span></u></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">: (Garry Kilworth)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">WINNER</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">of the Gollancz/Sunday Times Best SF Prize (short story) for <b><u>Let's Go To Golgotha!</u> (1974)</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">WINNER</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">of the World Fantasy Award (Novella) for <b><u>The Ragthorn</u>(1992)</b>written with Robert Holdstock. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">WINNER</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">of the Interzone Magazine readers' Short Story Poll for <b><u>The Sculptor</u>(1992)</b>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">WINNER</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">of the British Science Fiction Association award for <b><u>The Ragthorn</u></b>(1994) written with Robert Holdstock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">WINNER</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">of the Interzone Magazine readers' Short Fiction Poll for<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Ragthorn</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">(1994) written with Robert Holdstock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">WINNER</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">of The Lancashire County Library/National Westminster Bank <b><u>Children's Book of the Year Award</u></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">for the novel <b>THE ELECTRIC KID</b>, (1995).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">WINNER </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">of the Locus online ‘Best SF, Fantasy and Horror of 2006’ (Collections) for <b>MOBY JACK AND OTHER TALL TALES.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">WINNER </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">of the <b>Charles Whiting Award for Literature, 2008.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Runner up for the East Anglia 'Angel' Award for Fiction (Novel and short stories) for <b>IN THE HOLLOW OF THE DEEP-SEA WAVE (1990)</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Library Association's <b>Carnegie Medal</b><b>Commendation</b>for the juvenile novel <b><u>The Drowners</u>(1992)</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shortlisted for British Science Fiction Association Award (Short Story): four different years for<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Dissemblers</span></u></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">(1983), <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Spiral Winds</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"><b>(1985)</b>, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Hogfoot Right and Birdhands</span></u></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">(1987)</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Sculptor</span></u></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">(1993).</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shortlisted for the Grand Prix de L’Imaginaire for (Short Story, Novella, Novel)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> Abandonati</span></u></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">(1992)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Sculptor </span></u></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">(2000)<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></b></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Ragthorn</span></u></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">(2001)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shortlisted for World Fantasy Award (Short Story) for <b><u>Hogfoot Right and Birdhands</u>(1987)</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shortlisted for World Fantasy Award (Short Story Collection) for <b>THE SONGBIRDS OF PAIN. (1984)<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shortlisted for Smarties' Prize for <b><u>The Drowners</u>(1992)</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shortlisted for World Fantasy Award (Short Story Collection) for <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">HOGFOOT RIGHT AND BIRDHANDS</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">(1994).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shortlisted for the Carnegie Medal for juvenile novel <b><u>The Brontë Girls</u></b>(1996)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shortlisted for the Stockton Children's Book Prize for <b><u>The Gargoyle</u></b>(1998).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shortlisted for the Stockton Children's Book Prize for <b><u>Drummer Boy</u></b>(1999).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Longlisted for the Booker Prize for <b><u>Witchwater Country</u></b>(1986)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Translated into the following languages</span></u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">1. German<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">2. Polish<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">3. Japanese<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">4. Portugese<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">5. French<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">6. Dutch<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">7. Hungarian<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">8. Czechoslovakian<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">9. Spanish<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">10. Danish<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">11. Finnish<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">12. Italian</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">13. Hebrew</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">14. Norwegian<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">15. Russian<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">16. </span></b><!--[endif]--><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Greek<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">17. </span></b><!--[endif]--><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Turkish<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">18. </span></b><!--[endif]--><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Thai<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">19. </span></b><!--[endif]--><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Korean<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">20. </span></b><!--[endif]--><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Romanian<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">21. </span></b><!--[endif]--><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Lithuanian<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">22. </span></b><!--[endif]--><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Indonesian<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">23. </span></b><!--[endif]--><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Belgium’s Walloon and Flemish<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Publishers to date</span></u></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Faber and Faber Knaur (Germany)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Black Lizard (USA) Octobus Books Ltd<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">The Bodley Head Corvus (USA)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Penguin Books St Martin’s Press (USA) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Victor Gollancz Morrow (USA)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Unwin Hyman Head of Zeus (USA)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Random House Zebra Books (USA)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Little Brown Barnes and Noble<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Grafton Creed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Constable Robinson The Book Company<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Carrol and Graf Ace Books New York<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Harper Collins Cemetery Dance Publications<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Hodder and Stoughton Omni Books (USA)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Collins Hamlyn<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">A&C Black Fontana<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Scolastic Sphere<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Reed Orbit<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Severn House New English Library<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">PS Publishing Avon Books New York<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Infinity Plus Books Solaris<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Simon and Schuster Bantam Spectra (USA)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Random House Broken Mirrors Press<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Methuen Dreamhaven Books (USA)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Tor (USA) Warner Books (USA)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Daw (USA) Hemiro (Russia)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Weidenfeld and Nicolson (New York) Rokurin Sha</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Berkley Books (New York) Le Livre de Poche (France)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Piper (Germany) Geleos (Russia)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Azbooka (Russia) Terre de Brume (France)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Salani Editore (Italy) Mnemos (France)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Mora Fenenc Konyvkiado (Hungary) Editions de l'Oxymore (France)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Manticore (France) Talpress<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Editions Chantecler (Belgium) Editions Delta (Belgium)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Forum (Denmark) Blanvalet (Germany)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Caminho (Portugal) Hayakawa (Japan)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Bosch & Kuening (Netherlands) Fredhois Forlag (Norway)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">White Wolf Publishing David and Charles<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Xanadu<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Some Reviews of Garry Kilworth's Books</span></u></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">His characters are strong and the sense of place he creates is immediate and strong. (Sunday Times)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE SONGBIRDS OF PAIN is excellently crafted . . . Kilworth is a master of his trade. (Punch Magazine)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Arguably the finest writer of short fiction today, in any genre. (New Scientist)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">SPIRAL WINDS: A subtle, poetic novel about the power of place - in this case the South Arabian Deserts - and the lure of myth. It haunted me long after it ended. (City Limits Magazine)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">HUNTER'S MOON: The one talking-animal book you <u>must </u>read . . . a thrilling novel. (White Dwarf Magazine)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">ABANDONATI: Full of hope, irony and despair and as moving in its understated way as <u>Riddley Walker</u>, the last post-apocalypse novel worth paying hard cash for. (Time Out Magazine)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">WITCHWATER COUNTRY: Atmospherically overcharged like an impending thunderstorm. (The Guardian)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE NIGHT OF KADAR: An utterly original and important work that promotes is author to the first rank . . . (Newsagent and Bookshop)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">A THEATRE OF TIMESMITHS: A convincing display of fine talent. (The Times)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">A British writer who shows great versatility and invention . . . Kilworth has a fertile, wideranging imagination. (Library Journal)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">WITCHWATER COUNTRY: Garry Kilworth is a remarkable writer. (Knave Magazine)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">CLOUDROCK: Kilworth [is] one of the most significant writers in the English language. (Fear Magazine)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">HUNTER'S MOON: A rich and beautiful novel, uplifting, exciting . . . intelligent, quick and humorous, the positive praises flow forth unhindered when reading this splendid story. (Swedish Library Service).<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE DROWNERS: Kilworth achieves a great depth of emotion and storytelling. (Time Out)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">IN THE COUNTRY OF TATTOOED MEN: The tales are haunting, often almost poetic, but still chilling. (Fantasy Zone - Martin Feekins)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">IN THE COUNTRY OF TATTOOED MEN: . . . A masterpiece of balanced and enigmatic storytelling . . . Kilworth has mastered the form.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">(Times Literary Supplement.)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE DROWNERS: . . . a gripping story, an array of memorable characters, a sense of period and community in prose that ripples with images from the waterlands. (Viewpoint - Melbourne University)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">DARK HILLS, HOLLOW CLOCKS: Children who enjoy rich, evocative language will be well served here: some of Kilworth's (tales), as in the 'The Goblin Jag', are magnificent. (Times Ed. Supplement).<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE NAVIGATOR KINGS: His characters are both believably heroic and believably flawed; the complex culture of the Polynesians is admirably invoked and the interaction of the world and its gods and spirits is executed with a casual yet precise playfulness. (Paul J McAuley - Interzone Magazine).<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">A MIDSUMMER'S NIGHTMARE: The book's a delight - I love it!' (Fay Weldon - Mail On Sunday).<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE ROOF OF VOYAGING: An absolute delight, based on the myths and legends of the Polynesian peoples. (Mark Morris - SFX Magazine)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE PRINCELY FLOWER: Kilworth's enthralling writing transforms myths into reality. (Sharon Gosling - SFX Magazine).<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">This is a great, great, great book. (Roger Swift - Black Tears)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">LAND OF MISTS: Rich and detailed legends are woven with myth and fiction in this great fantasy. The final volume of a wonderful trilogy. (Aaron Baker -Black Tears)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">A beautiful ending to an excellent saga. (Sharon Gosling - SFX Magazine)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">SHADOW-HAWK: This book is wonderful, representing as it does, good fun without complications, and joy without debt. (David Mathew - Interzone Magazine).<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">A richly evocative tale (which) examines the cultural interpretation of myths and legends from both European and Borneo perspectives. (SFX Magazine)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">VAMPIRE VOLES: This book is mostly exciting, with hardly an exceptions. (Tim, aged 13 - Cool Reads Magazine)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">CASTLE STORM: This is a delightful book, the second in his series for children <i>The Welkin Weasels</i>. (Lesley Hatch - Vector Magazine).<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">SPIGGOT’S QUEST: The humour is at times delightfully topical and a nice touch. (Rachel A Hyde - Myshelf.com)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">GASLIGHT GEEZERS: The characters are fascinating and the author weaves a fantastic and colourful image of life in the animal side of Welkin. (Sarah Hutchinson aged 12 - Young Adult Review News)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">DARK HILLS, HOLLOW CLOCKS: One is left in no doubt about the quality of the writing or of Kilworth’s talent . . . (Times Educational Supplement)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE DEVIL’S OWN: Rip-roaring adventure at the time of the Crimean War . . . military history brought vividly to life. (Manchester Evening News)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE SILVER CLAW: A gripping tale of intrigue and menance, plots and counterplots, set within the richness of a watery city . . . a must-read. (Teaching and Learning)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE SILVER CLAW: a thrilling book of intrigue and dark plots. (Write Away!)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">JIGSAW: Beautifully written and cleverly paced, Jigsaw brings the lost mix of desert islands and peculiar goings-on to a younger audience. Character interaction gives vital depth to a very satisfying thriller. (The Bookbag, 4<sup>th</sup>November, 2007).<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-57459835044642143472018-08-16T09:47:00.000+01:002018-08-16T09:47:06.709+01:00A Short Story.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;">Readers of my age may recognise the family in this story from a series of books written in the early 1900s.</span><div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 22pt;">The Blackwall Tunnel Trolls</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>a short story by<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>Garry Kilworth<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘It’s been in the newspapers.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘Which one?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘I don’t know - all of them. I saw it somewhere. Stop that, Billy,’ turning round. ‘Leave your big sister alone.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘It wasn’t me, it was her.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘I don’t care who it was, you don’t hit your big sister.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> Father was annoyed that his argument with mother had been interrupted. He was clearly nervous, mother could see that. However, she couldn’t leave it there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘Well how did they get here?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘I believe they stowed away on a ship going from Norway which called in at Glasgow.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘But Glasgow’s a long way from London,’ she pointed out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘Jack Laver says they cling to Eddie Stobart lorries - camouflage you know - trolls are the same colour.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘What? Red and green?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘No, just dark green,’ father snapped, irritated by this cross-examination. ‘Trolls are dark green. At least, the ones from Norway are.’ His voice took on a horrified tone. He shuddered, before adding, 'Apparently they look <i>horrible</i>. I'm told some people have died of shock simply at the sight of them.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘And now they’re under the tunnel?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘<i>In</i>the tunnel,’ filled in Bob. ‘If you believe in such rubbish.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> Father glanced in the rear-view mirror at his eldest son occupying one of the three of the back seats.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘Thank you for that input, Bob. What is relevant is the fact that there have been several deaths. People dragged from their cars and . . . and . . .’ father swallowed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘Eaten,’ finished Ethel. ‘Ripped to bits and gobbled up.’ She started singing. ‘<i>I’m a troll, foldee-ol . . .’<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘. . . and I’ll eat you for sup-per!’ </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">finished Billy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘That’s enough,’ said mother. ‘You’re annoying your father.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘Oh come on, mother.’ Bob laughed. ‘You can’t believe everything you read in the tabloids. They’re often full of rubbish. If I’m learning anything at university, it’s that.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘I would have said so too,’ father replied, ‘but there’s been too many reports to dismiss it as fiction. Jack Laver says . . .’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘Jack Laver’s a boozy twit,’ Bob interrupted. ‘Everyone says so.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> 'Well I respect Jack Laver's opinion,' was the only answer father had to this defamatory remark on his golf club companion. 'He said the trolls are invincible and I believe him.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> One would have thought that father was a coward, yet he had fought bravely in a war: indeed he had been awarded a commendation for his courage under fire. However, here he was, terrified out of his brains by a fictitious carnivorous monster simply because he had been told he ought to be. It was his work that did this to him. Sitting behind a desk should have permanently stultified his imagination. Instead all his fantasies were released at weekends in a huge surge, having been pent up for five dull days. Everyone else in the car was were aware that the Blackwall trolls was an April Fool spoof invented by the media.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> They sped along the M25 motorway, towards the Dartford. Going there they had to cross the one-way bridge over the river Thames, the other way - coming back - they could have crossed the Thames through the Dartford tunnel but this was closed for repairs. They were on their way to Blue Water, the huge shopping complex which mother loved. It was not a life or death visit. No one would expire if they had postponed or cancelled the trip. Billy hated shopping, father’s shopping-tolerance was about two hours, Bob was fine so long as he was left to roam the sports’ shops at will. Ethel could shop alongside mother until one of them fell from exhaustion. Father was the driver and did what mother wanted, most of the time. It had seemed stupid to cancel the trip before they left the house. Now they were getting closer to the bridge, such action seemed to him to make a little more sense.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘Do you think we should turn around?’ asked mother, winking at Billy. ‘I mean, if it’s true . . .’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> Father nodded at the rear view mirror.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘I saw that - I’m not stupid.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘Of course not dear,’ said mother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> The sky under which the car was travelling had blackened considerably in the last half-hour. Great thunderclouds rolled over themselves above. There had been a few patches of light blue earlier, but these seemed to have disappeared. Certainly the sun had now been smothered, even if no rain fell. With the coming of the dark heavens was a distinctly chill wind which whistled through an invisible gap between the nearside rear window and the car door frame.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘Ethel, can you close that?’ father requested. ‘The window?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘You have to do it from the front,’ Ethel explained. ‘You’ve locked it from us.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘Oh, yes.’ Father closed the window tight and turned up the heating a little. ‘I don’t like the look of that sky.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘I hope it doesn’t storm,’ said Billy. ‘Jumble hates storms, ‘specially when I’m not there.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘The dog is in good hands,’ replied father. ‘Mrs Prendergast said she would take very good care of him.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> ‘Least he won’t be et by the trolls,’ said Billy, darkly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> No one commented on this remark, not even father. The family head was quite prepared to ignore the jeers of his wife and children. He was more than a little worried, having seen a Panorama programme in which friends and relatives of alleged victims of the trolls had recounted their experiences. Then there had been that report of an increase in carnivorous fish in the Thames, some said feeding on the waste blood and gore that had reached the river through the drains. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Father had heard too many stories to dismiss the trolls as mythical.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Mother had at first pretended to go along with father, but only for a short way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Ethel, the most level-headed of the family, was disgusted with father’s gullibility. There were no disquieting feelings in her breast. She only read the broadsheet newspapers and watched documentaries on the television. Not because she was especially bookish, but in order to stun any boring know-it-all boyfriends with her knowledge. She hated it when men told her stuff that was supposed to impress her and show her that she was just a girl and they were superior beings. As well as the Panorama programme, there had been several other documentaries which had treated the subject of the trolls with serious consideration. Ethel however had from the very start remained a fully-fledged member of the camp of disbelievers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Well, there’s the bridge,’ said father, a sinking feeling in his chest. ‘Let’s get it over with.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The Queen Elizabeth II bridge curved up and over the Thames majestically, its cables taut and singing in the wind, its girders braced and its stanchions sure-footed. Like most modern bridges of any great size, it was beautiful. You had to be a Philistine not appreciate that magnificent sweep of the arch which was painted on the broad sky ahead. Father used to have a special feeling about bridges - before the trolls came, that is - and believed them to be the architectural equivalent of fine art. Now of course they had a dark side to them, or under them, and all that love of arc and arrow-straightness had been soured.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Soon be over it,’ father murmured, as they began the drive up the ascent along with a scores of other vehicles in the several lanes. ‘Soon be over and off into Kent.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Indeed they had left Essex and were in no-man’s-land, or to be more precise in this p.c. age, over no-person’s-water. They were soaring above that ancient river Old Father Thames, a title which might or might not be p.c., he was not sure. Father was not sure about a great deal these days, but he guessed that was a consequence of growing old in a fast-moving technological age. Father had great difficulty in understanding new electronic equipment: programme recorders, music players, mobile phones, and even new car engines. Once upon a time he could strip down the engine of his Morris Minor in a twinkling. It would take light years before he could do the same with his current car and then he would not have a clue how to put all the bits back together again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Now they were on the down-curve of the bridge, hurtling towards the pay booths. Billy was given a pound coin by his mother and he pressed the switch to make the window go down, forgetting that his father had locked the controls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘I’ll manage your window, Billy,’ said father, ‘when the time comes. We don’t want it open wider than necessary or for longer than we have to. I’ve been told the trolls have been migrating to the Dartford tunnel as well. Did you know they can squeeze themselves through a gap no wider than the crack under a door . .?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Oh, father!’ cried Ethel. ‘Please!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Father ignored this attack on his credulity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">When they reached the booths, he slid the back offside window halfway down and Billy threw the coin towards the bin. Unfortunately it struck the rim of the basket and bounced away, into the next lane. They whole family watched it roll under a silver-grey Mercedes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Missed,’ said Billy, half-opening the car door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Leave it!’ cried father, sharply. ‘I have another.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Father slid his own window down and tossed a second pound coin. This time it successfully rattled in the wire basket. The barrier bar went up and father surged forwards beneath it, suppressing a gasp of relief.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Mother said, ‘What a waste of money.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Better a waste of money than a waste of life. How much is Billy worth in monetary terms?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Three pee?’ suggested Bob.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Billy punched his older brother on the arm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Once the capital of shopping malls was reached, without incident, everyone calmed down. They split up, going three different ways. Father and Billy went for burger and then to an electronic’s store. Bob decided he needed a new jacket. The two femailes were of the firm opinion that they needed whole new wardrobes and intended to enjoy themselves thumbing every garment that hung on a rack. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Everyone met up at four o’clock in the car park and father soon had the engine running.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Stomachs started to churn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Homeward bound,’ said father with false cheerfulness. ‘Soon be there, eh?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">No one said a word until they reached the entrance to the Blackwall tunnel, where Billy suddenly announced he wanted the toilet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘I’ll burst if I don’t go.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Indeed he was bright red and squirming.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">There was a layby, with toilets, just before the tunnel entrance, though no other cars had parked there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Stop dad!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Father automatically turned into the lay-by before he realised what he was doing. A feeling of horror swept through him. Hastily he crunched into first gear and prepared to pull out again, into the traffic stream. Billy saw what he was doing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The boy protested loudly. ‘Dad, I’ve to go. I’ll do it in my pants.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Still, father was desperate to get out into that fast-moving flow of traffic, heading for the safety of the London hinterland.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Mother said, ‘Let Billy use the toilet. You can’t just ignore him like that. Bob, you go with him.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘No!’ father said. ‘There - there might be unsavoury characters about . . .’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘I’ve got my mobile,’ muttered Bob. ‘If there’s any problem I can call the police - look, there’s a police car over there, back there on the A2. Stop panicking. Really father, you have to get a grip on yourself or you’ll end up in the loony bin.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Is my own mobile switched on?’ asked father, realising he was losing ground. ‘Where is it?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Here in my hand,’ replied mother, ‘Ethel switched it on for you before we started the journey, didn’t you, my love?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘It’s on - I did it before we left.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘I suppose we’re not actually <i>in </i>the tunnel,’ said father, looking round at all the hundreds of cars zooming by in the nearby lanes. ‘As I understand it, the trolls like the damp dark corners where they can’t be seen. This is probably too far away . . .’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Bob and Billy were already out of the vehicle, Bob striding behind the boy who was running ahead for the toilets. They both disappeared around the back of the building where the Gentlemen’s entrance was situated. Father tried to calm down and think of pleasant things: the good old days, when he could sack members of his staff for incompetence without having to defend his actions at later tribunals; a time when he could clip Billy around the ear without fear of criminal prosecution; a period of his life when they went to Southend-on-sea for their holidays and did not have to fly halfway round the globe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">He jerked himself out of his dreamworld.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘They’re taking a long time,’ he said, peering through the gloom. The storm was coming back again. ‘What’s keeping them?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘I need to stretch my legs,’ said Ethel. ‘I’ll go and see where they are.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Before father could stop her she too was striding across the concrete and had disappeared behind the toilet block.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Mother and father waited - and waited - and waited. Soon it began to rain. Lightning ripped the sky above the bridge behind the car. Thunder smacked the belly out of the air over the Thames.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Where the hell are they?’ shouted father, losing control completely. ‘Just tell me that?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Mother pressed some buttons on the mobile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Let’s find out, shall we dear?’ she said, pleasantly, ignoring his outburst. ‘There. Bob’s phone is ringing. Ask him yourself.’ She handed father the mobile phone. He took it gingerly, not at all familiar with its workings. A voice at the other end said, ‘Hello?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">It was Bob.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Father said, ‘We’re still here, waiting - mother is getting worried.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘No I’m not,’ snapped mother. ‘You are.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘It’s the bloody boy,’ said Bob. ‘He’s gone and locked himself in the toilet and we can’t get the door open.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Well . . .’ father gestured helplessly at mother, ‘. . . what am I supposed to do about it?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Bring a tool of course,’ Bob came back, coolly. ‘We need to take the door off.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Oh for heaven’s sakes,’ cried father, . He got out of the car, still fearful of trolls but genuinely angry now with Billy. How on earth did that boy always manage to get himself into trouble? If it was not stealing apples from Swain’s orchard, it was crashing his bicycle into a neighbour’s gate. He opened the boot of his car and went into his tool kit, selecting a huge screwdriver. ‘This should do it,’ he muttered, ‘and I expect we’ll get a blasted bill from the Council - haven’t any doubt about it.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The rain was soaking his hair, running down the back of his neck. The fear he felt was almost paralysing. Somehow he managed to move forwards, towards the toilet block. Halfway there he turned to wave at mother, then continued with shaking legs, sploshing through the puddles, his eyes darting looks right and left. A zig-zag of lightning streaked over the river nearby startling him. The mobile phone crackled and he realised he still had it in his left hand. He put it to his ear. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘I’m on my way,’ he croaked. ‘Hello? Are you still there, Bob?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Still here,’ came the answer. ‘Get a move on.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Father reached the corner of the block and turned it, coming face-to-face with the most gruesome creature he had ever seen in his life. It was naked and down on its haunches. Its green skin was smooth and reptilian, and was stretched tight over sharply-jointed bones. The arms were spindly, but strong-looking, and each ended in a clutch of long talons. When the beast opened its mouth to grin, rows of yellow fangs revealed themselves. There were two more of its hideous kind squatting behind it, gnawing on bones. Father could see Bob and Ethel’s clothes scattered on the ground in front of the fiends who had killed them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The monster in front of father - he could smell its foul breath - was gripping Bob’s mobile in its claws.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Hello old man,’ it said in Bob’s voice, ‘I’m glad you’ve brought the tool thing. Now we can get at the boy too. You can go though. You’re too old and your meat’s too tough. Go on, run away.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The rest of the trolls laughed and sneered at this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">‘Father?’ Billy’s frightened voice came from within the toilets. ‘Is that you?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">It was true father had been utterly terrified of meeting the trolls. His imagination had whirled with horrifying images. But now was face-to-face with one, now he had seen the monster, his fear suddenly took a step back, into the rear of his brain. The unknown was a far greater force than the known. Yes, this creature was fierce, dangerous-looking and incredibly ugly, but it was also real. It was not some invulnerable, unspeakable horror thrown up by father's subconscious, impossible to defeat. Flesh and bone stood before him. Flesh and bone were assailable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Father's first and second born had been murdered by these disgusting beasts. The life of his one surviving child was being threatened by them. This was not the freeze or run choice given to rabbits: this was where menace forced a man to stand and fight for survival.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> Father suddenly lunged forward and drove the screwdriver through the troll’s right eye deep into its brain. The surprised creature screamed, dropping Bob’s mobile phone and began thrashing on the ground, until a moment later it lay still. Its startled two fellow conspirators let fall the human remains they were chewing on. Indignant, they moved forward, hissing, their eyes fiery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Overhead, thunder crunched within the blackness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Father withdrew the screwdriver from the dead troll with feelings of triumph and exhilaration. He held it like a dagger in his chubby right hand. Monsters these Blackwall trolls might be, but there is none so terrible as a wronged human with a weapon in his hand. He snarled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> 'Which one of you bastards is next?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-28768497209937396852018-05-10T16:40:00.001+01:002018-05-10T16:40:14.168+01:00Rookie Biker in the Outback (The Last Day)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>The Last Day<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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This was the day we had all been looking forward to. Not simply because it was the last day, but because we were going on the Bloomfield Track through the Daintree Rainforest. All being well we would be in Cairns for the mid to late afternoon. The end of the ride. There we would hand over our darling machines to the Rotary Club, who were going to sell them and donate the money to various charities. It would be like parting from a courtesan. One or two riders were going to buy their bikes for the second time, and keep them. For Poms like me, this was impractical. We’d have to ship them back to the UK at great expense and I’d already spent a great deal on this expedition. With fares, the cost of the challenge, and various other expenses, it had come to around £5000. I’d been saving that for my next car, but what the heck, you can’t put a price on the great Outback experience we’d had.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Daintree rainforest is over 135 million years old. The oldest rainforest on Earth. Nearly 500 feathered friends live there, including a dozen species that are found nowhere else in the world. It has the most diverse range of plants and animals on the planet. It’s 1200 square kilometres of frogs, marsupials, butterflies and birds. On the human front the Kuku Yalariji people inhabited and lived off the forest for over 9000 years. The non-aboriginals, who followed in Captain Cook’s footsteps, began logging the area, but were later halted by the Australian Federal Government who made it a World Heritage area.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘There’s a steep hill on the track,’ Pete warned me, ‘after a sharp bend. You’ll need to be in first gear. If you don’t start it in first, you won’t make it to the top and it’s a hell of a job trying to kick-start on a forty-five degree slope.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘You slide back down?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘If the dirt’s loose enough, yes.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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The moment we entered the Daintree, I knew this was Nirvana. I love trees, wildlife and flora. This place had the lot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I had to be on the watch for giant tree frogs (14 cms long!), man-eating crocodiles, golden orb spiders and musky rat-kangaroos. Daintree was also home to that most famous of live bush-tucker meals, the witchetty grub, a fellah I would just as soon not meet if it’s all the same to you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There were some beautiful trees, of course, as magnificent as cathedrals, others with pretty foliage and blossoms to gladden the heart. But there were also a few bad guy plants. We had to watch out for the Stinging Tree, which brings you up in large blisters that are extremely painful. Next to him in the gang was the Wait-a-while Vine, which apparently rips you to bits with its small spikes. Then there’s the Idiot Fruit, which you mustn’t get mixed up with the Wild Ginger that also grows here. Idiot Fruit will kill you stone dead with its heavy dose of strychnine. Annette loves ginger and I just hoped she hadn’t gone wandering in the forest and seen something that looked tasty.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Bloomfield track itself was bumpy dirt and rocks, quite wide in most places, but with not just one steep hill (as my Aussie chum had implied) but dozens of them. We went up and down a hundred times, my heart stopping on the downstrokes as I hurtled towards a narrow v-shaped dip below before the next steep climb. The Big One that Pete had mentioned was attacked by a huge crowd of us at once. I almost made it to the top (in first gear naturally) when someone slewed sideways right in front of me. I had to brake sharply, which brought me to an immediate stop on a hill which flies had trouble clinging to. Somehow, I managed to struggle up the last few metres, but it wasn’t fun while all around was the chaos of loud machines battling with the landscape.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The next obstacle was the river at the Wujal Wujal Aboriginal Community. We had three rivers to cross, or possibly the same river three times, with the water up to our wheel hubs. This was salt water crocodile country, so eyes were skinned. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In the last few days a Belgium tourist in the region had caused his arm to be chewed by a salt-water croc when he stupidly splashed water on the croc’s face ‘because it wasn’t moving’. It could move pretty quickly, actually, and clamped its massive jaws on his forearm. He got more than the photograph he was after: teeth marks all along his flesh. He’d actually been extremely lucky to escape. Most crocs of this huge variety spin over and over once they’ve got a grip on their victim, and the arms are twisted from their sockets. Either that or the victim is dragged down into the water and becomes a feast for the beast. Crocs often stash the remains under submerged logs to allow them to rot. Seemingly humans taste better when the meat tenderises and falls off the bone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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An Aussie croc has been known to take a victim in three inches of water, so the shallowness of our river, about two feet, was no protection.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The first crossing was easy, a shallow ford with a concrete base. The only hazard there were the 4x4 vehicles that wanted to go faster than we could. The next crossing was a wide creek with rushing, tumbling water and boulders and smooth stones for its bottom. Riders went over in swathes and singles, and were thrown this way and that by the uneven surface below, as well as having to contend with cold water over the tops of their boots. One or two machines bounced wrongly, cut out halfway over and had to be man-handled to the far shore. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I went across with John, whose bike conked out halfway over. I had a 4-wheel vehicle right on my tail so I had to bump my way awkwardly past him. Everyone was yelling at me and pointing to the car behind me, but I knew the blighter was there. I got a bit hot under the collar with all the shouting and started shouting back. No one could hear me cursing them of course, because my voice simply reverberated around my helmet and only served to deafen me. It was very frustrating and I rode off in a bit of a temper. There’s nothing like a bit of a temper to help increase the usual velocity and the next thing I did was go down one of the hills at much too fast a pace, only to meet a truck coming round the bend at the bottom. It was taking up most of the track width.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Here’s where my inexperience was my downfall, literally. Instinctively I reached for the rear brake on the right hand side of the handlebars. It wasn’t there of course, because I wasn’t riding the automatic I rode in England, but a Honda 110 which has a footbrake. The bike fishtailed and threw me off. I slammed jaw-first into a boulder on the edge of the track. The same arm that I’d hurt in the last tumble came between me and a hard place. I ended up in the dirt in a humiliating bundle of arms and legs and a twisted body.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Are you all right? Can I help?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was the driver of the vehicle, looming over me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I climbed awkwardly to my feet. I was embarrassed, as one is when one feels stupid. I wanted to get rid of him as soon as possible.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Yes, I’m fine. Just a spill.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Sure?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Absolutely.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Anyone with you?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘My support truck will be along in a minute.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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He stared at me for a while, then went to his own truck.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I gathered myself together, brushed the dust away as best I could, though me and the bike were covered. Inspecting 21 I noticed the gear lever was bent and the handlebars were twisted. I was straightening the bars when Andy arrived in the support truck.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Come off?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Again,’ I replied.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He sorted out the bike’s bars but told me not to try and straighten the gear lever.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘It might snap off. You can still use it, can’t you?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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I tried and found I could.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He looked into my eyes. ‘Are you hurt?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Not seriously. There’s a big lump on my arm and my jawbone’s a bit out of kilter, but luckily my motocross helmet stopped me from breaking anything.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was fortunate. If I was wearing the half-face helmet I also owned, I would have had a broken jaw for certain. Thank you, Pete, for insisting that I buy the motocross helmet. I had quibbled at the expense of the thing, but it had saved me months of having my face wired up, and having to suck soft food through a tube, not to mention all the associated pain that goes with resetting broken mandibles.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘All right. On the bike.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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I got back on and a few minutes later crossed the river again. It was just as difficult at the last crossing, but this time I did it perfectly. Of course there were no witnesses present. Ain’t that just the way of things? The longest putt of your life at golf is when you’re a single, solitary player going round alone. The loveliest girl you pull is when you’re on holiday without your mates. The biggest fish you catch is when all the other anglers have packed up and gone home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Did you see that</i>? <o:p></o:p></div>
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No, they didn’t. Nobody saw it, because no one was there watching. And you can’t tell them later, because they refuse to believe you, no matter how much sincerity goes into your tone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was now switchbacking the hills towards Cape Tribulation, where Captain Cook’s ship came to grief. On my shoulder was a damn white truck that began to first annoy me, then anger me. Finally I stopped the bike and shouted at the driver.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Why the hell don’t you pass me?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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Andy poked his head out the side window and grinned.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Sweeper truck, mate. You’re the last rider.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>The last rider</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had never been the last rider. I couldn’t possibly be the <i>last</i>rider. I’d promised myself that wouldn’t happen. Even just on a single short stage. It wouldn’t matter a great deal to an experienced rider, but I was a beginner and it was really important for me not to look like one.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘There’s one bloke back there,’ I said, recalling passing a bearded rider savagely kicking the tyre of a prone machine way back on the trail. He had never passed me. ‘Someone’s behind me.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘His bike broke down,’ replied Andy. ‘They took him and his machine in the repair truck.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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Shit! I was the last rider.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I got to Cape Tribulation, the rest of them were just preparing to leave to catch the ferry across a much wider stretch of river. I had just enough time to grab a coke and get Lang to straighten my handlebars properly. Then I was back on the road again, but smooth bitumen this time. I ached a bit, but not enough to spoil the last day of the ride. Now the tarmac hummed under my tyres and there were enough bends in the road to make it an interesting ride. There was more traffic of course, but it was easy enough to let them pass, and usually they gave a friendly wave, which was pleasant.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A beautiful foot-long lizard crossed my path, running on high legs to keep its belly clear of the hot tarmac on the road. It made me think about the rainforest. I hadn’t noticed a single bird or animal while I was in there. One of the most populated rainforest parks in the world and I had simply rattled through it on 21 without seeing a thing. That was upsetting. I made up my mind that I would come back again, on foot, and look for those creatures and plants that I’d missed this time round.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Finally we were on the Captain Cook Highway, the coastal road from Daintree to Cairns, which was a very pleasant twisty piece of bitumen with lots of sweeping up and down curves: a perfect end to a journey full of grit, dust and surprises. We gathered in a side road just inside the city, to slap each other’s backs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘We made it,’ said John. ‘Well done, Gazzer. Well done, Pete.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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John looked quite chuffed and I was feeling pretty good too. It could so easily have ended in disaster. One guy did not make it past the first day and that could so easily have been John or me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was of course Peter’s second time around. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Pete nodded, saying, ‘I set out with two priorities this year. Firstly, to stay on my bike, something I failed to do last year. Secondly, to make sure two you didn’t kill yourselves.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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He had succeeded in both, firstly by using his previous year’s expertise to stay glued to the Honda’s saddle, secondly by passing on lots of good savvy to the green pommies. ‘When you hit bull dust, drop down a gear and power through it . . .’ Stuff like that which I had only listened to with half an ear, but which, when the bike started to fishtail and my heart rate went shooting off the scale, came back to me vividly. He had done a good job on both counts. There weren’t many who hadn’t come off their bikes and tasted the fine Australian dust.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When we were all in, Dan organised us into a long line. Then we cruised neatly in pairs into the heart of Cairns as if we were a police parade. Sadly though, only forty-six out of the original fifty. We entered and clustered together in a small park below the hotel where most of us were staying. Local press and well-wishers were there to welcome us back into the real world. After the pictures and the interviews, the Cairns’ Rotary Club led us once again through the streets to a warehouse where they wrested our bikes from our firm grips. 21 was going to a new home. I hoped they’d appreciate her. She was a beaut.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The residue aches and pains of the ride would be with me for a while. My fingers would still be in a claw-like grip for many days afterwards. I had lumps and bruises on my arms and legs from fighting with boulders and dirt roads. Whenever I went to sleep I could see a white line stretching into infinity in my head. My backside would take a while to get any real feeling back into the buttocks.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The showers in the hotel ran red that afternoon, as riders washed every corner of their bodies, getting rid of the Outback dust. My riding clothes were put into plastic bags which Annette had brought with her. They carried half a continent in their seams. The white rim of my helmet was no longer white and never would be again. My boots, God bless them, could have belonged to one of Wellington’s soldiers. They were shapeless lumps of leather ingrained with Australia. I would be going home carrying much of the Outback with me in my suitcase.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That evening we had a dinner to which the riders, organisers and Rotary people were invited. There we were presented with some treasured certificates and received a talk from a Rotarian. We learned where the money from the sale of the bikes was eventually going in the countries that needed it most:<o:p></o:p></div>
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+ 30,000 polio vaccinations<o:p></o:p></div>
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+ 200 cleft palate operations<o:p></o:p></div>
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+ 100 wheel chairs<o:p></o:p></div>
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As a side issue there was fund-raising for 11 community groups who assisted us with meals and bedspaces on our journey.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Good on yer, postie bike!<o:p></o:p></div>
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The following morning we shook hands with those who were up and about. Pete, John and I, and our wives, were going to Port Douglas to spend a week in a house with a swimming pool. Others were going home to tell their stories to their families, to their mates in pubs, and perhaps even stopping people on the street and regaling them with adventures tales. There had been a touch of the Ancient Mariner about this ride. It had been an extraordinary voyage through an immense mysterious land with hazy edges and shimmering shapes. A forever place where the sky is a huge dome of blue peppered with bits of white. A timeless dreamscape. Had it been 11 days and 4000 kilometres? It was an experience none the riders would ever forget, I’m sure. Friendships had been forged along with the memories.<o:p></o:p></div>
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zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-19927161524802276382018-04-30T15:40:00.000+01:002018-04-30T15:40:13.059+01:00Rookie Biker in the Outback (Day 10)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>Day Ten<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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My plan worked quite well. We were travelling due east from Innot Springs to Cooktown. There was some dirt road, but not a great deal. I was getting used to dust and grit under my wheels. But it was a long hot day ahead. 377 kms, passing through Atherton and Mareeba. Refuel stop today was at Mount Carbine roadhouse. I stayed by myself, sometimes with no other rider in sight, and just banged along the highway thinking about the end of the day. The scenery was quite pretty, with hills to look at and trees in partial bloom. It would have been a pleasant ride, if I wasn’t feeling so sick. However, I was grateful to Dan for getting me back on the bike. I know I would have felt cheated at the end of the ride if I’d missed even one single stage.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Atherton itself was a small pleasant town. Where it was, was more important than what it was. It was the gateway to the Atherton Tablelands, where Annette was staying. The Tablelands is a high cool plateau, rich with wildlife and scenery. There were scores of different birds there, from the Cassowary to the Double-eyed Fig Parrot to the Papuan Frogmouth. Among its animals were dingos, bandicoots and echidnas (those giant hedgehogs of the bush). It also boasted, amongst its reptiles, the second most venomous snake in the world, the Eastern Brown Snake. I thought its name was pretty tame for a such a poisonous fellah. It surely should be called something like, the Deadly Silver Medalist, or the Instant Killer Runner-up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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An Eastern Brown Snake was seen slithering onto a gas station forecourt during the ride.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not only were there live wonders on the Atherton Tablelands, but natural wonders too, with over 13 waterfalls, including the Dinner Falls and the Zillie Falls. I wondered how many of these beasts and sights Annette had seen, as I rattled through Atherton on my trusty machine, little knowing that she was there on a bus watching me, and a few dozen other pretend posties, beating up the tarmac. She couldn’t recognise me of course, because we all looked more or less alike in our riding gear and on identical bikes. Nevertheless, the whole bus knew about her husband and kept pointing riders out as they shot past, saying, ‘Is that him?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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I trundled out into the bush again, still feeling very weak and wobbly, and managed to shoot past the refuel truck and about thirty bikes and riders, not wanting company at that moment. Luckily I stopped myself just a few hundred yards along the road. One of the trucks came out with Richard the mechanic driving.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘What’s up, mate?’ he asked me, climbing out of the cab. ‘That’s the refuel stop back there.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Oh,’ I said, desultorily. ‘Sorry - missed it.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Well, get your backside on your bike and find it again, eh?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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I did as I was told and when I got there Richard had a can of gas ready to put in my machine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Go and sit in the shade,’ he said, kindly. ‘I can see you’re still feeling crook.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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He filled my tank and put a full five-litre spare in my milk crate. Good old Richard. He was now due to go in my last will and testament, if I ever saw dear old merry England again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Pete came to then. ‘I saw you shoot past - still chucking up?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Not so much, but I feel like I’ve been in a washing machine on full cycle for four hours.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Ah, you’ll be fine,’ he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The afternoon was incredibly hot. I still stopped every 50 kms and met a wizened Grey Nomad on one of my stops. He was as dried up as an ancient gum tree by the wind and the sun. He had no teeth, but he could talk for both Ireland and Australia. He told me all about the ‘Beezer’ bike he’d owned when he was a young man - back in Captain Cook’s time I guessed by the look of him. I sat there about an hour listening to him. He had the gift all right. Although I hardly understood a word he was saying - it was all biker and bush talk - I found him a really interesting character and would like to have had a pint with him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Tell you what, mate, I miss that Beezer more than I miss a darling wife,’ he told me, chuckling. ‘Bloody hell, she was a goer that bike was. Give few bucks now to get her back.’ And his eyes went all misty as his thoughts disappeared somewhere back in the distant past.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I looked nervously at his RV but no irate lady appeared at the window. I guessed he was on his own, but whether his spouse had passed on, or he was divorced, or indeed he may have been single all his life, I did not know. I left him by the roadside and he promised to look us postie bike challengers up when he got to Cooktown.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I never saw him again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I did look up ‘Beezer’ on the internet later: the bike he was referring to was the 650cc BSA Thunderbolt of the 1960s.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At the end of the day I was feeling a lot better. My innards were stable, but as always with the tail end of the ride, I was getting very very tired. Eight hours on a blistering highway, following a white line, is sure to make the eyes want to close. I had to fight to keep them open. I’ve always been a power nap man. When I write for hours at a stretch there’s always a point where I can’t keep my eyes open any longer and I simply get off my chair, lay on the floor, and nap for twenty minutes. After which I’m as refreshed as fizzy drink. You can’t do that while you’re riding a bike, so as usual I ended up singing loudly to myself inside my helmet, which is a bit like a bathroom opera. Of course, <i>desperately</i>tired and you have to pull over and throw water in your face, but when you’re very close to the destination this is a hard thing to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was getting passed by other riders - NZ MALE SERVICE - went shooting past me, showing me his back. But by that time we were sweeping the bends of the hills leading down to Cooktown, which was a great pleasure. The town is of course named after Captain Cook, who is greatly revered on the east coast of Australia, at least by non-aboriginals. (I confess I have no idea what the Aboriginal people think of him.) Cook was the first European in this region, and afterwards came the redoubtable Captain Flinders. Both mapped the area, including the Great Barrier Reef, and their statues and names are found in several Australian cities and towns. Cook’s Cottage, the home of his parents, was dismantled in 1934 and reassembled stone by stone in Melbourne, Victoria.<o:p></o:p></div>
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James Cook was a Scot with a mother who had the unlikely name of Grace Pace. (What were her parents thinking of?) Happily she later became Grace Cook when she married James’ father.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Captain Cook is of course one of Britain’s most distinguished explorers. He made three Pacific voyages and mapped the coastline of New Zealand. He named many places on his journeys throughout the world, including Botany Bay, but my favourite is a small town in Queensland which he called ‘1770’. I met someone from 1770 when on a trip to Karunda. He seemed quite pleased that Cook had run out of names and had fallen back on the year of discovery.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cooktown is beautiful. Overlooked by Grassy Hill, which sounds as green as it looks, there are gardens and parks blooming everywhere. We set up our tents in a camping park under the shade of a grove of eucalyptus trees. It was paradise after the dust and grit of the Outback. I had a hammering head but a couple of pain killers took care of that. I also started to feel hungry again. The riders were all cheerful, smiling at each other, talking about cool beer. Not that there had been any animosity on the ride that I’d noticed. A couple of irritating moments, but nothing to start a war about. But Cooktown was such a blissful place you couldn’t help but feel like singing and dancing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I did inspect the gum trees closely. On an earlier trip to Oz I learned of two types of eucalyptus tree: black box and river red. One type, and I couldn’t remember which, was called the ‘widow maker’ because huge branches snapped off without warning and dropped on unwary people below. Which was it? I kept asking myself, nervously, as there was no space to camp which was not below the heavy-looking spreading arms of these beautiful but deadly gum trees. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It was in that Cooktown camping park that I saw my first ‘swag’ - a great Australian invention. A swag is a not much more than a sleeping bag with a cover, but ideal if you want to see the stars as you drop off to sleep. I was determined to get one at some time. You need good weather before you decide to use one of course, but heck, who knows that I won’t be visiting Oz again in the near future. I’m only 68.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Once again, the meal that evening was superb, being provided by the local Little Athletics Club. And as usual, we gave the ladies who cooked it a great round of applause for their brilliant efforts. The whole trip had been like that. I had come on the ride thinking I would shed some pounds, but if anything I put them on. I went to bed as usual, around 8 pm, along with most others. I don’t think anyone stayed awake beyond nine. It had been a long and tiring day. It had been a long and tiring 10 days. One more day and we were back in real life again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At least I wasn’t chucking out from both ends.<o:p></o:p></div>
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zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-53924164238695105602018-04-30T15:28:00.000+01:002018-04-30T15:28:57.632+01:00Rookie Biker in the Outback (Day 9)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>Day Nine<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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The countryside changed today from flat bush with a scattering of dwarf trees to hilly rainforest and curving roads. There were pretty wattle trees by the roadside covered in yellow blossoms. We were heading for the Newcastle Range of hills, staying at a camp site with normal campers. It was not a long ride to Innot Springs, 386 kms, the majority of it on bitumen. An easy day then, for most of us. However, Murray - who usually rides with Cam and Scotty-the-clown - told the story of Cam’s mishaps. It seemed Cam’s bikes were triple cursed. He’d had two, which had busted, and was on his third, which still wasn’t going well. The three of them stopped and Scotty checked the air filter and found ‘. . . enough dirt to fill a sandshoe’. After that Cam’s machine went along fine until, ‘. . . he blew the front tyre.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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So not all bikes were dream machines like my 21.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Today’s Running Sheet was very short. Only six entries from Croydon to Innot Springs village, going through Georgetown, Mount Surprise and Mount Garnet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Out of Georgetown, Mount Garnet and Mount Surprise I was interested mainly in the last, which has a pub, two cafes and a petrol station. My sole interest being that I am a Yorkshireman and the town was founded by Ezra Firth, who was also from Yorkshire. All three towns have had minerals and metals in their veins, from gold, to copper, to tin. There’s also a few gemstones around. Gem fossicking is one of the local sports and enjoyed by residents and tourists alike.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The ride itself, for me, was fairly uneventful. I can’t remember much about it, except that we were travelling through different terrain and there was a good bit of wildlife about. When we arrived at Innot Springs we had a hot bath waiting. The camp site boasted natural hot-water baths which had their source in a spring that bubbled from the Nettle Creek. Pete and I plunged in, going from one bath to another, with rising heat, washing the dust of ages from our bones.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After dinner that night, I managed to phone Annette from a landline, and at last got through. We exchanged news. She had actually phoned Bev Kidby a couple of days earlier and been told I was fine. Annette had been having an exciting time in the Atherton Tablelands north of Innot Springs and wasn’t that far away. She’d seen much more wildlife than me, including tree kangaroos, and of course the platypus, plus a whole variety of birds. Part of her time had been spent on a horse ranch with some Quakers who refused to take any money for her keep. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It was good to hear her voice again. I once spent a whole year at the beginning of our marriage without doing so, having been posted to Aden by the R.A.F. in a time when telephoning from such an outpost was hardly possible. An emergency would have done it, but we went the whole year without the world collapsing around us. It seems quite incredible now that in those days we were only able to correspond by letter. Those letters were treasured of course and now, with cellphones, such times seem to belong to ancient history.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘I’ve been leeched again,’ she told me. ‘Buggers!’<o:p></o:p></div>
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Annette is very attractive to leeches. They smell her from two miles away and head straight for her nice legs. Once in central Malaysia she had kindly fed a couple of leeches for an hour. Afterwards we couldn’t stop the bleeding, leeches having pumped her full of anti-coagulant. In the end she was slopping along with a shoe full of blood. We were due to fly home that day and she had to throw her trainers, socks and all, into a waste bin before boarding the aircraft barefoot. When we finally got home, almost a day later, she couldn’t wash the dried blood off her feet because our septic tank had backed up and the shower room was full of sewage. Happy days.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On my way back to my tent I heard something ominous. Four or five of the riders were outside their tents vomiting. I’ve had food poisoning once or twice before in my life and I knew the sound. Poor buggers, I thought, they’ve either drunk some bad water, or eaten some bad food, and now they’re feeling bad. I went to bed, the sound of rainbow yawns still disturbing the quiet of the evening.<o:p></o:p></div>
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An hour in bed and I was up again and, like a few others, was running for the toilets. I must have gone about a twenty times that night. Each time I got back into bed the churning in my stomach started and I would be up again and visiting the dunny. I took two imodium tablets and some salt water. At six-thirty, having had no sleep and with bowels that were spurting nothing but dirty water I went to see Dan.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘I don’t think I can ride today,’ I said, miserably.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dan rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘I’ll need to hire a coach,’ he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Is it that bad? That many?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Well,’ and he stared me directly in the eyes, ‘up until now no one has actually said they’re <i>not</i>riding, except you.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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I got the look and I got the drift.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Get on your bike, you whinging Pom.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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I walked away and for the first time began to throw up. I must have got rid of the lining of my stomach in that bout, but afterwards I felt a little better. I got some more rehydration salts, drank about a gallon of water, and took a handful of imodium pills. I stayed away from breakfast and stood there by my bike feeling exhausted and frail. The imodium worked now that I’d taken a healthy dose. Nevertheless I chucked a couple of toilet rolls into the milk crate on the back of the bike. When the call came I got on my machine and set off. I planned to stop every 50 kms to drink a half-litre of water.<o:p></o:p></div>
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zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-19035572112220167142018-04-29T16:25:00.001+01:002018-04-29T16:25:57.986+01:00Rookie Biker in the Outback (Day 8)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>Day Eight<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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'Morning, Bill.' <o:p></o:p></div>
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'Morning!'<o:p></o:p></div>
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(This was Bill the American, a genial bloke from Arizona who worked in East Asia).<o:p></o:p></div>
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'Morning, Bill.'<o:p></o:p></div>
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'Morning!'<o:p></o:p></div>
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(This was Bill the Aussie, a writer of non-fiction histories. Very tall, very elegant for an Aussie.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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'Morning, Bill.'<o:p></o:p></div>
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'Morning!'<o:p></o:p></div>
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(This was . . .)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Heck, if you shouted 'Bill!' in the morning, about a dozen replies would come from all sides. Just like that oldie, if you yell Jock down the hatch of the engine room of a seagoing vessel (or rather more lately, a spacegoing starship) someone is bound to appear wiping his hands on an oily rag.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I stared out over the landscape. One of the two Cuzzies had accidentally hit a kangaroo over the last few days and unfortunately killed it stone dead. The rider and his bike were undamaged, so I understood. How this can happen with a Honda 110 is astonishing, kangaroos being big fellahs and bikes and blokes being a great deal smaller. Accidents like this were rare, but they did happen on occasion. A kangaroo had almost jumped on my bike earlier. It managed to swerve away when it was almost on me. Something spooks the creatures, out in the bush (maybe the bike engines?) and they just bounce off at high speed, crossing the highway if it's in their path.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There were also non-indigenous creatures out there. Wildcats, camels, wild pigs. I had been reading about the camels. Apparently when they were first introduced to Australia they came with Arab camel drivers. The writer of the article also said that when a camel driver died the lead camel was always killed and buried with him. Tradition.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I imagined a little scene in the Outback with the lead camel waking up and seeing the stiff body of his driver lying nearby, thinking, 'Oh crap!' and trying to make a run for it. This would account for all the wild camels now roaming the antipodean desert. Escapees from a sort of camel <i>suttee.</i> I didn't see any wild camels this trip but they had seen them last year. I think Pete took one or two photos of a herd.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I saw wild pigs, big ugly fellahs, but they were always on the side of the road, having been struck dead by traffic. These cadavers were usually bloated to twice their normal size and smelling fairly ripe. The stink would wrap around you like clingfilm as you rode past, reluctant to let you go. There was also a danger of hitting these carcasses and going over the bars, especially late in the day when the tiredness came on. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I was on the lookout for my first wild camel carcass.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After breakfast at the Purple Pub, we set out for Karumba, a small town on the Gulf of Carpenteria. So far the trip had been totally linear, but Karumba was a sort of side-shoot, a day trip to the seaside. Our eventual destination was Croyden – no, not one south of London – an old mining town on the way back to the east coast.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Karumba</i>! Doesn't Bart Simpson say that, ever so often? <i>Aye, karumba</i>! I think I used to say it too, when I was a kid. Anyway, this offshoot was a pleasant diversion, across marshy country and close to mangrove swamps. The sky was full of those beautiful birds the brolgas, majestic as the herons of my own Suffolk waterlands. I did not tire of seeing flocks of them above me and more than once almost ended up in the ditch through not paying attention to where I was going.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Karumba is a fishing town. Prawns and barramundi apparently earn somebody in the region $130 million dollars a year. That's a lot of dosh. On approaching the town I saw a sign: WELCOME TO KARUMBA – POPULATION SMALL, BUT WE LOVE THEM ALL. Nice way to tell people to drive carefully. The Outback towns were fond of their signs. One of them, no doubt suffering a drought, said: WANNA BATH? - BYO WATER.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I would have liked to visit Sweers Island, 30-odd miles out from Karumba, but my little 21 was unfortunately not aquatic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sweers Island is home to about fifty species of bird. Charles Darwin dropped off there on his way around the world in the Beagle. He might have met the Kaiadilt people who it seems traditionally use the island for seafood gathering. That redoubtable sea captain Flinders gave the place a name in English, though undoubtedly it had one anyway in another language. He called it Sweers after a politician. Personally I wouldn't even name a dunny after a politician – or maybe I would – but only a dunny.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Captain Flinders and Captain Cook are well thought of in Oz, which is rare considering they're Poms. There's railway stations, streets, squares and even towns named after them. Good blokes, apparently, who navigated much of that which needed navigating back in the days when hardly anything had been mapped or charted. And so far as I know, neither of them were whingers, which goes down well with the local populace. Good on yer, captains courageous.<o:p></o:p></div>
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'You want to see the sea?' asked Pete, as we arrived in Karumba. 'There's quite a bit of it.'<o:p></o:p></div>
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So there was. A lot of sea. Blue too.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The first thing I saw above the beach was a sign which said, 'Watch out for salt water crocodiles.' It said it in English of course, but it also had a huge 'ACHTUNG!' and then said it more emphatically in German. Perhaps the crocs don't eat Frenchmen or Italians? Or maybe the Germans are particularly careless with their bodies? Who knows, I know I wasn't going to go swimming off that damn beach, which incidentally was being churned up by reckless young men on postie bikes when I arrived. They were having a sand party. I wasn't skilled enough to do the doughnuts and other stuff they were making their Hondas do, but it looked great fun.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Schoolteacher Josie's bike now had training wheels on the back. Someone had found the wheels in a garage sale and fitted them on for a joke. Richard-the-mechanic did not approve and they were removed a little later.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Pete and I went for a quiet coffee. I tried another of those double-shot long blacks that he always kicks his system off with. I was getting used to them. Whether I'd ever get to <i>like</i>them was another matter. They certainly got the blood racing round the arteries.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We were supposed to be visiting the barramundi factory and I had been looking forward to seeing a live one of these fish, but the factory was closed. Someone had forgotten it was Sunday. Apparently Aussies don't work on Sunday, which is pretty slack of them when you come to think about it. Still, we zoomed around town like the Wild Ones, and had a good look at everything before heading back towards Normanton.<o:p></o:p></div>
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John told us later that he had come across a broken down road train, a monster that had been stilled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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'The driver was kicking the wheels and calling it all sorts of ugly names,' John said. 'The vehicle was stuck halfway across the road and had seized on the turn. When I arrived they'd got two tow vehicles trying to shift it, but it didn't look as though it was going to move.'<o:p></o:p></div>
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Like trying to get a dead diplodocus out the way, I should imagine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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John didn't get any photos which was a shame.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The ride to Croyden was long and hazy. One of those stretches of bitumen which can make you sleepy. I hate that feeling when your eyes begin closing and you have to force them open with muscles you don't usually use. On those occasions I sang lustily to myself, old folk songs, old scout songs, anything, it didn't matter because it was all inside my helmet. No one else could hear and that was a blessing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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(I was once lost for 48 hours in the Yemen wilderness as a boy scout of 13 years – the maps were poor and a companion and I ended up circumnavigating an extinct volcano - and I sang the same songs then, only at that time brown kites, gazelles and pi-dogs were within earshot and I'm told they registered a complaint with the British Embassy.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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One way to make the journey on bitumen go faster was to lean forward and flatten yourself against the handlebars, thus presenting a low target for the wind. (Sit up and you act like a sail-brake). I used this method, as did others, for overtaking some of the larger members of the ride. And for going up long hills. I could get past Pete easily on a hill, though he still argues the fact. I passed QUASI-MOTO on this run, who took umbrage at my audacity and immediately repassed me. STEADY and EDDIE were there, and CUZZIE BRO 1 and CUZZIE BRO 2, the two cousins who rode together.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Still, the wide open spaces of Australia amazed me as I rode along. If I was to get poetic (which I sometimes do) I would say it filled my spirit with something quite extraordinary. I have never been to anywhere like it. The deserts of the Middle East come close – I got a similar feeling when standing on the pink sands of Wadi Rum in Jordan – but Australia is unique in its atmosphere. I would like to have captured the feeling of riding through the open countryside of Queensland, and bottled it. In my great old age I would open that bottle and take a draught 'Aussie Outback' for I'm sure it would be more invigorating than any drug or medicine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Driving in Australia is in complete contrast to the other country where I spend a great deal of time: Spain. Andalucia has its wide open spaces of course, its mountain fastnesses and its red-and-yellow coloured landscape, but when I'm there I find myself driving mostly through <i>pueblos blancos</i>, the white villages in the hills, with their ever-narrowing streets. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I can't count the times I've driven into a town or village in Southern Spain on a normal width road, only to discover that within a few yards my wing mirrors are brushing the walls of houses on both sides of the car. I once mistakenly went down one of these funnels in a village in the Sierra Nevadas and realised we were not going to emerge out the other end of the street without ripping the doors off the hire car. I had to turn round. This involved asking a very obliging senora to open the front door of her home so that I could reverse over her stoop. She was very generous and helpful, and so were her neighbours, who all emerged from their houses to give me advice on inching the corner of my car into her living room. By the time I actually managed to turn the vehicle the sweat was pouring from my brow – most of it due to embarrassment and humiliation – while the villagers all cheered clapped. There was probably more than a little sarcasm behind that applause.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Croyden was a welcome sight. We camped at the Rodeo Grounds again. The Shire Council were looking after us here in this old goldmining town. Would you believe there were once 5000 gold mines around this district? Once we'd tented up, seen to our bikes and showered, we got a talk from one of the local officials who shall remain unnamed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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'We used to have a shit-load of bawdy houses and pubs, and now we're down to one pub,' he said, 'but we're still on the map, with a shit-load of sheep, and a shit-load of cattle . . .' He was great. I wish he'd been my history teacher at school. I listened to his talk with undivided attention. He had one of those Outback accents which you only hear in old black-and-white movies about sheepshearers and flying doctors. He used a shit-load of phrases I'd never heard before in my life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-88097912109796932402018-04-07T17:59:00.000+01:002018-04-07T17:59:01.115+01:00Rookie Biker in the Outback (Day 7)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">Day Seven<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so,
another day dawned over the vast hinterland of north-eastern Australia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kookaburras, those charming sweet-voiced
birds of the Queensland bush and billabong, woke me with their trilling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their song can only be compared to the
nightingale, for its musical range and depth of passion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ha!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I rose – it
was still dark of course – with my miner's light wrapped around my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Packed my kit, washed and did certain other
unmentionables in the ablutions, and then went to breakfast with my pals, Pete
and John.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As usual at
breakfast I read the Queensland edition of Lonely Planet and looked up the
towns we were going through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm a huge
fan of Tony Wheeler's Lonely Planet and have been since its conception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bought one of the first copies of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Asia on a Shoestring</i>, and travelled the
Far East with it back in the days when Tony Wheeler was a struggling
entrepreneur and I was a young buck of just 50 years of age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since that time he has published only one
fiction book with his publishing company, an anthology of science fiction stories
entitled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Not The Only Planet</i> which
featured one of my own stories, the first I ever wrote, called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let's Go To Golgotha</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Today was
Gregory Downs to Normanton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Burketown
was on the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had thought Proa
Station was going to be the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>most
difficult ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today was going to be the ultimate test of my
basic biking skills (virtually zero), my stamina (pretty good), my spirit level
(reasonably high) and my ability to bounce (which has got worse with age).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, there was some bitumen at first, and
Burketown was an early stop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Most of the
bikes were behaving very well, with one or two exceptions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Murray Nettheim's little gem apparently
changed gear of its own accord when he hit soft sand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete's bike was running too rich at one point
and I think Scotty fixed that for him at a fuel stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The engine of another lad's bike cut out at
odd times leaving him coasting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Murray's
strange gear-changing sounded very frustrating, since he said it often jumped
from 4<sup>th</sup> to 2<sup>nd</sup> without warning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such a sudden change might have the rider
somersaulting over the handlebars if he's not ready for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Murray suggested that the bike had decided it
was an automatic, rather than a semi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or
maybe the machine had decided it could read the road better than its rider?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who knows, one day perhaps Steven King will
write a horror novel about it and there'll be a movie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I always
started 21 after breakfast, ran her for a few minutes to warm up her engine,
then switched off again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She started as
ever like a dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once I had a bit of
trouble, but that was me, having knocked the choke lever on, thus trying to
force rich fuel down her throat that she didn't want.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can't blame a girl for objecting to that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another time the tall-guy Irish-Aussie
surreptitiously messed with my cut-out switch, so I was left kicking the
starter for a while, obviously with no result.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I saw him grinning at me and guessed what he'd done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All a bit of fun, but it gave me grey hairs
for a few minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Burketown, the
first stop, was only 93 kms from Gregory Downs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Almost 50 bikes hurtled into town and began devouring food and coffee,
leaving the locals stunned and lacking provisions for at least two
seasons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love Australian coffee shops
and always enjoyed our brief stops at them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It's very easy for a Pom to forget he isn't in his own country when
everything on the menu is in English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then again
when I'm in Oz or Kiwiland, I miss those strange distortions of the English
language one gets on foreign menus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
Greece once I had 'scrawbled eggs' and in Thailand 'massed potatoes'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My all time favourite however, comes from
Spain, where someone asked a friend for the English equivalent of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aguacate</i> (avacado), but what the friend
heard was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">abogado</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What appeared in print on the menu was a
wonderful salad consisting of 'tomatoes, lettuce and lawyers', an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">abogado</i> being a Spanish lawyer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Burketown is
on the Albert River and has a population of just under 200.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(About the size of my Suffolk village, back
in the old United Kingdom).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Burke and
Wills, the explorers, went past here on their way to the Gulf of
Carpenteria.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is where I saw another
of those wonderful Morning Glory clouds which can reach sometimes to a 1000 kms
in length.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isn't that as long as
Britain?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was great to ride under it, trying
to get from one end to the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Local weather
is back to front if you want ideal conditions: hot humid and wet summers, but
warm dry winters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cyclones are not
unknown in the streets of Burketown.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The area is
rich in fossils and this is one of the regions where the giant Doom Duck, which
I mentioned earlier, roamed the landscape in prehistoric times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nowadays it's
a large fish that draws the tourists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The barramundi or 'silver jack', a South East Asia game fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's at home in fresh or salt water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its Australian name (I am told) means 'big
scaly one' in the language of a tribe that lived near Rockhampton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These fellahs get to 1.5 metres in
length.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An interesting fact about this
big fish is that if there’s an imbalance in their numbers - say, 100 girl fish,
to only 50 boy fish - 25 of the girl fish will change their sex to even up the
numbers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Real gender benders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s what I’m told.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe it to be true.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The World
Barramundi Fishing Championships are conducted out of Burketown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you're a good angler you can win $2600
dollars for the heaviest single catch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Where I come from angling is the most popular sport, but you have to eat
all you catch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would rather catch a
cod than a barramundi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You can also
find freshwater crocodiles in the region around Burketown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These prehistoric throwbacks aren't as hungry
or ferocious as their salt water cousins up in the Gulf of Carpenteria and
don't normally eat tourists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagine
they still have a nasty bite, so be careful when petting them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back on the
road again, grinding along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the
riders were fairly hefty blokes, quite wide in the beam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I often tucked myself behind one of these
substantial characters and used them as a windbreak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What I could never understand was that if
they wanted to go fast, they did, and I had a job catching them, even though I
was half their size.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Next stop was
the Leichhardt River, by way of Gunpowder Creek and Fiery Creek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Leichhardt was named after Friedrich
Wilhelm Ludwig Leichhardt, explorer and naturalist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His name sounds a little Germanic to me, but
apparently he was a Russian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After
several expeditions in the interior, Leichhardt vanished, as so many do in that
wilderness even today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His body never
found but only in 2006 the remains of a shotgun bearing his name was discovered
near Sturt Creek in Western Australia.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
navigating the historic Leichhardt River the postie caravan came to the worst
track I have ever seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It crossed the
bush like a twisted red scar on the villainous face of the Outback.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was bull dust lurking in every
crevice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On its surface was scattered
loose gravel, rocks, sand and worst of all, corrugations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been gouged both ways, long and
wide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were horizontal ruts that
resembled a corrugated iron and lateral ruts that grabbed the wheels and
gripped them hard to prevent the rider from steering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the first few kilometres many riders bit
the dust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was one of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I saw Ewan go
over and give himself a very nasty crack in the ribs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some people in a four-wheeler stopped to help
him back on his feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few minutes
later I hit thick bull dust on the edge of the track and went over the
bars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On this occasion I wasn't going
very fast and was more humbled than hurt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I suppose the
worst thing about that ride was having my bones shaken for nearly 200 kms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How the bikes stood the juddering of those
corrugations were beyond me, because all I could hear was the rattling of metal
on metal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How the tyres never burst was
again a miracle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know my body suffered
from this hour on hour shaking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
nearly drove me crazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At one point I
decided not to ride on the track but to go on the edge of the bush, which was a
little flatter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately every so
often there was a natural ditch coming out of the bush which led right up to
the edge of the dust road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hit one of
these side-on ditches at medium speed and once more flew through the air with
the greatest of ease.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Unhurt again,
I climbed back on the saddle and set off along the proper track, saying to hell
with my internal organs if they wanted to change places I could do nothing
about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a headache from the
constant rattling of my whole frame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
could see other riders having the same trouble, but the best of them seemed
able to glide over the ruts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was one
of the worst few hours of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
thought it would never end.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I had
about 60 kms to reach Normanton and despair was at its peak, I decided to try
to emulate the good riders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were
going at a much faster speed than me, so I assumed that speed was the answer,
that one could skim over the ruts at a higher velocity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I picked up my speed, until I was going
somewhere between 60 and 70.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of course, the
faster you go the less time you have to see danger on the track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't see the huge lateral rut that
trapped my front wheel until I was in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The rut had a twist in it at the end which knocked aside my front
wheel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time I sailed through the
air like a bird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't land like one,
though, I came down like a bread pudding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The track was iron hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
knocked all the wind out of me and I gulped on red dust.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For a few
minutes I just lay there in mild shock, looking up at the sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember seeing little puffy clouds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was hurting in several places, so I tested
myself bit by bit to see if there were any broken bones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Arms, legs, neck, back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed there were no serious breaks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got myself up and then dragged my bike to
the edge of the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A single rider
came along, a bloke named Gary, who I always called 'One-R' since my own name
has two r's in it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Are you OK?'
he asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'Any real damage?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'No,' I
gasped, still winded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'Just shaken up I
think.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He helped me
off with my jacket to make sure there were no bones poking through the
skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a healthy black bruise
developing on my right arm and some lacerations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gary put some iodine on the cuts then asked
me again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Are you sure
you're all right?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'I'm
fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'll wait for the repair
truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You go on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'll be OK.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He rode off,
leaving me to inspect my bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of
the mirrors had smashed, my speedo had bent over the front wheel and was
pointing away from the rider and there were one or two other dints and
scratches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh well, I thought, at least
I'll get a ride now, from the repair truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I won't have that last 60 kms to do over those sodding
corrugations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was my only consolation
for the tumble and my aches and pains.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The truck
arrived not long afterwards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was Dan
himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'Had a fall?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Yep, I'm
afraid I bent the bike a bit.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Let's have a
look.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I said, 'I
must have been doing 70.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dan replied,
'The damage isn't that bad – your handlebars would have been bent.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Most writers
are prone to hyperboles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's our stock
in trade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We exaggerate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why spoil a good story with the truth, is
what we maintain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dear wife is always
straightening out the truth for me in front of people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'There were at
least a hundred of them,' I say, excitedly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Just twenty,'
corrects my wife.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wives do that
to you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So do motorcycle challenge
organisers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dan was having none of
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I guess I was probably doing less
that 70, but how much less I don't know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All I maintain now is I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i>
doing 70 at some time, but probably at the time of the crash my speed had
fallen to less than that figure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My body
felt it was 70, OK?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He took the
broken mirror off, then straightened the speedo before testing it by spinning
the wheel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within a few minutes he had
the bike in shape again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A horrible
feeling was creeping over me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I really
wanted that ride to Normanton, yet I knew I would be a failure if I took
one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No chance of even having the choice
though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dan saw to that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Right, off
you go,' he said, holding the bike so that I could climb back into the saddle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'See you at Normanton.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Thanks Dan,'
I said, choking back something that was stuck in my throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'Yeah, see you.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sore in a very
many places, I started off again, my teeth rattling, my bones rattling, my
liver changing places with my kidneys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
turned out it wasn't so bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only had
30 kms before the road conditions change to a hard surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cruised into Normanton, missed the sign to
the Rodeo grounds (where we were camping for the night) and had to ask two
aboriginal young ladies for directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘What?’ one of them asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">They obviously didn't understand
my English accent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘The rodeo grounds?’ I tried
again, in an Aussie accent, which I’m pretty good at by the way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">They still looked at me as if I'd
flown in from Mars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I mimed an imitation of riding a
bucking horse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Still no comprehension in their
eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Rodeo grounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rodeo,’ I cried, desperately.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Oh,’ said the older girl, ‘the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rodeo Grounds</i>.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">To my way of thinking she hadn’t
said it any different to my mimicking of an Aussie accent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">They both pointed back the way
I’d come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Thanks ladies.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once in the
camp I was met by Pete.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'I hear you
had a tumble.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Three,' I
admitted, 'but only one really counted – the other two were just
falling-over-sideways tumbles.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'It happens,'
he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'I had one last year.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Just one?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Hurry up and
get your shower, we're going down to the Purple Pub,' he answered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sure enough,
everyone gathered at the Purple Pub, a local tavern painted – you guessed it –
purple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was a good
evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good food, rugby on the
television, several drinks to heal the pain in my limbs and body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Josie arrived in an ambulance with her foot
in a plastic bag, but able to carry on the ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ewan told me how he went over his handlebars
after hitting a large polythene water pipe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That must have been when I saw him take his tumble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'Not necessarily,' he said, 'I took a bigger
one later.'<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Others have parted company
with their Hondas today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Victims of
combination of corrugations, loose gravel and bull dust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't feel too bad, just a little upset
with myself that I had actually contemplated a lift in the ute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to do all the stages with my bum on
the saddle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The best laugh
I had that night was when John fell off his chair – I don't think he was even
drunk at the time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At one point
in the day, I can't remember when, we had all crowded round an 8.64 metre salt
water croc – not a real one, of course, but a statue – for a photo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course someone had to crawl into its mouth
and have just his head and shoulders protruding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, this was a crocodile famous for its
length, and why shouldn't it be?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over
thirty feet of ravenous beast wouldn't be out of place on King Kong’s island.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The meal at
the Purple Pub was good, but halfway through I went to the bar to get a drink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of our guys was telling the barman a long
and windy joke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The barman was leaning
on his bar with his eyes glazing over when I asked for a drink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turned round to get me one and the guy
telling the joke said, ‘Hang on, I’ve got another one for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s this bloke . . .’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The barman
whipped back round and said, ‘Shit man, I nearly went to sleep during the last
one.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nothing so
blunt as an Aussie barman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The joke
teller moved away, looking hurt, but at least I didn’t have to wait to get my
drink.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Later a local woman sidled up to
Pete, saying, ‘You married?’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Yes I am,’
Pete told her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Oh dear. Well never mind
then, have you got a few cents you can spare?’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pete reached into his pocket and produced a coin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She took it and went straight to the bar and
asked for a drink, whereupon the barman sighed deeply and told her, ‘Look,
Alice, you can’t beg for money in here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You’ll have to leave.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The woman
made a face and went back to Pete and said, ‘Come on, we’ve got to go to
another pub, they won’t serve us in this bloody place.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete of course stayed firmly in his seat, but
we had a good laugh at her cheek.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-38965855053169492312018-03-30T10:15:00.004+01:002018-03-30T10:15:49.111+01:00Rookie Biker in the Outback (Day 6)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">Day Six<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></b>Someone told me at breakfast that
we had actually lost a rider at Emerald.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One of the blokes had damaged his back kick-starting the bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's easily done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A back can go just bending over and tying a
shoelace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Poor devil, to have to leave
the group after not even experiencing the high-flying excitement of going over
the bars of his bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That must have
been a real bummer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'd have been
spitting bull dust.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A few of the
lads found some skulls the previous day and had mounted them on their bike
bars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These were the pure white
headbones of dead rams, with beautiful curling horns, but they looked kind of
sinister and cool as trophies on the front of the bikes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Big, bad riders and small mean-looking
bikes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One rider had found a set of
horns – ox by the look of them - and they too made a statement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Wild Ones.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After a
massive breakfast that would have fed an army, we gathered around Dan for the
daily briefing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today was another
loooong ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>459.5 kms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was looking forward to the last .5
kms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ached a bit from the previous
day's battle with the bull dust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps
it was my inexperience, gripping the bars too tightly, holding my body rigid
instead of loosening up and going with the flow?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, I was not looking forward to leaving
Proa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We still had a few kilometres of
dirt road and loose dust before we hit any solid ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, Dan told us the road out of Proa was
better than the road in, so I thought to myself, 'Gotta learn to relax when I'm
riding.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We went out in
our usual stream, 46 bikes now, all in a line, until the overtaking started and
the wild ones went flying out in front, leaving their dust to be eaten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The headwinds were ferocious that day,
forcing down the speed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Temperatures on
the other hand, had risen, to around 35 degrees centigrade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were kites and hawks feasting on
kangaroo carcasses every few hundred metres.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A bike passed me, with SQUIRTER written on the rider's back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then TRYPOD, who was another Pom like
myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>TRYPOD owned a good expensive
camera and took some great photos with it, including some eagles and hawks
which I'd specifically requested him to get for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My own little camera was fine for most
things, but photographing wildlife is an art and science in itself, and
requires something more than a point and shoot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>YOU'VE BEEN
PASSED BY ROGER was the next to throw dirt into my face with his back
wheel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said to Roger afterwards that a
more penetrating statement on the back of his coat would have been YOU'VE JUST
BEEN ROGERED, but alas they can't all be literary geniuses like moi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I was thinking of writing something on
my own back, I eventually put MONKEY CATCHER, the idea being 'Softly, softly
catchee monkee', in that I would eventually finish the ride, no matter how
slowly I went.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In retrospect, I wish I'd
put my other choice, which was MARVEST HOON, a spoonerism of HARVEST MOON.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Australian 'hoons' being wild youths who
drive bad boy cars at reckless speeds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>However, this convolution seemed to erudite at the time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I decided to
ride alone again, given that we did have a good stretch of dirt road, and so
let John and Pete shoot off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were
very competent riders, both of them, though John was ever impetuous and was
known to leave the road and hurtle into paddocks to say hello to horses and
other livestock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John is a wonderful
talker and when he hasn't got anyone to listen, he probably talks to himself
and his attention strays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is
nothing so cheery as John in the morning and he sort of bucks you up from the
moment you rise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good lad that he is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>However, our
John is also fastidious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm amazed he
was never a regular soldier in the army.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I spent 18 years in the RAF and have some excuse for folding my shirts
just so, but alongside John I'm a slob.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pete and I would stand waiting for John in the morning, as that man
spent eons taking down his tent, packing his kit, and polishing the grass
afterwards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tent pegs would be lined up,
poles standing to attention, clothes laid out just so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all had to cram our gear in the army style
kit bag – there was never enough room for tent, air bed, underwear, spare
shirts, camping towel, air pump, and all the personal items – so even if stuff
went in neatly, it came out looking like a jumble sale at the village hall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pete on the
other hand is one of your taciturn Aussies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He would stand there watching John pack, shaking his head slowly and
thoughtfully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes he growled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes he cast his eyes to heaven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all have our foibles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I probably exasperated the pair of them, but
heck, I'm lucky because I'm the one writing the book, and as far as I'm
concerned, Kilworth is the perfect buddy to go on a bike ride with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I got a bit of
stick from John for not shaving and keeping the standard up – in Leicestershire
they wear blazer and tie to the pub – but I did that anyway, later, because the
bloody beard threatened to stifle me inside the helmet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was one of those nightmarish imaginings,
the hair growing and growing and filling the helmet until it finally suffocated
the wearer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I did shave, and I did
wash out my underpants once or twice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Underpants!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now there's an interesting subject for a bike
riding challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete had warned me to
get t-shirts and underpants that would dry quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can get quick-drying clothes, towels, etc
at any good camping shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'd got the
towel and t-shirts, but not any underpants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pete had also told me to bring boxer shorts, rather than briefs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't know why and ignored the advice,
bringing (it has to be said) mostly boxers, but two pairs of briefs also.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found out why.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On a bike you
wear so much clobber<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>you feel like a
knight in armour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once the stuff's on,
you can't reach things like underpants without calling for your squire and
having him assist you in de-armouring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
went out from Proa wearing briefs for the first time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within two hours, having crossed the dreaded
dust and found blessed tarmac again, I was writhing in agony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The briefs were cutting into the inside leg
of my crotch like cheesewire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
excruciating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew if I didn't stop
soon I would sever both legs at the joints with the pelvis.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The motion of
the bike – not the velocity but shaking and rattling – judders the rider
forward all the time, while on the other hand for some inexplicable reason
which has puzzled Greek philosophers from the beginning of time, underpant
briefs remain static on the saddle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Rider shuffles forward, pants stay where they are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pants then become a cutting instrument,
trying to sever limb from torso.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I stopped to
top up the fuel tank, but was exposed to girl bikers and cars going by every
few minutes, so I couldn't strip and get rid of the offending item.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no real cover off the highway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bushes were pathetic little things that
wouldn't have hidden a modest elf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
arboreal landscape was no better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
trees were stunted eucalypts – known<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>affectionately as 'gum trees' in Oz – and acacias – known affectionately
as 'wattles'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Aussies, as
you probably know, like to smooth awkward words – if they can't add an 'ie' to
the end – sunnies, Pommies, etc – they give it a nickname.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This has nothing to do with any lack of
intellect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aussies are at least as
bright as any pommy bastard, most of them coming as they do from the same
stock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's more to do with liquidity of
speech, having the words flow off the tongue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After all 'sunglasses' is not a word that poets instinctively find easy
on the ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'Sunnies' is much more
fluid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Americans call them ‘shades’ but
they go for drama, rather than smoothness of speech.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I got back on
my bike and rode on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within the next
hour there were genuine tears in my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I became convinced that the Gestapo must have made their captives wear
briefs, forcing them to ride small motorbikes until they burst into tears and
spilled everything they knew about troop movements.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By lunch time
I was desperate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fuel stop for the
day was a patch of stunted gum trees and wattles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bugger, I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not even an old oil drum to hide my white
British bum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I had an idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In with my compass and map (insurance against
getting lost in the bush, like some tourists and even locals, who get out of
their car for a toilet stop and end up lost and walkabouting until they die of
thirst) I had a Swiss army knife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got
this weapon, reached down inside my rider's trousers and pulled up the edge of
my briefs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I slashed
through one flank of the offending undies, then the other, and with great
relief pulled the buggers out and threw them into a waste bin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Job done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then I looked up to see I was being observed, with amusement, by one of
the Aussie women riders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grinned and
shrugged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She laughed and turned away,
and I saw WIND on her back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I supposed she
rode like the wind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Going commando
for the rest of the day was like having six birthdays all at once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn't have been happier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The relief from pain was tremendous.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Regarding my
map and compass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These were security
blankets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm sure if someone gets lost
out there, where there is nothing but empty red space, it's better staying
where you are and waiting for help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
mentioned earlier, in my more anxiety-ridden moments I'd thought about bringing
a GPS, but the expense did not justify the purchase.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How much is your life worth, I asked myself
before leaving England?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, at least
the cost of a compass, but a GPS?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
that much mate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Two young
bushmen who didn't get lost were Duncan and Donald McIntyre, mere youths at the
time, who founded the town of Julie Creek in 1862.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They named the town after their aunt after
travelling from the south with 10,000 sheep and twenty-five horses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's flat country around Julia Creek, once
good cattle and sheep land, but now silver, lead and zinc mining has taken
over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The area boasts a local marsupial
which I did not see hair or pouch of, perhaps because it's nocturnal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's called the dunnart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have liked to have seen a dunnart,
simply because I'd never heard of the creature before passing Julia Creek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also around the region somewhere is the Combo
Waterhole, the billabong in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Waltzing
Matilda, </i>but I didn't see that either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They've had fire, flood and drought in Julia Creek, and I wouldn't want
to be there in mid-summer, that's for sure, because the temperatures climb to
the forties.xxx<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I caught up
with Pete and John at Julia Creek, joining them for coffee at the local
cafe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete always likes a double-shot
long black which takes the roof off your mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don't like flat white (a sort of latte) but I like my coffee a bit
less system-shocking than double-shot long blacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Spain I usually order an 'Americano with
milk on the side', so I can mix my own brew and get the strength to my
liking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to do that in Oz, got
into all sorts of muddles, gave up and joined Pete.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Did you see
the road sign about planes landing?' I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>John said,
'You mean the one that said, ROAD MAY BE USED AS AN EMERGENCY RUNWAY?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'That's the
beggar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept looking over my shoulder
for Jumbo jets.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Hercules,'
muttered Pete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'Not Jumbos.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Well they're
big enough to knock me off my bike,' I argued, having flown in many a Charlie
130 in my time in the RAF.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'Hercules
aircraft are no microlights.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'True.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One of the
lads, Cam, told us the clutch was slipping on his bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My 21 still purred along, or rather screeched
along, without a sign of a problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
felt very privileged to own her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved
her as I love my own children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
troubled me that at the end of the ride I would have to sell her into slavery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After Julia
Creek I headed for our destination for the night, which was a pub at Gregory
Downs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'd been told there was a river
there, running past the pub, where we could all have a lark about and a swim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'd not done any scallywagging up until then
and was looking forward to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Gulf
of Savannah seemed like a good place for larking around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The river at this point was supposed to be
quiet tranquil water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also thought to
look out for the unique and spectacular Livistonia palm tree, but I must have
missed it, both going and going out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On the way to
Gregory Downs we passed thousands upon thousands of termite mounds, like
traffic cones covering a vast area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was an amazing sight for a Pom, though the locals were not that impressed,
having seen as much many times before I suppose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At a ten-minute stop later on, I spoke with a
retired couple driving an RV, or campervan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There are hundreds of them in Oz where they're known as Grey
Nomads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This pair were heading for the
camp at Gregory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was feeling frivolous
and pretended I didn't know about the mounds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'All these
grave markers,' I said, 'there must have been quite a massacre here at some
time.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The man
frowned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'Termites,' he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'No,' said I,
'that can't be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Termites are little
creatures, like ants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You wouldn't have
big grave markers like that for termites.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He closed one
eye and I think he would have thumped me if I hadn't got on my bike and shot
off down the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On the subject
of termite mounds, we had a lass with us, Josie from the Sunshine Coast I
believe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A schoolteacher. Josie decided
to ride by one of the mounds and kick it, presumably to watch it disintegrate
into dust particles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were two big
guys who watched out for others a lot of the time – I believe they too gained
helper caps - but they failed to keep Josie out of trouble on this
occasion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Josie found that termite
mounds are as hard as concrete and she broke some toes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One more for the doctor at the next available
clinic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Gregory Downs
pub was pretty good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was
vegetation down by the Gregory River.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There were birds and signs of other wildlife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I liked the place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to reach Annette again, but still no
signal on my mobile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete's mobile
worked fine, but it seemed that Annette's phone was still not in a state to
receive the call.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew she would be
upset by this, but there was little I could do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Since I wasn't
going to use the bike again that day I decided to fill out my Running Sheet for
the following morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a
horrible mental exercise for someone like me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I've never been great at arithmatic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In fact I'm crap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'd got it
wrong once or twice and had to use the rubber and start again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was agony having to do it once, let alone
twice over, so I furrowed my brow in concentration and used a piece of scrap
paper to write down my calculations.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Gregory Downs
to Normanton, past Burketown and over the Leichhardt River.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My speedo read 38, 136 kms at this point in
the journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I added 93 kms to this
figure which was the first stretch in the morning, making 38, 229 kms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my speedo registered that figure I would
have to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Right turn to BURKETOWN </b>according
to my sheet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next stretch was 119
kms, which again I added to the original 38,136 kms (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> to the running total 38,229 as I had done once at the beginning
of the ride, an exercise which would eventually result in a journey to the moon
and back) making 38,255 before I had to right turn right again, to
Normanton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the next stop, 190 kms
further on, was the Leichhardt River, an historic crossing point, where we
would refuel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so on, a
whole sheet of figures which I taped to the bars of my bike each day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I wanted to read this sheet, which was
extremely difficult since with my glasses on my eyesight is remarkably poor at
a distance of two feet, I would have to hold the shuddering, flapping sheet
still with my left hand, squint down, glance up at the road, squint down,
glance up, squint down, glance up – this series going on long enough for me to
eventually read where I'm supposed to be going without leaving the road and hurtling
into the bush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Only twice on
the whole ride did I take the wrong turning and somehow I instinctively knew
I'd gone wrong, backtracked, waited for one of the others to come along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I saw a red bike and had made sure it
wasn't the local postie trying to fool me, I then took the same direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only twice, which I felt wasn't bad for a
stranger in a strange land, and a rookie biker at that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At the end of
the day we would have done 341.9 kms and would hopefully be in the rodeo
grounds of Normanton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always the last 50
kms of the day were difficult for me, and I believe for others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to force my eyes to stay open.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My bones and muscles ached with the
juddering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My brain was full of
bees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bike engine seemed to get
noisier and noisier, the mind and spirit got tired, and all I wanted to do was
get to the end of the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the
riders wore ear plugs and some carried ipods to drown out the grinding bike
engine with pleasant music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I'd
thought to bring music of some kind I'd have gone for good Aussie folk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pete had
introduced me to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bushwackers</i>,
whose single favourite of mine is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Limejuice
Tub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bushwackers, </i>now defunct, sing a great mix of Irish, English and
plain old Aussie folk songs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If not the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bushwackers, </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>then <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Midnight
Oil</i>, my favourite cd of theirs being <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Diesel
and Dust</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How appropriate would that
be?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-55074488325492044292018-03-25T18:13:00.000+01:002018-03-25T18:13:08.597+01:00Rookie Biker in the Outback (Day Five)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">Day Five<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt;">
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</v:imagedata></v:shape></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">RUNNING SHEET</span><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.9pt; margin-left: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;">2008 Brisbane - Cairns</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.9pt; margin-left: .95pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">via the Gulf</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 6.95pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 17.05pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">The following running sheet has been
provided as a guide</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.35pt;">only.</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2.4pt;">
<br /></div>
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<tbody>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">Day 5 continued</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
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<tr style="height: 12.95pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 1;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.7pt;">105.1</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.35pt;">487</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Straight on past Norollah off to left</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</tr>
<tr style="height: 12.95pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 2;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
</td>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.15pt;">Cross two causeways</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="height: 25.45pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 3;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 25.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.5pt;">123.6</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 25.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">516</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 25.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.7pt; margin-right: 27.6pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-indent: .5pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.25pt;">Take fork to LEFT. CAUTION! Most traffic </span><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.05pt;">appears to go right</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="height: 12.95pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 4;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;">145.2</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.1pt;">537</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Windmill and grid</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="height: 13.45pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 5;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.75pt;">152.1</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -1.0pt;">544</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Straight on past Glenlyon off to left</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="height: 12.95pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 6;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.7pt;">166.1</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; letter-spacing: .8pt;">558</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.15pt;">Right at T-intersection</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</tr>
<tr style="height: 25.9pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 7;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 25.9pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.5pt;">176.6</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 25.9pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">568</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 25.9pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.7pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-indent: .25pt;">
<span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.45pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">Turn
hard Left to WOLSTON/COLLERAINE <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.7pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-indent: .25pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.45pt;">Ma</span><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.3pt;">Maxweton)</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="height: 25.9pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 8;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 25.9pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.7pt;">177.1</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 25.9pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;">568.5<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 25.9pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.7pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-indent: .25pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.1pt;">As a
check, you should cross a grid shortly with </span><span style="color: grey;">truck
tyres.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="height: 12.95pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 9;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.45pt;">179.4</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; letter-spacing: .15pt;">571</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Keep to Right- Past Colleraine homestead</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="height: 13.9pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 10;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 13.9pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">199</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 13.9pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; letter-spacing: -.1pt;">591</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 13.9pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey;">Wollston
off to right</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="height: 25.45pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 11;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 25.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;">207.7</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 25.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; letter-spacing: -.55pt;">599</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 25.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.95pt; margin-right: 40.8pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-indent: -.5pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.3pt;">Straight on past Wimmera/Winchester
ccrossroads </span><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.1pt;">crossroad.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="height: 12.95pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 12;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.4pt;">224.5</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">616</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.2pt;">Right Turn</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="height: 13.45pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 13;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.35pt;">230.5</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.55pt;">622</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.3pt;">Left Turn to TARBRAX / JULIA Ck CkCREEK</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="height: 13.45pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 14;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.45pt;">231.7</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: .1pt;">624</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.25pt;">Right Turn (veer right) to JULIA Ck CREEK</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="height: 13.45pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 15;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.65pt;">250.1</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">642</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Straight on past Belford/Ardbrin cross road</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="height: 13.45pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 16;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">260</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -1.0pt;">652</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.15pt;">Right turn at Junction (Helen Downs) off to left)</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="height: 12.95pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 17;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">274</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; letter-spacing: .45pt;">666</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 12.95pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Edith Downs off to Left</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="height: 13.45pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 18;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.45pt;">280.2</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -1.4pt;">672</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 13.45pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.3pt;">Left Turn immediately over 2<sup>nd</sup> grid to PROA</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="height: 14.4pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-yfti-irow: 19; mso-yfti-lastrow: yes;">
<td style="background: white; border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; height: 14.4pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 34.1pt;" valign="top" width="34">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -0.65pt;">285.1</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 14.4pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 40.3pt;" valign="top" width="40">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; letter-spacing: -.5pt;">677</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; height: 14.4pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-height-rule: exactly; padding: 0cm 2.0pt 0cm 2.0pt; width: 212.65pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey; letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Turn Left to PROA- about 4k in to homestead</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; letter-spacing: 0.25pt;">TODAY'S<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; letter-spacing: 2.85pt;">FUEL</span><span style="color: black; letter-spacing: 0.25pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>STOP Corfield<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; letter-spacing: 0.25pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The second column on the running
sheet is the one we had to fill in ourselves, working forward from the
kilometres on our speedos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no
guarantee that my arithmatic is correct here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I do not have a head for maths and I probably filled it in by torchlight
in the early dawn, while sitting with a bunch of noisy eaters at the breakfast
table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the sheet we would attach
to our handlebars in a plastic envelope, using sticky tape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It flapped around so hard in the slipstream
it was impossible to read without holding it still with the left hand, while
glancing up and down at the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
running sheet nearly caused the death of me and would have caused the death of
several kangaroos if they hadn’t already been run over by monster trucks or
four-wheel drives.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Climbing out
of my tent at 5.30 am I looked up to see a marvellous cloud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They call it Morning Glory here in
Queensland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a giant rolling wave of
white cloud, like a tsunami crossing the sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve never seen any other cloud like it in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For serene beauty nothing surpasses it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For elegant, majestic motion, there is
nothing more poetic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You just have to do
what I did - gape at it in wonder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wanted to climb up there into the heavens and lay in its path, let it wash over
me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">My diary told me it was bull dust
day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here at last.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No more talk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The real deal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, you novice,
you green Pommy bastard, your lack of experience and biking skills will be
tested to the limit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh you idiot, what
the hell were you thinking of, biking across the Ozzie Outback with only six
weeks on-road biking experience?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I have never
owned a bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This postie bike was my
first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All my 12 one-hour lessons had
been on an Italian motor scooter, an automatic with wheels the size of jam jar
lids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Riding that machine prepared me
for nothing but a gentle chug along Felixstowe sea front.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, I had had four days on my postie bike
now, but very little of that had been on gravel or dirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, with about 40 hours flying time I was
about to go solo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recalled the hellish
day I had spent with John on a dirt bike, ploughing through the thick mud of
Essex and Hertfordshire in the rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That was supposed to be training for something like this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow a day in the wetlands, on a bike that
was taller than a lamp post, wasn't going to help me much out here in the arid
wastelands of Mad Max country.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I told Pete we
would not be riding together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'I'll only
slow you and John up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You shoot off and
leave me to my battles with the shires of Queensland.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pete tells me,
'Head up, look ahead, keep the revs up when you hit the soft stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the bike starts to lose it's rear end,
drop down a gear and plough through it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Don't grip the handlebars too tight, stand on the pegs if you need a bit
of central weight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You'll be okay.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
destination was Proa Station, a once sheep farm out in the middle of
nowhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We went out in our usual
manner, with the young blades shooting off in front, the older riders not
greatly worried about coming in first, second or third, and finally a big bunch
whose individuals keep changing places when they get fed up of being near or at
the back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On this day I was somewhere in
the middle, but would end up about two thirds down the pack when Proa came into
view.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Clown-suited
Scotty, Cam and Murray, three <sub>larrikins</sub> but good riders, were as
usual way out in front.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scotty had been
given a special cap by Dan for spending time helping others on the ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I understood he was a rally driver as well as
a biker and obviously had good mechanical skills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was barely a competent operator of a
machine, let alone a diagnostician or surgeon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was still learning what things were called – (Er, cut-out switch?) -
and although I'd drilled myself to do all the maintenance necessary, if
something went wrong inside – like if a thingy got jammed in a thingy – I was
stumped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scotty was a guy you could call
on in such emergencies – if you could catch the bloke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We refuelled
at Corfield outside a pub and my running sheet told me to look for
RICHMOND-SESBANIA after that, apparently written on a big truck tyre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were then went onto the dirt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At first I was
surprised by the track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn't seem
too bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had already ridden on
hard-surface dirt, with rocks and stones embedded, which was where we lost
Jack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On that surface I managed to keep
my speed up in the seventies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today I
was more cautious, keeping it down in the sixties, but mostly because of the
horror stories I'd been fed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon I
began to get a bit arrogant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is
easy, I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What the hell were we
worried about?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even a sign that said,
'TRAFFIC HAZARD AHEAD – WHEEL RUTS, BULL DUST AND CORRUGATED SECTIONS – DRIVE
WITH EXTREME CARE' did not faze me at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was cutting a swathe over this red dust without a care in the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I stopped for
a drink at one point and Lang pulled up in a truck alongside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'You all
right?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Yeah,' I
said, and going all Aussie, 'no worries.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Better than
last year,' he indicated, nodding at the track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>'The bull dust has all but disappeared from this section.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Oh really,' I
replied, thinking, thank God for that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Yes,' he
said, 'but there'll be some later on, you can bet on that.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh, great, I
thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A road train
went past us both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>54 metres of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three articulated waggons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It covered us in a cloud of dust which didn't
settle for about five minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I’ve
already said, road trains are the biggest and most dangerous hazard of the
Outback.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These huge trucks got up quite
a speed and you have to get off the road if you see one coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They can't stop suddenly without
jack-knifing, so anything in their way just gets mown down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They carry cattle, goods, fluids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re monsters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Giants of road and track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily you can see them coming from miles
away by the dust cloud they leave in their wake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This one was going in the same
direction as me, but when they come towards you their slipstream is like a
solid wall of air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It can knock you out
of the saddle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was always a bit wobbly
on my wheels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One minute I would be
doing 70 kms, then a passing road train slipstream would instantly brake me
down to 30.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Scary things,
road trains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They will henceforth haunt
my nightmares.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wonder Steven Spielberg
hasn't made a horror movie of a road train – oh, wait a minute, what about
'Duel'?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was one of his first
movies, wasn't it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well believe me, the
sinister black truck in 'Duel' is a baby next to those<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>monsters, the road trains.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I got back on
my bike, toed her up into third gear, and set off once again on the powdery
surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had about 200 kms of track
to cover to Proa Station and I'd done a good stretch of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was feeling quite merry. Then a real
motorcycle came out of the billowing dust and haze and waved me down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bloke removed his helmet and bid me a
very good day, sitting astride this wonderful BMW, 650 I think, but it could
have been more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If his bike had fallen
over as bikes sometimes do, I wouldn't have the strength to get it upright
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was huge and the throaty
engine growled contentedly like a male lion after a mating session.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Nice bike,' I
said, wondering if I should have called it a hog, or something street-talky
like that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'Must go over the ruts easier
than this one.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Yeah – but,
hey look, watch out a bit further on – the road gets worse the nearer you get
to Proa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good luck.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sure enough,
the dust began to thicken under the tyres.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Now</i> we were in bull dust
country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bike began to slither and
slide away from under me every few yards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My speed got slower and slower, until I was doing 30-40 kms, sometimes
less when the ruts threw me into the central bull dust pile, or out on the edge
where the build-up was just as bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sometimes it was six inches to a foot deep in places and the back end of
the bike was doing a dance all of its own, not paying any attention to my
steering at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Who's the
master of this thing?' I yelled at the rear end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'Me or you?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was
definitely, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A fly got in my helmet, the bridge of my nose
was killing me where my glasses were digging in underneath the pressure of the
goggles, and I was sweating and itching from every pore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stopped for a moment and watched
others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some bikers were ice skating
just like me, while others seemed to hold a dead straight line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It looked easy, as the good ones simply
cruised past me, not going fast but doing a reasonable speed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They could have been delivering
nitro-glycerine in their milk crates for all anyone would guess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Envious of
this skill I got back on and falling in behind one of the good guys, tried to
emulate his riding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It did me no credit
when my bike continued to swerve and skid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What was I doing wrong?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe the
speed was too slow?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried speeding up
and nearly came a cropper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I slowed down
again to about 30 kms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt it would
be a shame to come off the bike so near to the station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Others had, I knew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could see the skids of those who had gone
before, with the occasional hollow mark where someone had taken a fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So far my bum had stayed on the saddle,
despite several near tumbles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I looked
over my shoulder, down that long and dusty road, the heat haze warped the
riders coming up behind me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The drifting
clouds of dust mingled with the snaking ribbons of heat thrown up by the earth
and created a kind of red-dust fog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Riders came out of it like dark phantoms rippling into view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of them were wobbling and skidding,
others keeping a slow straight path, but all were shimmering, serpentine shapes
that appeared as crinkled ghostly shadows and gradually formed into solid human
beings on motorbikes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an eerie sight
that held my attention for quite a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As a writer of speculative fiction this scene was something right out of
a fantasy story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I shook my
head clear and continued on my own unsweet way, ploughing through that same hot
dust.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here's one of
the problems with being a rookie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
motor scooter on which I had learned my trade and passed my test, was an
automatic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since there's no clutch,
automatics have both brakes on the handlebars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The left hand lever is the front brake, the right hand lever is the back
brake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On semi-automatics, e.g. the
Hondo postie bike, the right hand lever is the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">front</i> brake, the rear brake being down by the right foot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, where I had been trained to apply the
back brake was now where the front brake was located.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus, in moments of panic I grabbed the right
hand lever mistakenly thinking I was applying the back brake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once or twice this almost had me flying
through the air, over the jolly old handlebars, and into the path of my own
machine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The last
thirty kilometres were agony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally
the driveway into the farm came into view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I tootled along this track and found John and Pete sitting in the sun
gulping down beers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt a little
triumphant, I had to admit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I certainly
wasn't the last bike in by a long shot and I had stayed in the saddle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete congratulated me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So did John.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was all, all so premature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
thought Proa would be the worst day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
wasn't.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The worst was yet to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would indeed part company with my beloved
machine, several times, but for now I was happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>However, both
my hands ached from gripping the bars, even though Pete had given both John and
me a little gadget – a sort of cruise control clip-on plastic spur – which
required very little pressure to keep the revs up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could not open my fingers for a while and
walked about with hawk's talons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
shoulders, my back, and my neck also ached like mad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact the only part that didn't hurt, the
part which I had expected to hurt, was my bottom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had spent so much time up on the pegs, my
backside had hardly touched the saddle that day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Two people had
to be medivaced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anna, who had already
hurt her ankle, damaged herself further on the ride to Proa and was whisked
away from us by men in green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Also one of
the guys had dislocated his shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
walked about for a while, bearing the pain stoically, but in the end had to
give in to his fate and was out of the challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Among the other guys thrown off
that that day, was one a mechanic told us who was, ‘ . . . motionless, face
down in the bull dust, slowly suffocating . . .’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That treacherous red powder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It bucked you off your bike and then did its
best to drown you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">A brave guy with a brave
face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But you can't have a dislocation
like that and carry on riding a motorcycle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The greenies took him off that evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Proa Station
no longer seemed interested in sheep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There were a few emus about, and a nuisance of a gobbling male turkey
who tried to flirt with everything that moved on two legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept my legs out of the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dogs are always trying to hump my legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted no bloody Outback turkey trying it
on, even with shin-guard protection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Duncan, the
owner, took us on a tour and explained what the sheep ranch did now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'We farm red
claw crayfish in ponds now,' he said, 'ponds fed by fresh water from down
below, which comes up through a bore hole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The red claws grow to about 14 or 15 centimetres long and make a good
meal.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I can't
remember how deep the artesian well was, but I remember being very
impressed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When harvesting time comes
they drain the ponds to about two-feet deep then set up a large vat in the
middle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The vat is located up stream of
the flow and the natural instinct of the crayfish is to walk against the
current, perhaps to find the source.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This leads them up a ramp and into the barrel, so to speak, harvesting
themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Over a drink
Pete told me that the local fauna included the Green Tree Frog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since this particular Ozzie frog is normally
found in damp rainforest conditions, and the Outback at Proa is dry and dusty
with hardly a tree to be seen, I found this a bit hard to believe and said so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘Ah,’ said
Pete, supping his ale, ‘you have to take into account flush toilets.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It seems the
Green Tree Frog has chosen another environment to live out his life cycle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This fellah is now found in cisterns all over
the Outback and where the cisterns are of the overhead variety he makes his
home in the ceramic bowl itself, gripping under the rim with tenacious feet
when some thoughtless user flushes the toilet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Duncan had a
story of a Green Tree Frog which caused a disturbance in the shearers’ quarters
one night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The building had been cleaned
up for some city visitors and Duncan had particularly checked the toilet for
stray frogs before allowing his guests inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not well enough, apparently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
middle-aged woman went into the toilet but within seconds screamed and took the
dunny door off its hinges in her rush to escape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When calmed she told how she had just sat
down when ‘something cold and slimy’ leapt at her from within the bowl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That evening
we were fed by the Country Women's Association.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Someone left in a light plane while we were eating, which seemed a good
way to get out of the dust bowl we were in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The man with the big shiny BMW bike arrived back at the farm and stayed
for the evening, before setting off in the dark – oh what fools these mortals
be – back to someplace about sixty miles away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We had corned beef hash that night, which was wonderful cuisine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was other fare, dishes too numerous to
mention, including wonderful afters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Lose weight?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a laugh!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have never eaten so well as on that ride, not in Hong Kong, not in
London, not in any city restaurant or hotel anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ladies of the Outback, gentlemen of the
Outback, I salute you - you are chefs extraordinary!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I put up my
tent in the yard, along with John and Pete, while many others slept in the
shearers' huts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That night the heavens
were encrusted with stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never felt
so good as I lay there on my airbed looking through the open flap at the
trillions of bright chips of light embedded in the darkness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of nature’s great shows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yes, the Southern Cross was still there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the backyards of Oz they can see all
five stars of the Southern Cross, and naturally that’s how the constellation
appears on the Australian flag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>New
Zealand also has the same constellation on its flag, but with only four of its
stars since the Kiwis live around the corner of the world and are denied sight
of the smaller fifth star. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The sixth star
on the Australian flag, is the Federation star.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Since my trip
people at home have asked me whether I was worried about snakes or spiders,
with leaving the flap wide open all night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It never crossed my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such
creatures have never really bothered me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was raised in Aden and camped in the Hadramaut Desert as a boy. I’ve
lived in tropical lands most of my days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Snakes and spiders worry those who live in temperate lands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you've been used to the wilderness on
your doorstep, such creatures are commonplace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All right, I wouldn't want a coral snake or camel spider in my bed with
me: they're both bloody poisonous bastards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But they don't want to be there either, so the feeling's mutual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't love 'em, but they don’t worry me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Earlier it had
been another beautiful sundown which crept gently over the broad long
plain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I had lived in central
Queensland all my life, I would probably belong to the Flat Earth Society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much of it is as flat as paper, mostly dust,
with the occasional pink grasslands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
spiritual land, without question, so no wonder its first inhabitants are a
spiritual people with a deep belief in the mystical offerings of the landscape.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I lay there
that night, I got to thinking about the previous day's surreal experience with
Christmas Creek and the black riders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
have had one or two 'surreal' happenings at Christmas, the weirdest being in
Sumatra while I was waiting with Annette on the shores of a lake called Toba,
in an area of volcanoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
Christmas day and we had walked down through the market to the water's edge,
one of those markets where the locals spread blankets and sell a small pile of
beans, nuts or fruit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of those
markets where you want to buy something from everyone, so they don't go home
disappointed to their families.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We were just
in the process of buying tickets for a ferry to an island on the lake when a
four-wheel-drive vehicle skidded to a halt on the far side of the market.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Caucasian man got out dressed in a red suit
trimmed with white, a black belt, big black boots, a false white beard, and a
belly as big as a bass drum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He ran down
to the edge of the shoreline and with arms akimbo, stared out over the waters
of the lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then he let out an
expletive, a nice rich juicy swearword in English, then marched back to his
vehicle and drove off at high speed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not only were
the market sellers agog, so were Annette and I, and also the ferry ticket
seller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all stood there with our eyes
out on stalks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The event had been so
abrupt and sudden it had knocked all the wind out of everyone's sails.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Previous to this the only European faces we
had seen was at local Methodist church when some tourists had gathered to sing
carols with Christian Indonesians.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then to cap
the strangeness of the event, the ticket seller said with awe in his voice,
'Who was that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moses?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'No,' Annette
replied, 'Santa Claus!'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For some
inexplicable reason this knowledge caused the ticket seller to let out a sigh
of disgust.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Oh, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">him</i>,' he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Who the ex-pat
guy was, what he was doing in the middle of the Sumatran countryside dressed as
Father Christmas, and why he was so angry, we never discovered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nor did we find out why Moses was so revered
and Santa Claus so despised by the Indonesian ticket seller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The whole scene took on a dream-like effect
which faded into oblivion – until Christmas Creek reminded me of it, on the
previous day's ride.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As with
previous nights, someone at Proa was snoring very loudly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Several people, actually.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It could have been the zoo, not a sheep
station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had been warned about this
before coming on the challenge and I'd brought some earplugs with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, earplugs only work to a degree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don't block out the noise
completely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I lay there sort of
dozing and waking, the whole night, but feeling happy at having reached day
five of the trip without injury.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-3582409669603054872018-03-18T10:40:00.000+00:002018-03-18T10:40:13.327+00:00Rookie Biker in the Outback (Day Four)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 36.0pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">Day Four<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brolga cranes,
wedge-tailed eagles and whistling kites seemed to litter the sky on the morning
of the fourth day of our Outback challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Dan had said more than once that he preferred 'challenge' to either
'adventure' or 'rally'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indeed, it was a
challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bikes were small and the
roads were beginning to get rougher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before I left
UK I'd shown someone a picture of the Honda 110 and he sneered and called it a
'girlie bike'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well hell, mate, it's a
lot more difficult ploughing through dirt on a girlie bike than on a 650 Macho
Machine like Charlie and Ian use.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
narrow tyres, the lack of engine power, the weight of the goods on the rear,
all make the little Honda difficult to handle off road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It dances on the dust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would pirouette if it was allowed to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It certainly bucks like an ornery mule at odd
times, just when you're not expecting it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No worries, mate, the Postie Bike's no girlie when it comes to battling
with cracks and craters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said to the
critic, 'What would be easier, pal – crossing the Atlantic on a cruise ship or
setting off in a girlie rowboat?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I knew from
Pete we were coming to bull dust days and keeping one's bum on the seat was not
going to be as easy as before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I
just loved the scenery in the mornings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The sense of foreverness did not go away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact it increased.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recalled the lines from a poem by the
American, Robert Frost: 'You cannot scare me with your spaces between the
stars, where no human race is, I have it in me much nearer home, to scare
myself with my own desert places'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of
course, he could have been talking about the empty places in our lives or in
our spirits – poets are deep fellahs when you start to probe – but equally he
may have meant the Australian Outback.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I hummed
along the empty highway, heading out into the sandy-coloured unknown, I thought
about the previous night's camp at Barcaldine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We camped at the show ground where there just happened to be a country
show in progress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tractors there were in
plenty, and rare breed sheep, cattle, horses, tame carpet snakes, quad bikes,
pies, beer, and all the rest of the paraphernalia you find at country fairs
everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the men wore big cowboy
hats and all the women sported big cowgirl hats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was line dancing in a cowshed and
Country songs belting out from a barn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We were no longer the main curiosity, us postie bike riders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were other serious contenders for that
crown at Barcaldine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Most of our
riders put up their tents in an empty cattle stall or stable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I preferred the open air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn't seem right putting up a tent
without using the pegs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Country
songs went on until the early hours of the morning, but I was so tired from the
long haul along the bitumen, with its 'white-line fever', that I just fell onto
my air bed and went out like a light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Again, today,
it's all bitumen, or bitch-u-men, as some of the riders called it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love the Aussie habit of twisting the words
to get something quite outrageously descriptive from it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At noon I
passed a rider with a blown front tyre.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As always, we
crossed over several dry creeks, all of them with original names, some of them
quite intriguing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'Big Dinner Creek' and
later, 'Little Dinner Creek'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One creek
we crossed must have brought a smile to everyone's face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was called 'Christmas Creek' and it was
way out in the bush, 2000 kms from anywhere, not a house in sight, not a town
for miles, yet someone had decorated its stunted trees with tinsel, baubles and
paperchains.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How's that for
an Aussie sense of humour?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">It’s as quirky as the
British.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Near where I live in the UK is a
town called Great Dunmow where every year since the Middle Ages they have held
the Dunmow Flitch Trials.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This ‘court’
awards a ‘flitch’ (a side of bacon) to married couples from anywhere in the
world if they can satisfy the a jury of 6 maidens and 6 bachelors that they
have been married for a least ‘twelvemonth and a day’ and have not during that
time wished themselves unmarried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
are many such idiosyncracies in many odd towns in the UK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Australia has invented its own
such bizarre events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the more
famous ones takes place in Alice Springs every year and is called the
Henley-on-Todd regatta.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Todd River
is dry baked earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every spring ‘No
Fishing’ signs go up along the dusty banks of this Aussie wadi and people start
building boats with holes in the bottom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The contestants stick their legs through the holes and race the boats
along the hot sandy bottom of a waterless river bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are ‘yachts’, ‘Oxford tubs’, and
bottomless ‘eights’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those taking part
are bombarded with flour bombs and other such weapons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The town is 1,500 kms from the nearest body
of water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of those taking part are
said to be sane.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later that
day, I was on my own, travelling through the eerie landscape of Dreamtime, when
out of the dust haze came a shimmering line of dark riders on even darker
Harleys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Black bandannas swathed their
faces, black sunnies covered their eyes, black beards wrapped their chins,
black dome-helmets sat uneasily on their heads -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>black everything, everywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sinister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Weird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I felt a
tingling go through me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They could have
been phantom riders from 'Lord of the Rings', except they were on big bikes,
not horses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They passed me by with
barely a flicker of acknowledgement, me on my little red pony and they on their
big black war horses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stopped a little
later and took a drink and mused a for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I got to wondering if they were the Christmas Creek Chapter of the
Hell's Angels, on their annual pilgrimage to decorate their shrine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Afterwards I
learned they were members of Bikers United Against Child Abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good blokes, not bad guys.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway, today
it was Barcaldine to Winton, a journey of 294 kms, making our total mileage –
sorry, kilometreage – to date 1554 kms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Had we ridden so far, so quickly?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Who was I to doubt the speedo?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>294 kms was an easy ride, especially on tarmac, so we had time to dawdle
and gape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would be passing through
Longreach, where stood the Stockman's Hall of Fame and the QANTAS Museum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had seen stockmen out in the fields, riding
their stock horses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grizzled, sunburnt,
star-burnt faces, some of them Aboriginal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hard, tough-looking characters that one associates with Australia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never mind your mid-Western USA cowboys,
these stockmen were as granite and teak fused together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They looked a part of the landscape over
which they rode.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Are we
stopping at the Hall and Museum?' I yell to Pete and John, as we pause to water
the bush.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pete says,
'Don't worry about Quaint-arse, but you might find the Hall of Fame quite
interesting.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so we
did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was indeed an interesting
museum, full of tack and tackle, and farm machines, and pictures and stories of
famous Outback men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have to be
someone special to live and die in the Outback.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It must be a hell of a lonely life, but probably a fulfilling one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They know who they are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Us city folk (OK, I live in a Suffolk
village, but I have travelled the world) really never find out who we are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have their daily tasks and they get down
and do them and don't whinge or whine or sweat over their lot in life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I felt the
same about the gold miners of the Canadian Yukon, when I visited Dawson City,
that clapboard town on the Klondike where bitumen is unknown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many hope-filled miners still exist there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They eke out a living from their mines these
days, not striking it rich, but finding enough nuggets to make ends meet, so
that they can continue to look for more nuggets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They're called 'sour doughs' in Canada, after
the sour bread dough they used to take with them to last out the terrible -50
degree winters you get in the Yukon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You have to
know who you are to be digging in the ground in weather like that, not even
guaranteed enough gold to make a decent tooth filling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I learned at
the Hall of Fame that the Aussie stock horse is possibly the most versatile
horse in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's known as, 'The
breed for every need'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tough, resilient
and strong, they have the speed of a cheetah and the agility of a mountain
goat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(In fact they reminded me of our
Honda postie bikes.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Among other things,
such as polo and show jumping, the stock horse is apparently good at
campdrafting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to admit at that
point in time I had no idea what 'campdrafting' was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Australian
stock horse grew out of a one-time need for military mounts and work horses
that were required for a variety of army tasks over the last two
centuries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This led to the all-rounder
we know today as the Aussie stock horse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I also heard these beasts referred to as 'walers' but whether that
strictly meant horses from New South Wales or not, I failed to discover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today you can buy a three-year old
second-hand Honda 110 for about $1000, whereas a stock horse will set you back
at least $3000, but more likely $10,000.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If you feel you need one, go to Dalby Queensland in December of any
year, but if you want a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> good
goer in a private sale, take along a thick wad of notes amounting to somewhere
in the region of $200,000.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back on the
road I was passed by DIPSTICK BRO and GERONIMO, the road names written on the
backs two riders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew the latter was
my pal from Leicestershire, John, but with a lot of the blokes and bloke-esses
I never ever did get to know all the real names, so Dipstick remains Dipstick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were heading now for Winton, home of
Waltzing Matilda, the song written by Banjo Patterson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was where he first performed the
unofficial National Anthem of our antipodean cousins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's a great song, once heard it buries itself
in the psyche whether you are Australian or not, and is sadly mutilated by the
Barmy Army when they're trying to get the under the skins of the Aussie team
cricket supporters, bless their English socks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Around
mid-afternoon I was almost shouldered into a ravine by a road train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Road trains are truly terrifying creatures:
the Tyrannosaurus Rex of the Outback.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
monstrous cab pulling up to three long trucks taking up almost all the road
space. This oblong giant appeared out of the heat haze on the highway enveloped
in a huge cloud of dust which he kindly shared with every other road user,
including me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I slowed down to pull of
the track, as I was supposed to do, when I realised there was a drop off the
edge about a metre deep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had nowhere
to go as the monster drew up alongside me, all 54 metres of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a cattle truck and as well as dust
there was the stink of penned animals to contend with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was coughing and spluttering as he
thundered past me with centimetres to spare, when from the other direction
along comes another beast of the same magnitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My truck then edges towards me to give the
guy room on the other side of the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Now I was riding on a strip of track only a few inches wide with the
drop on my left yawning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I braked, not realising
one of the other riders was right on my back wheel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He skidded up alongside me and we both
teetered on the brink of oblivion for a few moments, before finally the road
train squeezed away again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cold sweat
mingled with the warm stuff, as I gathered myself together and tried to stop my
heart from jumping out of my mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
other rider gave me a look.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gave him a
look back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then we both disentangled
ourselves and sped away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never did
learn who he or she was: when you’re all kitted up in your road armour you’re
virtually anonymous - but I never braked after that without looking in my rear
view mirror, even if I did have the king of dinosaurs fighting me for road
space.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We rolled into
Winton in small groups, twos and ones like old-time sundowners, ready for the
evening meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been another day of
mystical scenery and wide wide landscapes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Who would not be a sundowner or a swagman in this great country?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was made for the wanderer, the traveller
through ancient ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hence, of course,
the Walkabout, which had probably been going on since Man first arrived on the
Australian shore in their little boats, looked around him, and said to his
companion, 'Bloody hell, mate, we've picked a winner here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never mind the weekend camping, we can do it
all the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The camping grounds go on
forever.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In those days,
of course, he had to contend with<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>prehistoric mammals such as the Doom Duck, a monstrous flightless bird
that could swallow a pig whole, and various other big fellahs: marsupial lions,
marsupial wolves and a load of huge lumpy looking monsters that might have been
rhinos or hippos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No doubt the boys and
girls slept in the forks of trees and never went Walkabout without a
spear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's not difficult even now to
imagine those old mammals lumbering about the landscape, looking for new meat
on two legs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our camp that
night was in the local footy oval, where they play – well, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">play</i> is a sort of loose word when it comes to Aussie rules
football, since the object seems to be to murder as many of the opposing
players as possible – that unfathomable blood sport which only Australians
understand, but many other nationalities enjoy watching in the way that they
would the spectacle of gladiators killing each other in an arena.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The area was
already littered with tents that were up, tents that were half up and tents
that were flat as pancakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Riders were
milling about, talking, drinking beer, getting showers, doing bike
maintenance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the gathering of the
herd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stories were being swapped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Disasters were being recounted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So-and-so had gone into a ditch and bent his
gear lever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatisname had blown a tyre
and had ended up in a thorn tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thingymejig had run out of gas out in the plains of nowhere and couldn’t
start his bike for twenty minutes after refuelling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such conversations floated through the
evening ether as the herd milled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once the tents
were up and showers taken we were conveyed in a bus to a kind of craggy hill
top similar to the one in the movie <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Picnic
at Hanging Rock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>It appeared to be
an ancient place, no doubt with Dreamtime significance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were gullies and strangely-shaped rocks
sculpted by wind and water out of the landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It did not take much to imagine
carpet-snake-people and hare-wallaby-people meeting here to foment war or seal
a peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The view over the plains was
awesome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sort of scarred browny-red
landscape stretched out on all sides, mile upon mile upon mile, to the far
horizons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We watched as
the sun went down behind a distant range of hills and I'm sure we all
experienced that humble feeling one gets while witnessing a natural occurrence
where a fantastic but simple beauty is produced by a common-or-garden event –
simply, the end of an ordinary day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>rays of the dying sun
stretched out over the russet landscape to enhance the ochre redness of the
soil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It could have been the end of a
Jurassic day, or as it actually was, a day several million years after giant
lizards lumbered over the land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Certainly the ghosts of dinosaurs were there, tramping over that ancient
earth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once the
natural phenomenon of a huge dark-red sun sinking into a vast dark-red
landscape had ended and things spiritual gave way to things mundane, we tucked
into a great meal provided by the Winton Lions Club.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The yarns began, the camaraderie growing with
every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any wariness had now been
tucked away as riders got to know each other better and like-minded people
swapped biking tales, stories of where they came from and what they did, and
all those exchanges that<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>happen when a
group starts coming together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Over these
exchanges I learned that Ewan, my new buddy from Darwin, had had to change his
bike for one of the spares.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His first
bike refused to start after he'd stopped at the Stockman's Hall of Fame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stroked my own machine, hoping she would
not prove as fickle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So far she had been
an absolute beauty, starting every time, running as smoothly as a young
colt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did have one bit of trouble, but
that was my fault.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found out that if I
turned off the engine while it was still in gear I had hell's own job of
getting it into neutral.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> to go into neutral, because you
couldn't start it in gear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you did it
would leap out of your hands like a kangaroo with its pants on fire and bury
itself in the nearest inanimate object.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I kicked down
and kicked down, but realised I would do some damage if I jumped on the gear
lever any harder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So cap in hand I went
to Richard-the-mechanic, who showed me how to gently rock the beast back and
forth until she slipped into neutral.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>From that moment on I never switched off the engine while the bike was
in gear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thanked Richard humbly –
thanks he waved away with a yeah-sure – aware that my biker inexperience had
shown, probably not for the first time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'What did you
think of the Hall?' asked Ewan, over a beer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Not a bad
little museum,' I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'How about
you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You're a local.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did you learn anything?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Probably, but
what struck me most were the items which displayed as being part of the
pioneer's time – the early days of the bush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Things like saddler's repair kits, wind-up telephones and milk delivered
in billy cans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What worries me is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> remember those things as a kid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It makes me feel old.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ewan is about
a quarter of a century my junior.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'Listen,' I
said, 'I remember when eggs came as dried powder in cans – you ain't as old as
me, mate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was six years old before I
saw a real egg and I thought it was a squashed tennis ball . . .'<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But though things were starting to get
fanciful, I really had known a time when dried egg and powdered lemonade came
to our house in cans, back in the olden days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There were
stories about the road kills we had seen that day – feral pigs, kangaroos of
course, even cattle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ewan also told the
tale of the live black snake that was minding its own business, crossing the
road, when a line of riders came at it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The first rider tried to miss the creature, but this local serpent was
stretched from one side of the bitumen to the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the event, the lead postie biker clipped
its tail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The snake was naturally
incensed at this uncalled-for treatment and reared up, swishing itself about as
other riders come upon it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a
great deal of dodging and swerving, as bikers fought to remain upright without
hitting the snake or getting bitten.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'The
choreography was brilliant,' said a tall Irish-Australian, a three-timer on the
Postie Bike Challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'Nureyev could
not have done it better.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh, and one of
the guys told me what 'campdrafting' is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It's sort of herding cattle in a precise way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stockman cuts out one of the herd and
hustles it into a pen the way a Welsh Border Collie does with a sheep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something like that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently it's become a popular rodeo sport
with youngsters and oldsters proving their skill with the stock horse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good Outbacky stuff.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-67165333351272887192018-03-16T17:08:00.002+00:002018-03-16T17:08:24.722+00:00Rookie Biker in the Outback (Day 3)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">Day Three<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chink, chink, rustle, chink</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>Somebody has obviously given up trying to
sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are up, pulling out pegs,
wrapping their tent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Pete grumbles, ‘Is that you,
Kilworth?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘No.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘What the hell are you
doing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s only four-thirty.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘It’s not me, I tell you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s Wikipedia.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Wikipedia is our name for a guy
who is truly a carrier of knowledge, especially about the local wildlife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m always asking him questions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knows about whistling kites and
blue-tongued lizards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And many
insects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wikipedia is quietly getting
his stuff together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, almost
quietly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just the occasional <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chink</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rustle</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘It sounds like you.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Well it bloody well ain’t.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sound carries in a campsite.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">John’s voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Is Garry getting up already?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I give in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Yes, it’s me - I’m getting up.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The whole camp is stirring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Torch-lights are battling with the rising sun
to see who can remain brightest longest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The torches lose of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There’s no beating the Ozzie sun once it’s over the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the torches are of the headband
kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Miners’ lamps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They leave your hands free for tasks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I climb into my riding gear, boots last.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re a pig to put on, the leather being
stiff and unbending.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’ve lost
their shine and are now thoroughly embedded with red and sandy-coloured
dust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My plastic elbow guards, knee
guards and bollock guards feel uncomfortable at first, but after half-an-hour
I’m used to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I trudge off, being
ahead of the others in packing, and fetch three teas.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The shed where the breakfasts are
being cooked is full of riders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many
have forgotten they’ve got a lit headband torch around their skull.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me included.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They walk about, bemused, looking for the toaster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get three paper cups full of tea and return
to John and Pete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are appreciative,
which is something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John is a talker,
bless him, and he talks while he’s packing his bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete screws up his eyes and looks at the new
day as if it’s challenging him to a duel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We’re almost ready for the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Once breakfast is over, the daily
briefing from Dan is next on the agenda.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We left Rolleston, bound for
Barcaldine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today was all about
bitumen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tarmac from door to door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No dusty tracks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No interesting creeks to skid into. Just
black tar and white lines. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Barcaldine is the town where the
great shearers’ strike took place in the late 1800s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember seeing a movie when I was a kid
called ‘The Shiralee’ based on a novel by D’Arcy Niland, about a roving swaggie
shearer and his child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shiralee </i>apparently means ‘burden’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The burden is the young daughter the shearer
has to drag around the sheep farms with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I loved that film.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had great
atmosphere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where it was accurate or not
was irrelevant to me as a young boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wanted to be out there, on the dusty roads of Australia, in the Outback of
Queensland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, here I was, heading for
the heart of that shearing country, where shearers downed their clippers and
told the establishment to go to hell, if for a short time only.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Barcaldine was an American bomber
base during the war and has around 2000 souls today, one or two of whom
apparently look north eastwards to the USA for their forebears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete, who did the ride in 2007 as well as
2008, told me how he had fared in that year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He had arrived in the town and asked for the oldest pub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sent to a hostelry called ‘The Artesian’ he
found he was a minor celebrity there amongst drinkers who were well into their
favourite sport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They all had their
photos taken with him, then he said he had to leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A young woman tried to persuade him to stay,
but he had to join the rest of the riders camping at the showgrounds and told
her so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As he rode away she yelled after
him, ‘I’m only 30.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the inferred
offer he kept going.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">On the way to Barcaldine we
passed through Springsure and Emerald.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There are precious stone mines at Emerald, but they don’t mine emeralds
there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The emerald the town is named
after is a lush green hill at the back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What they mine at Emerald is sapphires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not green stones, but blue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most
confusing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently the sapphire
fields at Emerald are the richest in the southern hemisphere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is very interesting at Emerald is a tree
that’s 250 million years old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Happy
Birthday, tree!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has now turned to
stone, having fossilised, but still it’s an impressive age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dead though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The region is famous for its live plants too: sunflowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Van Gogh land of big blooms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The journey that day was long and
tedious, except for one incident when we were going across a creek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete was just in front of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were hammering away noisily at around 75
kph when this large kangaroo suddenly shot out of the bush and bounded across
the road right in front of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete
didn’t deviate, but I thought wow, that was close!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then a quick movement to my right made me
turn my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another roo was leaping
out of the undergrowth, this time towards me!.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I braked sharply and skidded, while the kangaroo suddenly realised he was
going to hit one of those many angry red machines that were careering through
his territory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He did a quick sideways
leap and then athletically spun round, turning back towards the way he had
come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I missed his plumbob bottom by
inches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete waved a hand over his
shoulder as if to say, ‘Pay attention, mate, or you’ll end up as a kangaroo
road kill.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>450 straight kilometres of bitumen is not
great fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, Pete entertained me at
the stops with his dark tales of ‘bull dust’ trails to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would part company with my bike, he told
me, everyone does.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Secretly I thought: not
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shall stay stuck to the saddle
because I shall be sensible and ride at a speed that will keep the bike firmly
under my backside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Little did I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Little did I understand the
devious nature of bull dust.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, not today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today we were cruising through greenish
countryside, with kangaroo road kills every several miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were somewhat whiffy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagined the poor bastards being hit by a
road train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those big articulated
monsters would mow them down as easily as a car going over a weasel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bang.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Squish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kangaroo heaven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kites were feeding though, and the ants,
and various other beasties.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There are other road kills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taipan snakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feral pigs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Anna has gone to the hospital,’
one of the riders tells us as we stop for a coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘She might be back, but maybe not.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Anna was one of the female riders
who had damaged her ankle when she parted company with her machine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s two down so far.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had heard about someone whose back had gone, not from a fall but from
a simple task like kick-starting the bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My knees gripped the fuel tank of my lovely redheaded Honda beauty, with
her hot vibrating flanks and willing chassis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We were not getting divorced if I could help it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let no bull dust put us asunder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Till death us do part, I thought, hoping of
course that it wouldn’t come to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We entered Barcaldine by crossing
a railway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Railway journeys I have known.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">My wife Annette and I were in
Thailand in the late 1980’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We wanted
to travel by train from Bangkok to Chang Mai on an overnight sleeper
train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just obtaining the ticket turned
the clock back to a time when Rudyard Kipling was in his youth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First we obtained a number at a kiosk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We took that number, just a simple figure
like 8 or 9, to an office where a man wrote our names in a great ledger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We then went to another office where we were
assigned seats and canvas bunk beds that unrolled from the side of the
carriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, we went to the last
office, where we were issued with tickets for the 6 pm train to Chang Mai.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We were excited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was our first long rail trip in the Far
East.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">At quarter-to-six that evening we
boarded a train which said ‘Bangkok to Chang Mai’ on the side in big
letters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The platform from which it was
leaving was registered on both our tickets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We stowed our luggage, sat in our seats and were delighted to be served
curry from a man who had a portable paraffin stove set up in the linked bit
between the next carriage and ours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
had especially opted for no air conditioning, because we like the climate of
Thailand and don’t like to freeze.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The train pulled out at precisely
6 pm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Once out in the countryside we
would stop only at the odd station, but on the edge of Bangkok there were a
number of suburban halts where people could board.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At about 7 pm a Thai family entered our
carriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was dad, mum and two
children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man looked at us, looked
at his tickets, and said, ‘Madam and sir, you are in our seats.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I took out my own tickets, looked
at the seat numbers, checked the carriage number, and shook my head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘You’ve made a mistake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are our seats.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He shrugged and showed me his
tickets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I showed him mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were identical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Damn railway clerks, I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’ve either sold the seats twice, or made
a stupid error.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All those ledgers
too!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You would think the system
infallible with so much bureaucracy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘I must fetch the ticket
inspector,’ said the Thai gentleman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>‘He’ll know what to do.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Good idea,’ I replied, safe in
the knowledge that possession was nine tenths of the law.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘He’ll sort it out.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">In the meantime I offered my seat
to the man’s wife and Annette chatted to the two children.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The ticket inspector turned out
to be a corpulent official covered in gold lanyards, medals and scrambled
egg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked like an amiable general
in Thailand’s army.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, he was
accompanied by a lean narrow-eyed lieutenant who wore a gun at his hip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This one looked like an officer in the
Vietcong, the one from the movie ‘The Deerhunter’ who keeps yelling, ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wai!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Wai! Wai!’ </i>or some such word into the ear of Robert de Niro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This man’s hand never left his gun butt as he
stared at me from beneath the slanted peak of his immaculate cap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Neither of these rail officials
spoke English.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The ticket inspector studied all
the tickets on show and then spoke softly to the gentleman with the nice
family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘He wants to know,’ said the
gentleman, turning to me, ‘why you are on the wrong train?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We were nonplussed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stunned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gobsmacked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘What wrong train?’ I
argued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘This is the 6 pm from Bangkok
to Chang Mai, isn’t it?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘No,’ came the calm reply, ‘this
is the 3 pm from Bangkok to Chang Mai, running late as usual.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘What?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You mean . . .’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘All trains run late here,
sir.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The 6 pm will still be standing in
the station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ticket inspector says
you will have to get off at the next station and wait for your right train.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Annette and I stared out of the
window at the blackness rushing by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
country stations had no lights whatsoever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They were pits of darkness in a world of utter darkness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had visions of standing on one of those
rickety wooden platforms trying to flag down an express.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was scary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Too scary to contemplate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
sure the people who lived near those stations were perfectly respectable
citizens, but the night time jungle does things with the imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no way we were going to get off our
train, now that we were rattling towards Chang Mai.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Through our gentleman translator
we managed to persuade the inspector to let us stay on the train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first he wanted to sell us first class
tickets to the air conditioned compartments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When that didn’t work - Annette digging in her heels - he found us
similar seats to the ones we already had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It occurred to me he could have done that in the first place, but since
all was well that ended well, I really didn’t care.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There is a post script to this
short tale.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">To avoid any repetition of this
near horror story, we chose to return to Bangkok by a reliable bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kid you not when I say that when we boarded
the coach our pre-booked seats were completely overflowing with Thai monks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We explained to these orange-robed young men
that they were in our seats and they pointedly ignored us, staring out of the
window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fetched the driver who said,
‘Sir, as monks they are permitted to sit anywhere, eat anything, and the law
tells us we can do nothing.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since young
men serve a year or two as monks, in the way that they do their national
service in the army, we weren’t too impressed by the piety side of things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were not dedicated holy men, having
taken vows of poverty, but ordinary youths serving out a set time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The guys wouldn’t budge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They knew their rights.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">A fierce woman conductor told us
to ‘get off the bus’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We told her we had
tickets for the seats these two queue jumpers were sitting in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were not going to move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other passengers began to get restless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The driver started looking panicky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally he came to us with his hands clasped
as if in prayer and said, ‘Sir, Madam, I beseech you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I plead with you to understand my problem and
leave the bus.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We sighed, gave up and
got off the vehicle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a tough man
who can withstand a Thai beseeching, I can tell you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tougher than me, anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We collected our luggage from underneath the
bus and waited for the next one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hopefully the place had run out of monks and we could get back to
Bangkok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And where do Thai bus drivers
learn words like ‘beseech’?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guarantee
half the population of the English-speaking world doesn’t know that word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He probably had a degree in English
Literature, having read Chaucer and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piers
Ploughman</i>, while all I know of Thai is ‘good day’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
problem began to mar my voyage through the Outback.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although I had managed to phone Annette at
Gayndah on the first evening, I hadn't managed to contact her since then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had taken the tilt train from Brisbane to
Cairns, then set out for some Quaker Friends located on the Atherton
Tablelands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
trouble was we both had UK mobiles which for some reason would not work in the
Outback.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I borrowed Pete's Aussie mobile
but by that time Annette had disappeared into the Tablelands, a remote area of rainforest
and bush, where she would be looking for wildlife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(She eventually became 'the platypus lady'
having located some of these strange creatures and asked by the eco lodge to
take out parties to see them).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her
location was as bad as mine, for cell phone reception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew she would be worrying about how I was
managing, but I couldn’t get hold of her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(In fact, we would not manage to speak again until I reached Innot Springs
near the end of the ride, though she had by that time contacted one of the
organisers’ mothers and ascertained I was not in surgery).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
would have been nice to get all excited by each day's events and share them
with Annette on the going down of the sun, but hey, when we were first married
the Royal Air Force sent me to South Yemen for a year during which we could
only communicate by letter, and it had been far more dangerous then, since I
was being shot at, probably quite rightly, by anti-colonialist Arabians who
wanted me out of their country almost as much I wanted to get out.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-45460443008415024262018-03-13T22:06:00.000+00:002018-03-13T22:08:19.057+00:00Rookie Biker in the Outback - Day Two<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">Day Two<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I remember that morning
vividly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t the Outback, there
were still fences, but the landscape opened up like untying a brown
parcel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It became immense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though 50 riders started off almost
together, we soon became strung out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There were younger more vigorous riders who wanted to burn it up out
front.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were those who wanted to
dawdle and take photos of everything from yellow-flowering wattle trees to dead
kangaroos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sort of found myself in the
middle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mostly I stuck to Pete’s tail,
terrified I would get lost if I didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(It was bloody easy to miss those coloured ribbons marking our route).
But on occasion I was the only person in a gigantic flat bushland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Solitary Max.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was quite cold early on, before the sun had warmed the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wind cut through me as I hurtled into it
at 70 kms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made a mental note to stuff
newspaper down the front of my jacket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">This is what I had joined this
rally for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being alone in the Australian
hinterland is indescribable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s truly
awe-inspiring, frightening in its immensity, and stunning in its aspect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt so very privileged to be able to
experience such a scene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It drained me
of all the bad feelings I had ever had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It filled me with wonder. My spirit expanded with the wide open
wilderness as I hummed and rattled along the road, the bush stretching to
infinity on either side, to back and to front.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was in the bubble of a sky the size of a universe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was royal blue with puffs of cloud like
the spots on a fallow deer’s flanks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Except, down the centre of heaven was this long, long cloud, oh, a
hundred kilometres long, under which I travelled most of the morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talk about white-line fever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had one under me and one over me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And crossing this rufous, sandy
landscape horizontally, every half-hour or so, was a narrow creek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It might be CARVING KNIFE CREEK, or WOOMBA
CREEK, or simply, JACK’S CREEK. Most had no water in them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One or two did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The trees around waterholes hid kangaroos and
other wildlife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I have to say most
of the roos I saw were road kills, that threw up an unholy stink from their
open-vault graves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No doubt they’d been
hit by road trains, trucks or big cars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Unlike the rabbits or crows of England, they didn’t flatten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If they were actually on the tarmac their
bloated forms looked like hot-air balloons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I swerved round them, disturbing a thousand flies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of them were meals for the
carrion-eating whistling kites, that soared overhead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Today we started out towards
Mundubbera, heading first towards Cracow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I saw a twelve-inch blue-tongued lizard crossing the road in front of
me: lovely creature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Around me the bush,
with the occasional shrub, dwarf tree, or rocky outcrop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The noise from my bike engine was
excruciating after a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It grated on
the nerves and I realised why a lot of the lads wore earplugs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also my riding gear was uncomfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The goggles pressed my glasses into the
bridge of my nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flies got inside the
helmet and drove me insane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I itched in
various places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My bum got sore after
two hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My teeth rattled along with
the loose bits of metal on the bike frame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I hit a bump in the road the jolt went right up my spine and kicked
my cerebellum like a football.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
scenery was magnificent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The method of
viewing it less so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">That last evening one of the
Ozzie biker boys had sat down next to me after the meal and had started to talk
bikes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pistons, drive-chains, cooling
ribs, fairings, etc., etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He might have
been speaking in the tongues of angels, so far as I was aware.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My eyes glazed over after five minutes,
though I listened politely for half-an-hour before saying, ‘Look mate, I
appreciate your enthusiasm, but I’m not a biker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m on this trip for other reasons.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stared at me in a puzzled way for a minute
or two, then said, ‘Yeah, OK, mate . . .’ then carried on for the next
hour-and-a-half in the same vein as before, without pause for breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">If I knew nothing about bikes
when he’d started his talk, I knew even less about them at the end, realising
as one does, how complex and intricate was this holy subject, and how utterly
confused I was by it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew where the
gear lever was (quite a lot of the time actually) and the rear brake (when I
remembered it wasn’t on the handlebars, like the front brake) and a few of the
little switches like the fuel switch and cut-out switch, oh, and the bung hole
where you top up with oil, but as to what lay beneath the cladding, that was
still a occidental secret.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could lube
my chain, refill my fuel tank, put air in the tyres, check the oil, start and
stop the machine (with only occasional hiccups) and that was good enough for
the run we were on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If anything else
went wrong I ran to Richard-the-mechanic and started to cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Richard is one of those unsung geniuses who
know everything about bikes and probably bikers, has taught kings and princes
the fundamentals of bike maintenance, and who never ever reveals his disdain
for idiots like me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When fixing whatever
it was that had gone wrong he always told me what he was doing, why he was
doing it, and what the end product should be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Miraculously I absorbed these
snippets of knowledge so that next time I could fix the same problem myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The run to Cracow was just short
of 200 kms, some of it over gravel roads which required a certain amount of
respect. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">In a roadside café, many of us
were sipping coffee, dressed in our biker gear, with the robust red Honda
Postie Bikes propped up in a neat row in the parking lane outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A little old lady of the Outback entered and
stared around with saucer eyes at the luminous-jacketed riders.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘My goodness,’ she said, ‘what
are all you posties doing out here?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">One of the guys, on his way to
the exit, said firmly,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Step aside if
you please, madam - the mail must get through.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We laughed then let her in on the
secret.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She laughed with us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">At another place, a real postie
joined the end of our straggling line of machines, staying with us for a couple
of kilometres, before turning off on a farm track and waving a cheery goodbye.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Cracow is an ex-gold-mining town
in the unlikely named Banana Shire area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cracow was obviously named after the Polish city with a different
spelling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All we saw of this ghost town
was the Cracow Hotel, which is owned by a guy called Fred Brophy, a famous bush
boxing manager.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The large bar inside the
hotel (which looks a bit like a giant clapboard shack) is crammed with
artefacts, from antlers to music boxes to worn saddles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s an Aladdin’s cave of junk that would
send a Victorian era collector into shudders of ecstasy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently tourists are attracted the place,
one of the reasons being there is probably no other watering hole in the
district.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I liked it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has to be seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were told the first bit of gold to be
found, back in the glory days of Cracow, was discovered by some wandering
fossil hunters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then another nugget was
picked up by an Aborigine (who I hope made himself a rich man) and the
subsequent mine was only closed down in 1976.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And so we thundered on towards
the famous Banana itself, a small town named after a dun-coloured bullock who
lived and died there in the mid-1800s, a beast held in affection by the local
stockmen who used old Banana to herd the wilder elements of their cattle into
the stockyards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s what you do in
Oz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don’t have fancy Anglo-Saxon or
Viking names for your towns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You name
them after your favourite hound or work horse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And past Banana we went, with barely a backward glance, intent on
reaching our goal which was the town of Rolleston over 200 kms away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were staying at the Rolleston racecourse
that night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My little motorbike was hot
between my thighs and as we ate bitumen at the end of that day I recalled
similar bikes and bikers I had seen in various parts of the world, especially
on the Asian continent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The small motorbike has been a
great boon to the poorer areas of the world (some of them no longer so
poor).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve spent a great deal of time
in Malaysia, Thailand, Vietnam and other Asian countries and have witnessed
some hair-raising small-motorbike-sights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I remember once seeing two men
riding in Ho Chi Min city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One guy was
sitting on the saddle, head down, throttle open to the limit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His friend was standing on the pegs over the
top of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the hands of the standing
man was a huge pane of plate glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His
arms were stretched wide in the shape of a crucifix, his fingers hooked around
the far edges of the glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Around, in
front, behind, and just about everywhere, were other bikes, cars, trucks -
whizzing near this pair with only fractions of a inch to spare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I leave it to your own imagination how close
these two came to death by multiple lacerations.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">In another Far Eastern land, it
was quite common to see a man sitting on a small motorbike with a live domestic
beast sitting on the pillion seat, usually a pig, its front trotters tied
together, its legs around the neck of the driver of the vehicle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed never to bother either rider or
passenger that they were cheek by jowl, the snout of the sow alongside the nose
of the man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact it appeared to be
the most natural thing in the world and I wonder if conversations were held
between the two, one in animalese and the other in humanese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A grunt here, a snort there, an understanding
developing over the journey to market.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the afternoon we were still not in the
Outback.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could see fences all
around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were irrigation channels
too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone, Ewan I think, said he’d
noticed cotton farming around the area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ewan came from Darwin, so he knew the north well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a tall quietly-spoken man with
‘Lonesome Rider’ on his back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I liked
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no brashness or side
about Ewan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We refuelled at Theodore that
day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Refuelling was done off the back of
one of the trucks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You started out in
the morning with 5 litres in the bike tank and five litres in the spare
can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That would, in theory, take you 250
kms or more, depending on the rider’s weight and how fast you pushed the bike
along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some days, like today, we had 450
kms to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the refuelling, usually
midday or thereabouts, you took on another 10 litres and so could finish the
journey comfortably.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">In the afternoon we passed mining
operations with trucks going back and forth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Otherwise it was endless road, going on to the edge of the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m told that one of the riders, a guy named
Cam, was attacked by a dog in Theodore town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then in the afternoon a Jack Russell flew at him from out of
nowhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I noticed him around the
Rolleston camp, later, with ‘Two Dogs’ written on his back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cam must give off one of those atmospheres
that drives dogs wild.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who knows, maybe
he had some kangaroo dung on his boots?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There were two more casualties in
camp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the women had fallen off
her bike on the dirt road coming into the camp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Her leg was injured and the ambulance was called for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also someone else was stretched out on his
back, clearly in pain from that area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Two days and three casualties?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Heck, at this rate would get through half our number before the ride was
over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There was a sheet we were
supposed to sign when we arrived at our destination every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a simple task, but one which I
constantly failed at.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As usual when I
arrived at the camp that afternoon I forgot to sign the arrival sheet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always forgot to sign it and in the end
they got tired of bollocking me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My head
was so full of long white clouds and distant horizons there was no room for
ordinary things like the signing of sheets to confirm that I wasn’t actually
lost out in the wilderness, but here in camp humming a simple tune as I knocked
in tent pegs one by one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kylie must have
got awfully tired of this Pom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We had corned beef, cooked Aussie
Outback style, for dinner, amongst a bunch of vegetables and bread.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And pudding too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Followed by coffee or tea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was clear from the start we weren’t going
to starve on this run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had thought I
might be able to lean down over the trip but the meals on those first two days
soon put that wish back at the bottom of the well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could just not eat so much, of course,
which would do the trick, but damn me it would be a strong man who could resist
that country cooking after a day in the saddle, yippy-ay-yay old buddy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Everyone was getting to know each
other a bit better by this second evening and exchanging stuff about home
towns, home countries, home continents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Aussies and the Kiwis got on best of course, and worst, just like
rival neighbours anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They reminded
me of the English and Scots back home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I see some Kiwis and Aussies sitting together, I just like to toss
in the world ‘rugby’ or ‘cricket’ and watch as the temperature rises on both
sides of the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Brits and the
Yanks did not have the same ground to battle on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t play soccer or rugby and we don’t
play baseball or their football, so we ended up being awfully polite to one
another, which was a bit tame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to
look for Pete later, to have a talk about cricket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was good for a blast at any time and would
lambaste the English cricket team at the drop of an Akubra, while I - albeit
with lesser ammunition - would have a good go at destroying the myth of
Australian cricket domination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I went to bed that night about
8.30, along with most of the camp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
woke again at about 11.30 and went to the toilet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was dark over the camp site but there was
one area where it was lit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Under a pool
of light that fizzed with black clouds of flying insects the small team of
mechanics were still hard at work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Richard, Lang, Mick and Andy were probably all there, tinkering away
with problems we had given the machines during the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I noticed a sad-looking bike with its guts
strewn all over a slab of concrete flooring, the frame already thick with
dirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An autopsy. How the heck these
metal surgeons put such dismembered bikes back together, all the bits in the
right places, was beyond a mind like mine. This scene of engineering men -
heads uncluttered by literary junk - toiling under late lamplights, righting
mechanical wrongs, repeated itself over the next few nights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">It was of course a long way from
the world of the wordsmith, this world of mechanics, though I too have laboured
nights at getting the right line in the right place, turning a few jumbled
words into a poem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a vision of
men who had made a modern day craft into an art.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My work had never been good enough to cross
boundaries like that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could not turn
an art into a useful thing: others took what I did and did that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They took my words and produced books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have the greatest admiration for men like
Lang who can rebuild antique aircraft and then have the guts to fly their
recreations halfway round the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Men like Lang Kidby turn metal
puzzles into actual shapes that one can not only touch and smell, see and hear,
but that can <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do </i>things like race
along the road or fly in the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve
written 80 novels and over 200 short stories, but they don’t race and they
don’t fly, they don’t do anything except sit there and wait to be read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As for engineering, if I can mend the toilet
ballcock when it goes wrong (which I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can</i>
do fellah) I congratulate the engineer in me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To understand the precision-made parts of a modern machine, to make an
engine actually work, must be immensely satisfying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That kind of achievement is so far out of my
mental territory it might as well be on the moon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The blow-up pillow was useless, so I stuffed a
sock bag with a towel and used that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
wasn’t like home, but then nothing was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Indeed, I slept well until shocked awake by clanks and crashes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat bolt upright at 4 am thinking we’d been
invaded and the tanks were breaking down the metal corrals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I remembered we were in the middle of
Queensland and tanks would have job getting through the bull dust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It turned out to be a cattle station nearby,
that was loading up its cattle B Doubles (articulated cattle trucks) ready for
the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a racket!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had no one told them there were tired bikers
in the next field?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would they have given
a monkey’s uncle if they had been told?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Of course not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I managed to fall
asleep again, but my dreams were full of sledgehammers.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-15263229285129455302018-03-07T13:56:00.004+00:002018-03-07T13:56:53.714+00:00Rookie Biker in the Outback (Day One)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">Day One<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I rose at 5.30 and dressed in my
road armour: helmet, boots, shoulder and elbow protectors, and shin and kneecap
guards. Then I kissed Annette goodbye (she opened one eye, briefly) and then
went to the start point of the rally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fifty riders and fifty postie motorbikes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple of Americans, a few Brits, several
New Zealanders, and naturally in the great majority, Australians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mostly men, but also a handful of women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the women, a good-looking lass, was
wearing the full body armour of Boudicca, the Celtic warrior Queen who
thundered around in a chariot killing Romans right, left and centre, in BC
Britain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most impressive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was envious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With armour like that who cared whether you
came off the bike and bounced around a bit?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘Howya doin’?’ asked a lazy-eyed,
dark-haired Aussie about half my age, as I wheeled the bike out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘You up for it?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘As I’ll ever be,’ I
replied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘You?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘No worries,’ he came back with
the traditional Oz reply, and gave me the broad grin of a rider who knew what
he was doing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I was actually quite
nervous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d only had about 20 hours
riding in my whole life, all on borrowed motorcycles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing came automatically to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could drive a car without even thinking,
had been doing for 50 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I had
to think ‘throttle’, think ‘brake, where is it, which one?’, think ‘gears,
where are they, what am I supposed to be in?’, think ‘lifesaving look over left
shoulder for turning left, over right shoulder for turning right’ and a dozen
other things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They did not just happen
in any natural way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think</i> about them and think quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing was instinctive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So of course I was nervous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I didn’t want to make an ass of
myself on the first day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t want
to make an ass of myself on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i> day,
of course, but I knew I was going to at some time, so begged it would not be
just as we started out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t want to
be the butt of jokes or the one they picked out as the dodo from amongst all
these Kiwis, Yanks, Ozzies and Poms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
lined up two abreast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A long line,
stretching back the length of the sideroad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One support<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>truck was in the lead
and another followed, with two others somewhere around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was supposed to be a police escort out
of the City of Brisbane, but other things were going on too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A charity run for a start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had lost our motorbike escort to the Heart
Foundation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Start up!’ came the call down
the line.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Please start, please start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>One
kick and 21 roared to life, the little darling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gear up into first and we were away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The line broke up fairly soon afterwards, both longwise and
sidewise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We went out as a trickle,
finding our way through the Sunday morning traffic to the outer reaches of the
city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a fairly straight route,
for which I was thankful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Getting lost
in the Outback actually held fewer fears than getting lost in the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the Outback there was only kangaroos and
the very occasional road train to worry about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Here in the city was mindless traffic and a multitude of unfathomable
roads.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Those on their way to churches
and/or pubs on that Sunday gave us a good hooting send off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It must have been something to see 50 postie
motorbikes scrambling along the highway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One of us, Scotty, was dressed in a clown’s outfit, wig on top of his
helmet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only Scotty knew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘It seemed like the thing to do,’ he told me
later, when I asked if it was a bet or charity stunt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘I just felt I needed to do it.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scotty was an expert mechanic and of great
assistance to those who broke down when the repair truck was nowhere in
sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were others with similar
skills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What had I got to offer?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could write them a poem, of course, on the
wonderful song of the Australian bell bird or the absurdity of the duckbilled
platypus, but somehow I didn’t see that helping.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">(I remember a writer friend of
mine, who when he obtained his doctorate in literature from Canterbury
University saying he longed to be in a theatre when someone fell ill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the call came out, ‘Is there a doctor in
the house?’ he planned to rush forward and cry, ‘Yes, stand back while I read
the patient a couple of verses from Shelley.’)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was not wearing my goggles at
this point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only prescription aviator
sunglasses, or ‘sunnies’ as the Ozzies call them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The goggles would not go on over my glasses,
which I needed in order to see properly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Later, after several stone chips had nearly taken my lenses out, I
forced the damn goggles over the glasses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They were uncomfortable but absolutely necessary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The weather was good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been raining hard when we arrived in
Brisbane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Torrents, accompanied by an
earthy, rainforesty smell. People had been getting onto buses and trains and
emptying pints of water out of their shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But the rain had passed and it was a mild and pleasant spring day in
Southern Queensland.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Dayglow youngsters roared past
me, occasionally whooping and hollering, giving release to their feelings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They rode their bikes like young Mongols rode
wild horses, following some invisible Ghengis Khan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Others, the middle-aged and older men were
more sedate, but still highly competent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I clung grimly to my handlebars, mentally mumbling, ‘Change down to 3<sup>rd</sup>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shit, I’m already in 3<sup>rd</sup>’ as I
slowed almost to a stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘OK, get a
grip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think about what you’re doing. No,
don’t touch the front brake, use your back foot brake you idiot or you’ll be
sailing over the handlebars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whoa, miss
that bus if you please, Mr Kilworth. Don’t wanna join the insects on the
windscreen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Change up again, and again,
heck there is no <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">again</i>, I’m already
in 4<sup>th</sup>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well at least I know
where I am now, but for how long, god only knows and he’s a secretive little .
. . heck, that engine noise gets my tinitus going, but don’t think about that,
or the slight headache, think about what you’re doing, or you’ll oversteer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Look ahead, not down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Look right ahead, way, way ahead, so far
ahead you’ll be staring over the world’s edge.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Taped to my handlebars was my
Running Sheet, which told me where to turn and when.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I began the day at 36,862 kms and from that
point all the way down a numbered sheet had worked out what my speedo should
read when deviating from the straight and narrow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 36,908 I needed to turn right to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Esk, Brisbane Valley Highway #17 - CAUTION!
Crossing duel carriageway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>I
followed the instructions, along with 50 others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There would be times when I would be alone in
the world and these sheets would save my bacon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Today the destination was a town called Gayndah, northwest of
Brisbane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today’s fuel stop, where we
would refill our spare tank and top up the tank on the bike, was <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Jimna Fire Tower</b>, in a lightly forested
region with a gravel road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">At 37,1018 we forked left to
Jimna and there rested in a dirt layby by a 47 metre high tower from which
rangers presumably watched for forest fires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After scoffing sandwiches and drinking water, I put on my motocross
helmet back on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were going onto
gravel now, obviously more dangerous than bitumen, and Pete had suggested John
and I followed him, did what he did, went at the same speed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After two minutes it seemed not so much
gravel as hard dirt with lots of potholes and rocks sticking up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to keep up with Pete’s 70 kph but was
worried about the sticky-up rocks, so slowed a little to about 65 kph.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete slowed too, to keep me and John
company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The track was undulating, with
some fairly steep slopes and rises.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
turned one corner, started to go down a descent when we noticed a knot of bikes
and riders on the edge of the forest road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Someone had come off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More than
one person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed a jam so we didn’t
stop ourselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d only be adding to
the clog-up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact we later learned
that a rider had gone over the edge, into a culvert (I’d never heard of a
culvert until that day) which is a kind of channel or watercourse alongside a
road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rider, a guy named Jack, had
several broken ribs and facial injuries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cuts and bruises too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 75 Jack
was the oldest one amongst us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next
oldest was a Kiwi, at 70-odd, then me at 67.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I hoped the Biker Gods weren’t starting at the oldest and working their
way down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jack then was out of the rally
and was whisked away in an ambulance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
someone remarked, you don’t bounce at that age.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Someone else had run into Jack
from behind, when the accident happened, but I never found out who.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete started to speed up after that and I
actually passed him on this occasion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was probably the only time I did while on dirt, but I felt quite good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We finished with the ‘gravel’ and once again
went onto bitumen, or what I would call in UK tarmac.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next name on our sheet was Ban Ban
Springs, on the Goomeri road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Ban Ban Springs are a line of
natural springs at the end of the Bin Bin Range of hills (dontcha just love
these Aboriginal place names?) the water of which runs into wetlands covered
with wildlife and plants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The springs
were a source of water for the Aborigine clans of the region, a sacred place
with Dreamtime associations with the Rainbow Serpent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the birthplace of the Wakka Wakka
tribe. It’s one of those areas, apparently, where one should stop, relax, and
contemplate the serenity of nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately,
blokes and gals zooming along on 70 kph bikes don’t have time to stop and lay
out a picnic blanket, then muse on the wonders of the natural world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We hurtled past.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Goomeri, on the other hand, is
famous for its Maytime Pumpkin Festival, which attracts thousands of people to
the small town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently the Great
Australian Pumpkin Roll has made Goomeri internationally famous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sounded very inviting but again, bike
riders are obsessed with ‘getting there’ and we wanted to reach our destination
at Gayndah before nightfall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>377km in
total.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A longish day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">On the way I saw my first
Whistling Kite, a beautiful bird of prey that skimmed the treetops.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Also saw a kookaburra on a
wire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He laughed at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why wouldn’t he?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">At Gayndah we camped in the local
showground where I put up my one-man tent for the first time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was simple and easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Went up in ten minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blew up the bed, unrolled the sleeping
bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Went for a shower, thence for a
drink at the make-shift bar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete was
leaning on a fence talking into his mobile phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He used his hands for emphasis, despite the
fact that the caller could not see him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Behind this darkening silhouette of a white-bearded Melbournian, along
an immense horizon, was the most multi-hued sunset I’d ever seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It stained the landscape red, orange, purple
and mauve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Breathtaking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First day over and I had covered it pretty
well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was cool stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No worries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pete and John had beers, I had a Tennessee whisky-and-coke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pretty soon the night sky stretched itself
over us, smothered in unfamiliar stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I sought that diamond symbol of Australia in the sky, the Southern
Cross, and found it safely embedded in the sky amongst its fellows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The air was as clear as crystal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was not yet the Outback.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete reckoned the Outback began where fences
ceased to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We still had fences.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The Queensland Country Women’s
Association (founded in 1922 for women who derived their living from the land)
cooked us an evening meal which was delicious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I can’t remember what it was, but every meal we had on that ride was
good and most of them were provided by the charitable QCWA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wonderful ladies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lunchtime sandwiches were something else,
being sliced white bread smothered in marg, with processed meat innards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But heck if you’ve got a good breakfast
inside you, eggs, bacon, beans and sausage, and you’re looking forward to a
great dinner, what do you need lunch for?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And what else were they to do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The fresh fruit and cake went down well, that’s for sure, while the
kangaroos and kookaburras often got the sandwiches.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Gayndah, what we saw of it, was a
pleasant town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The spot was discovered
by a Henry Stuart Russell in 1843.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
saw the River Burnett (named later) and thought the land around it looked
fertile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gayndah claims to be the oldest
town in Queensland, Ipswich and Brisbane being cities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Gayndah oranges <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> the only fruit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
grow the best oranges in the world, dontcha know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They also host a local Bush Poets
Competition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to stay and take
part in it, this being my forte rather than biking, but I was called to my bed
by an overwhelming tiredness at 8 pm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, I told myself, as I sped
along a whitelined highway in my dreams, what did I know about the bush?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s all very well being a poet, but that was
only half the job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You need a special
wilderness touch to write twangy Oz poems like ‘Nine Miles from Gundagai’ by
Bowyan Yorke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘There goes Bill the Bullocky, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He’s bound for Gundagai . . .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Never earnt an honest crust . . .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Never drug a whip through dust.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">(carries great alliteration in
its stride, finishing with)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘. . . the dog sat on the tucker
box, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Nine miles from Gundagai.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Forget your prissy ‘O daffodils
we weep to see thee fade away so soon’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Bush poems have a good hard outbacky feel to them with words like
‘Murrumbidgee’ appearing in the middle of the verse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing too fancy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing too airy-fairy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just good solid verse with a story to it, a
beginning and end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is Australian
history, where a dog eats a bullock cart driver’s tucker while he’s away having
an honest drink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like Oz poetry, just
as I’d liked the poems of Robert Service when I visited the Yukon in
Canada.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Poems like ‘The Shooting of Dan
McGrew’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don’t write poems like that
by growing up fancy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have to be as
hard as a bullet and eat gravel for breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Who says it’s not poetry?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A poem,
like any art, is what touches the heart of the beholder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Next morning, up at 5 am.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Pack away the tent, fold up the
sleeping bag, get a fatter neighbour to roll over and over your inflatable
mattress to try to get it flat again (you can never quite get rid of all the
air, can you, just as dirt from a hole never quite fills it when you put it
back - ah the mystery of physics - it was ever thus at school).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cram everything in the kitbag and throw the
bag onto the sweeper truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Go for
breakfast, collect those astonishing sandwiches, and then gather round
Dan-the-man for the day’s briefing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Everyone looks eager to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many
riders want dust or gravel, preferably with lots of curves and ups-and-downs
but most of today is bitumen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’m quite happy with tarmac at
the moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-10398511725660372572018-02-24T09:08:00.001+00:002018-02-24T09:08:40.124+00:002nd Section of 'Rookie Biker in the Outback'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ploughed Fields and Bridleways</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">With the test now under my belt I
had to think about getting some off-road experience on two wheels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete insisted on it: there were copious
emails from com.au demanding action.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>John, the other Pom joining Pete and I in Australia, proved to be a
brilliant ferret.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or perhaps it was his
wife Stephanie?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway either John or
Steph found and arranged a one-day motocross course near Ipswich for the both
of us, to be followed by a trailbike course at St Albans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The motocross course was run by a great guy
named Geoff Mayes, who turned out to be one of those people gifted with passing
on the secret skills of their science.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was wise in the way of dirt bikes, had the patience of a god, and I
am sure could choreograph machines so long as they had two wheels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">John and I met in the car park
for the first time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At just over
60-years John was a bit younger than me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We were both grey panthers (a much more acceptable euphemism than <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">old farts</i>).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At our time of life who you are and what
you’ve achieved is irrelevant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Status is
totally unimportant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Age is a great
leveller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It doesn’t matter whether
you’ve been a company director or a toilet attendant in your working life, if
you end up pompous and high-handed, unable to get on with your fellow men, then
you’re going to have a lonely last-quarter of your life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Happily for me John was cheerful,
open, bright and easy to like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope I
came across the same way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were going
to spend several weeks in each other’s company and it was important that we did
not take an instant dislike to each other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘Want a salmon sandwich?’ he
asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘I’ve got more in the boot of the
car.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘Thanks,’ I replied, ‘I will.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After the sandwich we looked at
the blackening sky thoughtfully, then went to meet Geoff Mayes, a greying
British motocross champion and an all-round expert on going fast on a dirt
bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Geoff was remarkably
ordinary-looking for such a tough competitor, but then I had never met a
champion dirt bike rider before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
quickly found that men associated with this daredevil sport, along with their
fellows the trailbikers, were generally a smiling affable bunch of guys who
just love what they do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have no
need to show off or be anything but themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They are the real stuff when it comes to a dangerous and difficult
sport.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Geoff greeted us warmly and
kitted us out with plastic greaves, chest and back protectors, elbow guards,
gloves, motocross helmets, thick boots, goggles, jackets and jeans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could hardly walk, let alone ride a
motorcycle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt like one of those
knights who had to be winched into the saddle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ask me to tie my shoelace and I would have burst into tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘All right?’ asked John, slapping
me on the shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘I’m leaving my
glasses off.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘So am I,’ I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The motocross goggles tended to
crush glasses against one’s eyes and a blurred vision was better than having to
worry about adjusting things on one’s face every five minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was important that we kept our hands free
for steering, breaking and accelerating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We only had to look a few yards ahead in any case.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I stared at the track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was this stony dirt strip that went round
and up and down like a switchback for about a kilometre, with hairpin-tight
curves and corners, and lonely drops into hidden gorges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could see one steep hill that was almost a
vertical wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watched 16 and
18-year-olds hammering round this track on their bikes, taking the hills with
flying leaps on their growling machines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My stomach flip-flopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only two
weeks before today I had been riding a 125cc scooter with L-plates on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I was expected to imitate Evel
Knievel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Can I really do this</i>? I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At that moment it started to rain and the track turned to sludge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">John slapped me on the back
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Here we go,’ he said, and nudged
me towards my 250cc Kawasaki motocross bike, which being off-road I was allowed
to play with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of Geoff Mayes’
assistants went with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a
thick-set, solid older man who appeared to be fashioned from leather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fred was as gentle as he was tough-looking,
but he was standing no nonsense from this effete writer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘You’ll do a few turns round that little
track over there,’ he said, ‘then on the top section of the big track, then finally
on the whole track.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Will I? I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will I really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I climbed into the saddle of the bike only to
find my short legs could not touch the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Motocross bikes are extremely tall machines, due I guess to the springs,
whatever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My next problem was starting
the damn thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kick start handle
was halfway up the side of the bike and I could not get my leg high enough to
work it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fred gave me a helping foot and
the bike coughed into action.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Geoff had given us a little
lecture before we started.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘Don’t lean over with the bike on
going round a corner, like you would on a road bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Push it away from you, keep your body
upright.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sit as far up as near the
handlebars as possible - maintain your weight over the front wheel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you take a hill, give it the gas going
up, but ease off the throttle on going over the top or you’ll find a lot of air
between the ground and the back wheel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Open up the throttle on the straight, but throttle-back on entering a
corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Halfway round the bend open the
throttle again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Left-hand bends, stick
out the left leg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right-hand bends,
stick out the right leg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, off you
go!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">John and I went round the small
flat track rather timidly at first, then got braver by the minute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon we were both bored with playing on the
roundabout and went onto the top half of the big track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mud was slippery but we managed to stay
on for several circuits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then we got
bored with that and it was time for the big track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John went hurtling off, spraying mud and grit
into air. I followed a bit more cautiously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those first three times round the big track I almost came off on several
corners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God was gracious and somehow I
managed to stay in the saddle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I
found it exhausting, mentally, probably because I was physically tense.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I halted after three
circuits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘I’ll stop now,’ I told Fred,
cheerfully, thinking I might as well quit while I was ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘I’ve got the hang of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve had enough practice.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Oh no you haven’t,’ Fred
replied, quietly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Yes, yes, I have,’ I
insisted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘I don’t need any more.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Oh yes you do,’ said Fred,
firmly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The rain was belting down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was unhappy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had mud in every orifice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My arms and legs ached.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My head hammered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Off you go, then,’ Fred
said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Get a few more under your belt -
about twenty or so circuits, eh?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Miserably, I did as I was told -
and of course after a few more circuits began to enjoy it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can do this, I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can</i>
do this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t burning up the track
like an eighteen-year-old, but I was taking every tight corner at a reasonable
speed and getting the hang of handling a bike that like a frisky colt wanted to
dance in the slippery mud on its own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was trying to throw me off, but I stuck to the saddle with determination,
roaring up the hills, leaping over the tops, and charging down the
gradients.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Man and machine did not
exactly become one, but we certainly came to respect one another as
individuals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the end of the day I
felt charged, exhilarated and a little more macho.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">This feeling was soon knocked out
of me when John and I went on another course, this time at St Albans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We booked in for a day with Trailworld who
take potential dirt bikers out on a tour of the muddy lanes and green roads,
such as the Icknield Way, even across ploughed fields.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again the bikes were taller than fully-grown
race horses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>High, heavy beasts that I
had great difficulty in getting my short leg over, let alone doing anything
once I was in the saddle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one cared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one said, ‘Ah, poor short-legged bugger,
let’s give the little bastard a hand.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Once we had all the body armour and battle helmets in place they simply
jumped on their machines and roared away down the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I followed tentatively, not
having ridden a manual-geared machine for some 50 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had not changed a lot in that time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>had
trouble finding the right gear, stalled the thing several times, and grew very
frustrated with myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The problem was
with my short legs: every time I stopped I simply fell over to one side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bike was extremely heavy and it took all
my meagre strength to right it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My arms
grew more and more tired with every halt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was holding the others up and that made me and them unhappy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They wanted to be haring down green lanes
chucking up divots of mud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to
be home in bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I did start getting to grips with
the demon machine after several miles of tarmac.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then we turned off onto a bridleway,
footpath, or something of that nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Very narrow, very muddy (it had of course started to rain) and with a
startling number of solid looking trees lining the route.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone else let out a joyous shout
(including John) and tore off in a long line spraying the hedgerows with
sludge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I brought up the rear, along
with one of the biker-tutors, who kept urging me to ‘Get yer cheeks off the
saddle mate and stand up on the pegs’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Flying down that lane was like
running a gauntlet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Overhanging branches
turned into whips, which lashed my face and body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bends were hairpin and I kept expecting
to meet terrified old ladies walking their terriers around each corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mud everywhere, sometimes so deep it was up
to the wheel hubs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Water by the gallon,
spraying the county of Hertfordshire willy-nilly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John came off and damaged his chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I came off but managed to land in mud, so
walked away unhurt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the other
riders, an ex-policeman, came off and broke his wrist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was amazed that there were no fatalities at
the end of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even more
amazing, they all enjoyed it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
myself, it was the best experience of my life, and the worst.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had no desire to repeat it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seven hours of battling through swamp and
bog, hemmed in on all sides by trees, with the occasional rock thrown in, is
not really my idea of fun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I did think, at the end of the
day, while I was driving home to Suffolk with my limbs aching and my eyes half-closed,
that the Australian Outback would not, could not, be as challenging as that day
on the dirt trails of Hertfordshire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After all, it didn’t rain in the Outback, did it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No mud then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And there were only bushes in the bush, weren’t there?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No damn solid-trunked trees to worry about
then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I would be riding a small
machine, one which would allow short-asses like me to touch the ground with
their toes on both sides at once.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Little did I know at the time
that there would be other obstacles, just as formidable, perhaps even more so,
out in Ozzie walkabout country, where the horizons are further away than
infinity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">True, we would get no rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I have known biblical deluges in
my time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Once, on a backpacking holiday
with friends Rob and Sarah, the Malaysian rain came down in barrels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were on a windowless bus crossing the
central jungle and came to a river where a bridge had been washed away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Night fell, black as the deepest cave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With torches we had to cross on bendy planks
that threatened to throw us into the swirling torrent below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, having escaped from a watery death we
reached the coast to take deck passage on a fishing boat to Tioman Island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we arrived at the island’s jetty it was
still monsoon rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It bleached our
skins and clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It washed our flight
tickets and passports clean of any ink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Our backpacks were sodden lumps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The A-frame huts on the campsite leaked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was the Ramadan month, so there was no fishing going on and
consequently very little to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, my
pal Rob is a big guy who likes his steak and ale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was none of that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We stayed four days and then took a small
plane back to the mainland, having survived on banana porridge and Fanta
drinks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only the magnificent Malaysian
trees and wildlife saved it from being an absolute disaster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">3.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Preparations<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The official and rather posh
title of the 2008 postie bike challenge was:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Brisbane
to Cairns via the Gulf of Carpenteria<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Previous years rides:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">2002 and 2003 Brisbane to Darwin<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">2004 and 2005 Brisbane to Adelaide<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">2006<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brisbane to
Alice Springs<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">At the time of writing I received
an invitation to the newest route:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">2009<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brisbane to
Melbourne<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">What I should have done before
jumping at the chance to ride through the Australian Outback was to look up the
history of the ride, starting with the 2002 run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If had done, I would have found out some
humbling facts which are only now evident to me while in the process of writing
my small account of the 2008 ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
will have noticed that this book is dedicated, among others, to the men who
acted as volunteer mechanics during our ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One of those men is simply referred to as ‘Lang’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well Lang Kidby OAM, father of Kylie one of
the two organisers of the challenge, just happens to be an Australian hero,
though you wouldn’t have known it by the quiet way he went about fixing our
bikes when they went wrong, and nudging us on when we got stuck on the trail
and the several other duties he carried out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Lang, along with his wife Bev,
are Australian adventurers and have organised and led many expeditions through
many countries, including Australian desert crossings, flights in antique
planes, reconstructing a replica of a 1919 Vickers Vimy bomber and flying it
from Australia to the UK, restoring a 1940 Dodge Army staff car and driving it
from Aqaba to Paris and most significant of all, recreating the 1907 Peking to
Paris motor race using restored cars from the period, Lang and Bev driving a
1907 ITALA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This man plotted the centre
of Australia and was the recipient of the Medal of the Order of Australia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has led military and civilian expeditions
through jungles and was an army pilot with the Aviation Corps for 14 years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">They don’t come any bigger or
more modest than Lang Kidby.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Lang and Hans Tholstrup (another
Aussie adventurer - the country is crawling with them) organised the first
Postie Bike Challenge in 2002, a job he has since handed over to his daughter
and her partner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He now travels with the
team as one of the mechs and helpers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Looking up that first ride I came
up with a news report from ABC News Online, which might have made me wonder if
Pete was hauling me into something that was well out of my comfort zone:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Quote: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The 2002 Postie Bike Challenge organised by adventurers Hans Tholstrup
and Lang Kidby has proven too challenging for some.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The 4000 km charity ride split at Julia Creek
yesterday when more than a quarter of the 80 riders decided<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> the dirt roads through the Gulf</b> were too gruelling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So far 7 participants have withdrawn with
head injuries, broken collarbones and broken ankles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the riders says his experience as a
(real) postie has helped only slightly. </i>Unquote.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’m glad I didn’t see this
article before my ride, knowing we were also going on the dirt roads through the
Gulf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It probably wouldn’t have stopped
me going, but it would have made me that much more nervous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m also glad I didn’t then know Lang’s
amazing history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have pestered
him like a Melbourne fly and annoyed the hell out of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did manage to annoy his daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had failed to get two of the ride t-shirts
at the outset and Kylie ordered me some more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I asked her one too many times whether they had arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kylie had a lot more to worry about than
items of clothing for a 67 year old hack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">In August, a month before the
ride, Pete sent me a list of the things I would need.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, everything had to go into a
soldier’s kitbag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t a big kitbag
and it had to hold a tent, air bed, pump and sleeping bag, as well as the
following items:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">sunnies (Strine for sunglasses)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">bandanna (to prevent choking on red dust)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">thongs (Strine for flip-flops)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">calculator<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">head torch<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">2 fibre t-shirts<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">light shoes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">bathers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">washable long trousers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">light socks<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">swiss army knife<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">camping towel<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">camping pillow (mistake, didn’t work)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">soap<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">pens<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">notebook<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">camera<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">spare batteries<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">toothbrush and paste<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Vaseline (oh the relief after a day in the saddle!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">camera and spare battery/charger<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">sandals<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">sunscreen<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">paracetamol<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">ear plugs (against snorers, of which there were many)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">washing powder and pegs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">water camel (threw this away after the first day)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">cap<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">mobile phone (turned out to be useless in the Outback - no
coverage)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">jeans<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">jumper<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">It was, as you might imagine, a
hellava struggle to get it all in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw
guys jumping on their bags to get the stuff to stay put.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately the zips were strong and once you
wrestled the contents to the ground, you zipped up the bag quickly before
everything kicked out again and sprayed the campsite with underwear and
toothbrushes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">On the first day of September,
Annette and I boarded a Royal Brunei flight for Brisbane, Australia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were two stop-offs, one of an hour at
Dubai where we were supposed to disembark and buy buckets of gold jewellery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other was for three hours at Brunei,
which had an airport lounge not much bigger than my kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The economy flight was tedious and
uncomfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have done it several
times before and each time it seems longer and more unbearable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always, just as I manage to fall asleep in a
contorted sideways knot, the guy behind stands using the back of my seat to
pull himself upright, thereby joggling me instantly awake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I usually glare at him, but find he’s lost
somewhere in his own head and has no idea that I live on the periphery of his
world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only thing I can say about
modern aeroplane flights to Oz is that they’re probably better than the old
three months at sea playing deck quoits and canasta until one is sick of one’s
neighbours, sick of the colour green, and sick of being sick during the occasional
storm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Even short voyages by sea are to
be avoided.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Annette and I were once on our
way to Rhodes, when there was a terrible a storm in the Med.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were on board a Greek car ferry which had
been a French battleship during WW1.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
vessel was still painted navy grey and all the embossed metal signs above doors
and gangways were still in French.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our
new Volkswagen beetle was strapped to the deck as the world began to rise and
heave all around us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The kids were still young then -
Chantelle 6, and Richard 8 - and we had a cabin in the depths of the ship
adjacent to an empty hold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone had
forgotten to batten down a giant crane hook dangling on a chain as thick as my
thigh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hook itself was the size of a
railway truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It swung back and forth
in the storm clanging monstrously on the side of our cabin, knocking the kids
out of their bunks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were not en-suite
and every time someone wanted to go the toilet (which was fairly often, given
the conditions) they had to accurately time their run across the void which was
the ship’s hold, or become a fly-smudge on one of the iron walls of the
vessel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We thought we were going to die
during that storm, which lasted for 24 hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Every time the ship’s bow went down under the water, we were convinced it
would never rise again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I vowed then
that I would only ever get on another boat in a dire emergency.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">On arrival at Brisbane, we took a
taxi to our accommodation, the local Quaker Meeting House.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Annette and I are Quakers and we are much
more comfortable in a bed-and-breakfast environment than in a luxury
hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not that we scorn luxury, or
consider it decadent, but would much rather be in a room with breathable,
unrecycled air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We both find the
atmosphere in modern hotels oppressive and though the breakfasts are enough to
feed one for the whole day, there is a kind of suppressed panic in the dining
room as people form in small bunches around the multi-slice toaster to
anxiously watch their personal bit of bread disappearing inside the machine, terrified
they will be unable to identify it when it drops out as toast into the tray
beneath.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The Brisbane Quaker Meeting House
was on the steepest hill I’ve ever seen covered in tarmac.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Walking down it was a frightening
experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One felt it would be so easy
to lean forward, then topple the rest of the way down that sheer black
surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The house itself though was in
a beautiful forested garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the
Aussie Spring and we woke the next morning to a chorus of bell birds, butcher
birds and kookaburras.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The latter of
course do not have melodic calls, but certainly the bell bird with its
flute-like chimes and the butcher birds with their variety of warbled notes
were gentle alarm clocks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We had a free day so we went into
Brisbane proper, walked along Queen Street and Elizabeth Street, and visited
the Brisbane’s City Hall, with its wonderful clock tower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brisbane is named after Sir Thomas Brisbane,
an 18<sup>th</sup> Century general.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
was one of those rugged soldiers who probably <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">asked</i> for a posting to a rugged land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His military career is in the Guinness Book
Of Records as being the longest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our Tom
apparently served 70 years in the army and he was famous for having slept six
nights in continental winter snows with nothing but his cloak to keep him
warm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each morning he found himself
frozen hard to the ground, while around him in the night many common soldiers
had died with the cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t make
generals like that these days, though when I was in Aden during violent times,
I did hear of a general who put up with chilly air-conditioning without a
murmur of complaint.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">After City Hall, we visited the
United Church, just off Albert Street, where a Japanese couple was getting
married.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We sat in a pew at the back and
watched the ceremony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The church was
empty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were no guests, no
attendees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just the wedding couple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They went the whole hog with music, a choir
singing, she in full white wedding dress, he in tuxedo and top hat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A photographer, of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But no friends or relatives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we asked the registrar after it was all
over, what was happening, she told us it was a common occurrence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They married in Japan then came to Australia
to have another wedding, simply to gather photographs and videos of the ceremony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was then I remembered seeing the same
thing in Venice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There an Asian couple
had changed clothes behind a billboard, he had set up a camera on the steps of
a church with St Mark’s Square in the background, and they had then posed in
their wedding kit for a series of self-taken photos.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">How strange this world has become
since my grandparents shuffled off their mortal coils.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">While in Brisbane we went to stay
with Dave and Doreen, great friends of my brother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They showed us the Glasshouse Mountains, so
called because one of the first Poms, Captain Cook, thought they looked like
the glass-blowing factories of Northern England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dave and Doreen’s house is actually owned by
a dog called Chewbacca, a lovely border collie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Chewbacca lets the couple live there free of rent. Chewbacca actually wanted
one of those Queenslander dwellings that look like the southern USA mansion in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gone With The Wind</i>, but he had to settle
for a less expensive single-storey ranch-style dwelling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Next, we went north, to Noosa
Heads for the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Richard Branson was a
frequent visitor at Noosa, where he used to go running early morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The story is that he liked a cold fruit juice
after his run and finding no juice bar open at that time of the morning he
purchased one of his own which he opened at six in the morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">On the 4<sup>th</sup> day we went
back to Brisbane. I dressed in my biker gear - big boots, armoured jacket, knee
guards, motocross jeans, reinforced gloves and big black motocross helmet - and
went to find the rallying point for the bikers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We had been told it was at the Exhibition Grounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Annette and I lugged my army-style kitbag
through streets broad and narrow, going from one Exhibition site to
another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Brisbane they cover a vast
area and I was looking for a garage or hangar of sorts big enough to house
fifty motorbikes and their riders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Eventually I rang Dan on the mobile and he guided me along a street I
had passed twice already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What hope did
I stand in the Outback?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I met Pete and John just entering
the building.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘You found it then?’ said
Pete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Didn’t get lost?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘What, me?’ I laughed gaily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘I’m a walking compass.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We entered a warehouse humming
with people, some in motorcycle gear, others in street clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were lots of beards about, several of
them quite long, mostly grey and grizzly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Most of the people in the room were men between the ages of 25 and 75,
but I was surprised by the number of them in their 40’s and 50’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were all roaming around identical bright
red motorcycles, which peppered the floor looking clean and shiny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These roadsters were being inspected and
appraised by their new owners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To some
of those owners these small postie bikes were tiddlers, but to me they were
mean machines.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The dominant accent that echoed
around this hollow room was naturally Australian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some people knew each other, but most did
not, and the beginnings of camaraderie were emerging as strangers spoke to each
other about the coming enterprise:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Hi, I’m Dave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Up from Sydney.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Bill - you up for this?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Hope so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Been looking forward to it.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Me too.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">All very gentle and
tentative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later they would be greeting
each other in the mornings with a slap on the shoulder and something like:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Bill, you crusty old
bastard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a rumour you came in
last yesterday.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Not a chance, mate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The day you don’t cough on my dust ain’t
arrived yet.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Yeah, right.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I went to meet the organiser, Dan
Gridley.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Dan was a man of good build, neat
of dress, and you could tell he had an underlying seam of toughness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kylie, his partner and helper, was pretty and
a very good organiser.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dan showed me my
bike, Number 21 in red figures on the headlamp, and left me to learn from
others how to pack the milk crate which would carry essentials like petrol,
water, food and other bits and pieces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The crate fitted on the back of the bike and Pete had made covers for
all three crates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had also brought
elastic ties to keep the lid down on rough ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I was being babied quite a lot:
something that would soon change.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Dan gave us our briefing for
Sunday’s departure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘I want you here, ready to leave
at 7 o’clock tomorrow morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ll all
leave the city together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was going
to be a police escort, but they’re busy with road runs and other events . .
.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He then told us how a normal day
would go once we were out of the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>‘We usually rise about 5.30 am, pack up our tents and then have
breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The night before you will
have checked your bike for any problems, filled your spare gas tank with fuel,
lubricated your chains and made sure there’s no slack there, and checked your
oil levels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Departure is around seven every
morning, after a daily briefing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
first to leave will be the marker truck, which will tie coloured tape to key
points along the route, so you’ll know where and when to make a turn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your bags will be carried by the repair
truck, and a sweeper truck will follow behind all the riders, helping those in
trouble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll be expected to do your
own repairs where possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tools can be
borrowed from the repair truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you
can’t do it, because it’s too technical or you need muscle assistance, Richard,
Lang, Andy or Mick will be there to help or take over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you arrive at the campsite in the
evening - usually a town showground or rodeo ground - the first thing you’ll do
is check your bike for potential problems, oil and lube, and refuel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then put up your one-man tents and finally,
get a beer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Any questions?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I had no idea what to ask, so I
said nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">My bike looked young and fresh,
despite having 30-odd thousand kilometres on the clock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As postie bikes they all looked exactly alike
of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Little robust-looking Honda
110s, designed for ‘commercial and agricultural use’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ‘X’ model, which we were using, had a
reliable four-stroke engine and was simple and undemanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although it had 4-speed gearbox, it was what
we call in England a ‘semi-automatic’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was no clutch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You crunched
through the gears from neutral upwards, 1 through to 4, and so on, down
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were given a lesson in
first-line maintenance by Richard, Mick and Andy, three of the mechanics who
were to accompany us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Checking the oil
level and tyre pressures every day was a must.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Watching for looseness of chain and any nuts and bolts was also
important.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pretty trivial stuff, I
thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">(That was until we were hammering
along the wild trails of untamed Northern Queensland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two-hundred or so kilometres of brick-hard
corrugated track, rugged enough to shake loose the teeth of saltwater croc,
soon changed my mind about ‘trivialities’.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘These’ll save you some cramped
fingers,’ Pete said, giving me some soft grips for the handlebars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘After steering for seven hours, your fingers
will be like claws on those hard grips.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I duly cut away the hard grips
and replaced them with soft spongy ones that did indeed make my life a lot
easier on the trail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Kick-starting my lovely 21 for
the first time, she sounded, as another rider remarked, like a cross between a
lawn mower and portable generator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
sort of noise that causes the dead to spin in their graves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spanish youths use similar machines to ride
up and down the same stretch of road carrying half-a-dozen of their mates on
the frame and mudguards, while holiday-makers vainly attempt to rest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">On the back of the bike was a
plastic milk crate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete had made me a
cover for it and had provided some elastic retainers to keep it on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In our milk crates we would carry 5 litres of
fuel, 2 litres of water, sandwiches, a thick book of maps covering the vast and
seemingly empty interior of a continent (most of the pages looked blank to me)
and ‘personal materials’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">My personal items consisted of
two toilet rolls, a packet of cleansing wipes, imodium tablets, and dehydration
powders (blackcurrant flavour).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Add to
these essentials a brass naval compass and it can be seen that my major fears
were divided equally between loose bowels and getting lost in the
wilderness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">As it happened the former was to
become reality and the latter was to remain a harrowing nightmare.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">When I was 12 years of age I got
lost, with another boy scout, for two days in a South Arabian desert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The maps given to us were later proved to be
faulty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such experiences don’t leave
your mind, even after 55 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Horrific
tales, which we have all heard, of people wandering away from their car to take
a pee in the Outback, never to be seen again, haunted my early thoughts on the
trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was almost persuaded into
purchasing a hand-gps system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had
visions of myself drinking the petrol out of my fuel tank while the mystical
landscape of the Aborigines swam around me distorted by heatwaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the end cost got the better of my
fears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I settled for a good
compass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figured a gps would only tell
me where I was, i.e. lost in the Outback.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">By the end of the day, armed with
information and items to stay alive and moving on two wheels, I went back to my
Quaker accommodation somewhat uneasy with my inexperience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would I manage to ride this sturdy little machine
without falling off?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would I manage to
travel the hinterland of Australia without getting lost?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would I manage to complete the trip without
getting ‘crook’?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The answer to all these questions
was actually, ‘No’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Here’s a few statistics for the
bike nerds amongst you, on the Honda CT-110 Postie Bike, so that you are fully
aware of what our multi-national bums were about to sit astride.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Dry Weight:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>89.5 kg (197 lb)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Engine Oil:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>1.1 L (1.2 US qt)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Fuel Tank:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>5.5 L (1.4 US gal)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Fuel Reserve:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>0.8 L<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(0.2 US gal)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Forks:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>140 ml (4.7 oz)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Bore & Stroke:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>53 mm x49.5 mm (2.047 x 1.948 in)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Compression Ratio<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>8.5:1<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Displacement:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>105.1 cm3 (6.39 cu.in)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Spark Plug:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>D8EA (NGK)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Spark Plug Gap:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>0.6 - 0.7 mm (0.024-0.028 in)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ignition:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>CDI<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Points Gap:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>0.3-0.4 mm (0.012-0.016 in)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Valve Clearance:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>0.05 mm (0.002 in) both<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Idle Speed:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>1,500 + or - 100 rpm<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Output Power<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>7.5 HP(DIN) @ 7,500 rpm<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Clutch:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wet plate (semi-automatic
or crunch gear)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Gear Box:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>4-speed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Stroke:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>4-stroke<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Top Speed<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>85 kph<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Soichiro Honda set up the Honda
company in October 1945.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The war had not
long been over and he used military 2-stroke motors that he purchase
cheap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When they ran out he designed his
own 50cc engine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1958 he released the
C100 Super Cub, a 4-stroke, overhead valve motor, with a centrifugal clutch and
3-speed gearbox.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>70cc and 90cc versions
followed a bit later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Honda has since
sold close to 40 million of these bikes, which includes the Postie Bike, one of
the toughest machines on the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
soon to learn that the CT-110 needed to be a robust worker, to deal with
conditions out in the wilds of Australia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Corrugated roads, thick bull dust, heat, up to 8 continual hours a day
at almost top speed, rocks, gravel, sand and a novice rider - all these my
little bike took in its stride - and never once did it falter or even look like
giving up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So, there were 50 of these
magnificent little colts with a rider on each one of them, but the organisers
were carrying 6 spare bikes on one of the three trucks, just in case.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It turned out they knew what they were doing,
naturally, because I think they eventually used all six.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-11929639601054596242018-02-22T18:25:00.000+00:002018-02-22T18:32:58.097+00:00Biking through the Aussie Outback<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;">I've been doodling with my blog for several years now, not with a great deal of enthusiasm since it seemed to me that getting people to read it was far harder than actually writing it. I have only recently looked at the stats and while I only have a handful of 'followers' almost 16 thousand people have 'viewed' the blog since its inception. That figure gives me heart to try an experiment. In 2008 I did a motorcycle ride of 4000 kilometres in the Australian Outback, along with a bunch of others. I wrote a book about it, which I hope has its humorous bits and a little drama now and then. I'm going to post it chapter by chapter, one a week, to see if I can build up a few more followers. I'm not looking for an army, a horde would do. So here goes nothing.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 20.0pt;">ROOKIE BIKER IN THE OUTBACK<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">An Australian Motorcycle Challenge<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">(My thanks to
Ewan Grenenger and Murray Nettheim<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">for their
notes on the ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also to Ross Buxton
and Geoff Vautier,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">cousins, who
kindly loaned me their prepared presentation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And finally<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">thanks to John
Hales who dragged me along to training on dirt<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">bikes with him
over several counties.)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">This book is
for Dan, Kylie, Lang, Andy, Mick and Richard,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">the team who
got us from B to C.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">And of course,
not forgetting my mentor Pete Worth, without whom<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I would never
have been daft enough<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">to take part.
Pete is also responsible for <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">the cover
photo.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Riders<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Vaughan
Adams<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lee Bolding<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brian Bosch<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ross Buxton<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Frank
Cogan<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bill Cooney<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tony Davis<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>David Davidson<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Debra
Drummond<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peter Drummond<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Andrew Ebert<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bill Edgar<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Dave
Engstrom<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bill Fee<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>David Folpp<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ewan Grenengar<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">John
Hales<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peter Hickie<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doug Hogg<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Louisa Jade<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Garry
Kilworth<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neville Lewis<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jim Lightfoot<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Warren Limpus<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Geoff
Madder<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bob Mathieson<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cameron McCarthy<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scott McMullen<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Chris
Mercer<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Graham Meyers<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Klaus Misins<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gary Moss<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Murray
Nettheim<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>George Pender<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Vanessa Priest<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anna Renolds<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Frank
Smith<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bill Stevenson<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dave Thompson<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Andrew Thompson<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Michael
Tulk<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Geoff Vautier<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jack Walker<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Josie Watts<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Jenny
Whitlock<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peter Williamson<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Geoff Wilson<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Alan
Worsfeld<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peter Worth<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roger Zwierlain<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">PART ONE</b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">1. Beginnings<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You know
you’re getting on a bit when you’re told that the next dog you get will
probably outlive you. ‘We’d be better to get one from the rescue centre,’ said
my wife Annette, ‘they’re often older dogs.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was reflecting on this very stark and sobering news that made me
think, ‘I need a challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something
that will test me before my bones grow brittle and my mind wanders off to the
far side of the moon.’<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Have you seen
the film ‘The World’s Fastest Indian’ starring Anthony Hopkins?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a true story about a New Zealander with
a passion for motorbikes, who takes his Indian motorcycle to the Salt Lakes in
America at the age of 60-something in order to break the world speed
record.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well I’m also 60-odd and the
movie impressed me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought, ‘I’ve got
to do something like that before I keel over.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Australian Postie Bike Challenge is not as magnificent as a world
speed attempt, but it did look more my mark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Since I was in Melbourne at the time, it also seemed more appropriate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s true
about the flies in Australia, they cluster around you like . . . well, like
flies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re not particularly large,
like the British cattle-bothering clegs, but they are very, very
persistent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They hop around your face
like fleas and crawl into all your orifices - up your nose, in the corners of
your eyes, in your ears - seeking moisture, and boy are they determined to get
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I spent six months in Melbourne
in 2007 I carried switches broken from a garden hedges and got carpal tunnel
from constantly flicking it across my face to clear the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘You should
see the flies up in Queensland,’ Peter, my Ozzie host told me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Big as bloody hippos.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He was
exaggerating of course<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s an Ozzie
prerogative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Pete went on to talking
about an expedition they do in that state every year, a thing he called the
‘Postie Bike Challenge’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘I’m going to
do it one year,’ he told me, ‘before the bones seize up.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I met Pete in
1971 on a camp site outside Athens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
was newly married to Carolyn and I was driving home to UK from a 3-year RAF
posting in Cyprus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides Annette and
myself, I had two kids in the VW Beetle, the camping gear, and everything else
I owned in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete and I played
table tennis in a Corfu barn where the rain came down in torrents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We kept in touch and visited from time to
time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Peter has done some wild things
in his time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s a competent yachtsman,
holds a pilot’s licence and has had some adventures in the Australian way that
would satisfy Odysseus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His back yard is
made for adventures and hearing him talk made me wish I’d emigrated to that
land when I was younger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I almost went
as an older man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My daughter’s family
lived there for a few years and Annette and I would have joined them if they’d
stayed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now that Pete has more time on
his hands he seeks more adventures and I watch him closely to try to hang on to
his coat tails when he finds a good one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m not a sailor, but am up for almost anything else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete is younger than me by about five years,
but we’re both in our sixties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both fairly
fit and healthy, me mostly from walking and dashing about a tennis court, but
who knows when ill-health will strike a nasty blow, or the years become too
heavy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘That sounds
like good fun,’ I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Tell me about
it.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I thought he
was going to extol the virtues of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>bicycles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A nice gentle pedal
through the rainforests of Northern Queensland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He wasn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Australian postie
bikes are not of the push variety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
are full-blooded pedigree motorcycles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not big ones, admittedly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>110cc Hondas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But they’re still quite fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d seen the local postman zipping about the
streets of Melbourne on these machines and presumably they used them in the
more remote areas of the land down-under too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Every year an
organisation called Gridley Enterprises buys a batch of old postie bikes from
the post office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gridley is not a
charitable organisation in itself but it facilitates donations to Rotary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A participant in the ‘challenge’ buys his
second-hand Honda, flogs it over tarmac, dust road and gravel track, then gives
it to Rotary at the end of the rally to dispose of as they will, either passing
the bike on to a needy country or selling it and doing the something worthy
with the cash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dan Gridley and Kylie
Kidby plot a course, put it on the internet, and wait for would-be riders to
contact them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I make light of the
organisation it must take: the hard work and logistics must be a
nightmare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently they’ve never lost
a rider in the wilderness, though they’ve had one or two fall by the wayside
through injury or illness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Pete said, ‘We should do the ride
together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next one is from Brisbane
to Cairns - B to C if you like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
around 4000 kms, some of it through the Outback, some of it through
rainforest.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We were
drinking beers on the veranda of his house on the outskirts of Melbourne,
contemplating the antics of a dozen noisy rainbow lorakeets in the branches of
a massive tree above our heads.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘I haven’t got a licence,’ I said
at last<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pete
blinked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘What?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘I haven’t got
a motorbike licence.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The grizzled
grey beard on his chin twitched.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘Why?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘Why?’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I began to get annoyed, more with my
inadequacy than Pete’s incredulity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>‘Because I never took the test.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
rode a bike, once, for a couple of weeks - a 250 Ariel Arrow - but I never got
around to passing the test.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was,
oh, several hundred years ago, when-I-were-a-lad.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘Well
bloody-well get one then.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘OK.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And that was
that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Actually, we
were in March at the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Postie
Bike Challenge took place around September/October.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t going home to UK for a while, so I
knew 2007 was out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d never get my test
and organise another trip out to Oz in three months, not to mention the cost of
the enterprise, which was over $4000, excluding air fares and other
expenses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would have to be 2008.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pete however was impatient.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He put in for the 2007 run, did it, and then
wrote to me in UK and said he would also do the 2008 run, with me and a guy I
hadn’t yet met, another Pommie friend of Pete’s who lived in
Leicestershire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As soon as I
got home I rang an establishment called the Ipswich Rider School.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A pleasant young woman called Sue answered
the phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘You come along here,
darlin’,’ she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘We’ll soon have you
riding around the Suffolk countryside.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I went along there, and met Claire, Andy, Rob, and my instructor to be,
the ever-patient Charlie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Naturally they
were all a bit puzzled as to why an ancient old scribe like me suddenly wanted
to belt along the A14 on a 650cc Kawasaki Ninja.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I wasn’t exactly a born-again biker: this being
my initial birth.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I explained it was
all a bit tamer than that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I needed to
get a licence for a 125cc bike in order to tootle along the Bruce Highway in
far-off Oz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">They were all very polite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not one of them sniggered and they all patted
me on the head and said they would do their very best to turn the raw material,
this 5 feet 7 inches of effete writer, into a trail-blazing John Surtees - or
they might have done, if they weren’t half my age and had actually heard of
John Surtees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could see they weren’t
optimistic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I wondered who would take on the
task of moulding this lump of clay into a mean-machine rider.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Claire, dark-haired and attractive, with a
lovely smile, also took out riders, but I guessed most of her students were women
who wanted to be taught by another female. Andy was tall, lean and rangy, a bit
like Clint Eastwood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had
tough-looking features that belied the guy underneath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Andy was actually, like Rob and Charlie, a
serious biker who strove to get the best out of young lads who were desperate
to get out on the road on two wheels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Rob was shorter, but more solid and tightly packed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked like a martial arts instructor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Charlie was something between the two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like me he wore glasses and had been a
military man at one time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was Charlie
who took me on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Good old patient Charlie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘I’ll get you up to speed,’ said
Charlie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘You buy yourself a helmet,
jacket and boots, and a develop a good positive attitude.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">First, before I could even plant
my bottom on a bike that touched the Queen’s highways, I would have to pass the
government Compulsory Basic Training test.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I felt I was back in the R.A.F. again with TLAs (Three-Letter
Abbreviations).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Charlie and some others
took us in a truck to the site of a disused sugar factory on the edge of
Ipswich.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had three fellow students,
all very much closer to kindergarten than me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We were each given a motor scooter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There followed an eyesight test (I just squeezed through by squinting in
a semblance of Jack Palance playing Ghengis Khan) and a talk on safety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then we went outside and received
instructions on the bikes’ controls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Finally we got to sit on one and
tootle around some spaced-out traffic cones, getting the feel of the machine,
learning some choreographed handling skills and feeling like Steve McQueen in
‘The Great Escape’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After which we had a
‘long but important talk’ - I forget what it was about, but amongst it was
probably a warning about the dangers of forming our own biker gang and
challenging the local chapter of Hells Angels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Adversity had brought us all quite close).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later on in the day we at last burned up the
highways and byways of Suffolk for two hours, which I found exhilarating and heady,
even though we probably didn’t go above 25mph.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At the end of the day, having all passed, we relaxed with tea, while the
youngest of our group shot away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Where are you off to in such a
hurry?’ asked Charlie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The youth grinned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m 17 today - I’m off to pick up my the new
Suzuki bike my mum and dad have bought me.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He could ride it on the roads now
his CBT was under his belt, so long as he wore his L-plates.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">For me it was the beginning of
on-road lessons, with Charlie riding patiently behind me, the voice over his
radio mike gently steering me clear of killing either myself or any unwary
pedestrians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had one nasty moment when
I failed to see a car coming (my view was blocked by a parked van) when doing a
U-turn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Charlie stepped out into the
road and held up his hand traffic-cop-like, to halt the vehicle speeding
towards me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I then got a strong lecture
on lack of observation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Don’t follow orders like an
automaton,’ he chastised me, ‘you’re riding for yourself, not for me.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was to hear that phrase many
times, even from the examiner on taking my test - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ride for yourself</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You were
supposed to forget someone was tracking your every move from a few yards behind
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You were supposed to be riding
oblivious of that fact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, when
someone’s murmuring instructions constantly in your left ear, it’s very
difficult to imagine you’re on your sweet lonesome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s easy to relinquish responsibility for
yourself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fatal, but very, very easy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I found the hardest things to do
on the bike were the little manoeuvres like U-turns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bike wasn’t as sensitive to the touch as
I’d have liked and it wasn’t difficult to under or oversteer when trying to
U-turn on a narrow council estate road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Touch either curb and you failed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Put your foot down during the exercise, and you failed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whistle ‘Dixie’ and you failed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was very easy to fail the U-turn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The thing to do was ‘look
long’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was deadly to stare at the
opposite curb as you turned - because that’s where you’d steer the bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have to sit up straight and whip your
head round halfway through, stare over your shoulder down the long road where
you eventually want to be heading.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right
up to the test I was never sure I was going to get round without a foot going
down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On my first test try I did a perfect
U-turn - I failed on something else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Before I could take the practical
test of course, I had to do the theory tests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s fifty-seven years since I took my first driving test in a
20-year-old Austin 7.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That little Austin
was a 747cc ‘Box Saloon’ motorcar which weighed less than its four
passengers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Based on the Ford Model T it
had all the appearance of an 18<sup>th</sup> Century black carriage that had
lost its horse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A flimsy little vehicle
- you could poke your finger through the upholstery - everything connected by
wires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes one of the wires
snapped and you would lose the brakes, acceleration or steering: usually
something fairly important to a long life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">In those days there was no such
thing as theory tests and if there had been, it wouldn’t have been taken on a
computer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first part of the exam was
the Hazard Test, where I had to play a game as the driver of a car indicating
road hazards where they seemed likely to develop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve never been good with uncontrollable
movements on screens and by the fifth hazard I felt desperately motion sick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did make it through to the fourteenth
hazard, then belted for the toilet bowl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I came out, wiping my mouth, the examiner said wryly, ‘Mr Kilworth,
the good news is, you don’t have to take it again.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I also passed the multi-choice questions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d taken that as a given anyway: I’ve always
been good with ticks and crosses on paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was the practical exam that I was concerned with, and I was right to
be so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Charlie took me over all the
routes the examiner was likely to take me, pointing out the awkward places
where I might meet a bus coming towards me, or junctions with strange
angles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the main these did not bother
me, nor the emergency stop or anything except the blasted U-turn of
course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What did bother me was the fact
that I could be on a 40 MPH road without knowing it and could be failed for
‘not progressing’ or in layman’s language, going too slow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since I was new to the area and was being
guided by a bodiless voice all the time I never quite knew where I was most of
the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And some nice local kids had
stolen a lot of the 40 MPH repeater signs: those little reminders normally
fixed to lamp posts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I often found
myself doing 30 MPH on a 40 MPH road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andy provided a good solution to
this problem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘If you think you’re on a faster
road,’ he said, ‘look down the sideroads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If you see a thirty sign, you know the road you’re on must be
forty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You might pick up a minor for not
progressing for a short distance, but if you do the whole length of the road
without speeding up, it’ll be a major fault and he’s bound to fail you.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I took my first test in May
2008.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought I’d done all right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘I’m afraid on this occasion you
haven’t passed,’ said the examiner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>‘Lack of observation.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘What?’ I asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘How? Where?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘On one stretch of the road there
were vehicles parked down both sides and a bus coming down the middle.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘I saw that,’ I replied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘I observed that, all right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I slowed down and changed direction to avoid
the bus.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘True, but you didn’t look in
your mirror first.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘I did.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Didn’t.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Did . . .’ but of course,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t going to win a playground battle of
dids and didn’ts with an omnipotent examiner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had failed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt
devastated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He asked me when I wanted to
retest and I told him, ‘Never.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of
course when I’d cooled down, Charlie and Andy persuaded me to take the thing
again, which I did at the end of June.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Meanwhile from the far side of the planet Earth Pete was sending
gently-encouraging emails like, ‘Pass your test you pommy girl’s blouse!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s the matter with you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ve got two arms and two legs like
everyone else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t think with your
arse, think with your head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have got
a brain <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">somewhere </i>in there, I suppose
. . .’ and other such helpful rosy phrases.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I did take the test again, of
course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was still totally obsessed
with the U-turn, but again it went like a dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About halfway through the test disaster
struck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The examiner had managed to get
himself a hundred yards or so behind me, back in traffic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is not unusual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s always difficult for someone following
behind to keep in touch with the man ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I came to a roundabout and, since Charlie had always taken me a certain
way, I turned <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">right</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even as I began my majestic sweep around the
roundabout, having done my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lifesaver</i>
- a brief glance over the right shoulder - I heard a voice in my ear saying,
‘Turn left at the roundabout.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take the
left turn.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I was already committed
to turning right, and instead of continuing right round the bloody circuit, I
panicked and took my usual exit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
a fast road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went quarter-of-a-mile
before I was able to turn round and begin searching for my lost examiner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first person I saw was Charlie, who had
been following both of us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Where is he?’ I yelled,
panic-stricken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Do you know?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Somewhere on that housing
estate,’ replied Charlie in a cool voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>‘Come on, we’ll find him . . .’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I followed faithful Charlie, who
then left me parked by a curb while he did a square search of the region.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He found the examiner and brought him to
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first thing I asked the
examiner, as he removed his helmet, was naturally, ‘Have I failed?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">His face was deadpan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He replied quietly and calmly, ‘Unfortunately
I can’t fail you for not following my instructions - only for making an error
on the road.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a moment’s
silence while I digested this wonderful, unexpected piece of news, then he
added, ‘But you’d better be very good after this, Garry,’ we were on first name
terms now, ‘because you’ve just cost me most of my lunch hour.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I did pass that day, by the skin
of my teeth, and went home to find a short cheerful message on my phone from
downunder Pete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Well done, Garry’ he
said, ‘congratulations on passing your motorcycle test.’ I thought, how the
hell does he know?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was in Oz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But of course Pete didn’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was guessing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like to think he had a little faith in this
Pom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was like a two-year-old, full of
jumping joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was going to Oz to take
part in the Postie Bike Challenge!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had
passed my bike test and was on my way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s true to say I was as happy as Larry, which on reflection seems
appropriate, since the expression is an Australian one and refers to Australian
scallywags, which the Aussies call ‘larrikins’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A larrikin is worse than a bloke, but not as bad as a hoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hoons drive too fast and drive dangerously, I
didn’t want to be one of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No-sir.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just wanted to ride my
bike and I wanted to ride it where I liked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Pete said on the phone, ‘Once we
start the ride though, you’re on your own!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Fine,’ I replied, ‘but don’t
expect me to share my jolly jumbuck with you when you run out of
bread-and-jam.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-42178764266460725712018-02-22T09:38:00.001+00:002018-02-22T09:40:17.415+00:00A poem for my small volume 'A Rural 1950s Boyhood'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Ditches<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">As a child,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">I delved in ditches:<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">seeking weasels,<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">stoats, voles, rats,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">probing dark holes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">of cryptic creatures. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">In wet weather,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">wading in wellies,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">on hot days,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">breathing the crisp scents<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">of parched weeds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Africa, Borneo,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">both explored,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">the Nile’s source found,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">but my expeditions,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">were deep in ditches.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">I discovered<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">the dignity of ditches<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">is in charity:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">havens for the hunted,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">lanes for lower life,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">succour to slake<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>thirst.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Trenches, troughs,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">drains and dykes,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">that form networks<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">etched into the earth,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">providing passage<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">for prey<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">and predator,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">and the curious child.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-54175233922690969522017-09-15T16:33:00.001+01:002017-09-15T16:36:38.154+01:00Happenings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Earth turns, every day, and brings fresh happenings to my life, some of them good, some of the bad. The other day I woke to find myself a great-grandfather with a great-grandson: Arden Douglas Lillie. (Douglas is my own middle name: a great honour). This was a good event: new life into the world. However, one of my best friends died recently, a wonderful man we call 'Trinny' who was born on St Vincent in the Caribbean. One in, another out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I met Trinny Sutherland when we were both serving in the R.A.F. and were stationed with our families in Cyprus in the early 1970s. Trinny married a British lass, Lorraine, who he met in High Wycombe not long after arriving in England from the West Indies. We never lost touch with one another, our kids got on well together - and oh heck, I miss him a lot and so do many others. He was one of the stalwart people in my life, who I admired and loved as the best of men. His good humour was infectious, his principles were of the highest value and his sense of honour unimpeachable. His family, his Church and his friends were the most important things in his life, probably in that order. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On the travel front, Annette and I were meant to go to Kenya/Tanzania in June, when health issues intervened and we had to postpone the trip. We did, however, still go on our annual sailing holiday with boaties Colin and Sue, whose trim little craft the <i>Hilda May </i>never fails to provide enjoyment on Turkish waters. The African trip is now planned for December. In the meantime we also did a tour of Holland on bicycles, along with Tamzin and Dean, two friends with legs of iron. Amsterdam, Haarlem, Leiden, Delft and Gouda were sought and passed through over seven days. I never cease to be amazed at the number of cycles and cyclists in Holland: one parking lot had 9,000 bicycles stacked in three tiers. Lovely flat countryside with cycle paths going everywhere along canals and networking the towns. Holland is definitely a two-wheeler country. It's an eerie feeling being watched closely by dozens of sharp-eyed herons, who I imagine are suspicious of humans with circular legs whizzing by their watery landscape.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On the writing front, my third collection of poems, <i>Alchemy in Reverse </i>was published by Stanza Press, an imprint of PS Publishing, and one or two readers seemed to like it. Poetry is probably the least favourite literature of the human race, so I take what compliments are going and say thank you very much. I also recently completed a collection of short stories, each tale based on a metal element - Gold, Silver, Iron, Nickel, etc. The title, supplied by my clever wife, is to be <i>Elemetal Tales. </i>PS Publishing has bought the collection and will probably publish it sometime next year or the year after. I am still waiting for some astute publisher to pick up my novel set in Anglo-Saxon England: <i>Lord of the Wild Hunt. </i>When, if ever it gets published, <i>Wild Hunt </i>will be my 74th novel. Quantity, hopefully with a goodly splash of quality.</span></div>
zanerjabdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10519360253270283750noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6292322757283964175.post-31199343965779960692017-03-22T15:34:00.001+00:002017-03-22T15:34:58.517+00:00India<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;">Someone called Martin, a ukulele band leader very kindly told Annette the other day that he enjoys my blog. He said he especially likes the pieces on travel. So, here we go with a few journeys to India, probably my currently favourite country, especially since I've always loved Kipling. One of my top ten works of prose is 'Plain Tales from the Hills' and 'Barrackroom Ballads' high on my list of poetry.</span><div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annette and I first started to go to India in the noughties, having almost exhausted Malaysia, Hong Kong and Singapore with many, many visits. (My daughter Shaney and her family lived in Singapore for several years and Annette's old boss from our Hong Kong days, Robin Moseley, also put us up several times). It was in 2003 that we did the Golden Triangle: Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, three fabulous cities with wonderful buildings and natural areas as many tourists have discovered. We drew the triangle in trains and with a Fiat Panda, plus a driver named Vivan who knew how to avoid potholes, and camels and elephants coming the wrong way down a motorway. We stayed in 'heritage' accommodation, which meant old Raj hunting lodges and Maharajah's palaces which recently had been forced to turn into hotels. At the time SARs was widespread and the month of the year ensured that temperatures in Rajasthan were around 50 centigrade: thus we enjoyed the palaces and hunting lodges completely alone, with the staff eagerly expecting us to attend every single meal, including tiffin and supper.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Our sightseeing of Delhi and Agra went much as any tourist expects, visiting all the usual forts, temples, palaces, towers and strange trees. It was on our way to Jaipur that things began to take an unusual slant. Firstly, the aircon in our little Panda exploded as we crossed a small desert and with the windscreen down we drove head first into a bank of hairdriers on full volume. Arriving at our hotel, still in the desert, we discovered it had been closed for six months. Vivan took us on to Jaipur, to the Indian Tourist Office who had helped arrange our trip, and told us, 'Be very angry with them, sir, for they deserve it.' We weren't angry because they put us in the poshest hotel in Jaipur and arranged for us to visit the best game park in that area of India, Ranthambhore. On the way to the game park we entered a village unaware that a riot was taking place and had our windscreen broken with a rock before Vivan managed to drive out into the surrounding ploughed fields, followed by a line of cars and lorries who were also escaping the mayhem.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The following day we were due to go on safari into Ranthambhore to look mainly for tigers. Bill Clinton had been there the week before and had seen none in seven days, so we didn't hold out much hope. However, when we climbed into the jeep there was another man sitting in the front along with guide. He introduced himself as M D Parashar, the wild life artist who painted the tiger face for Esso petrol. His paintings of tigers were, we were told by the guide, famous throughout the world. 'Mr Parashar is allowed to go into areas of the park where normally tourists are not permitted,' said the guide, 'so we are lucky to have him with us.' Indeed we were. We saw two beautiful tigers that day: one lying in the shade of a bush, which we could not photograph with any clarity at all, since his camouflage was almost perfect, and the other a female who almost posed for us. Unfortunately my camera had a fault that day so the poor picture immediately below is mine and the other belongs to an unknown photographer, but is of the same tigress.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Needless to say we were delighted and even got invited back to Mr Parashar's studios for high tea! The rest of that trip passed pleasantly enough, once back in the pink city of Jaipur.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Following this holiday, Annette began going to a remote school in the semi-wild state of Bihar for one month a year to improve the English of the pupils. It was a charitable gesture for a friend whose eye doctor had founded the school for mostly 'untouchable' children, having been one of their number as a child. The bed was very basic, the food mostly lentils with a few other vegetables and at night the watchmen kept waking her up with whistles, which they used to contact each other and inform the sleepers that all was safe and well. Bihar State, close to Bangladesh, is one of the poorest in India, has bandits on the roads and is prone to floods and other disasters. One of the stories which I found touching was of a pupil at the school who was the only child of a poor widow, who would, after school was out for the day, gather other less fortunate small children under a pepel tree and for one ana each teach them those lessons he had learned that day in class, so that he and his mother could eat. Annette enjoyed her visits and afterwards flew down to Kerala where I was waiting for her, so that we could holiday in that Christian state with its Communist local government. Indeed, the red flag flew from church spires and there were companies with names like 'The Infant Jesus Radiator Works'.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We had one more visit to Kerala when Annette stopped going to the school and on that same holiday visited Tamal Nadu's Pondicherry, with Indian policemen still in French uniforms, and Karnaktaka, where we tried to see tigers again, and failed. However, we did see some fabulous birds, including the two kingfishers pictured below.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Our last visit was undoubtedly the best Indian holiday ever, when we visited first Goa, then five game parks in Gujarat, where we saw Asian lions, blackbuck deer and a whole mass of India birds, including several types of eagle, harriers and hawks. Again, we had our own car and driver. Pundit was brilliant, stopping every time he saw a bird on tree or wire, saying, 'Quick, sir, capture that one. What is it? I must learn what they all are. I am becoming a birdman, sir, just like you.' I am not a really knowledgable 'birdman', I simply enjoy photographing wildlife, but when I got home I sent him the same volume I owned myself: 'Birds of India' which I hope he now enjoys and uses to entertain his charges as he drives them along the roads of Gujarat and other Indian states. Here's two or three beasts: an Asian lioness, a Blackbuck deer and I believe the big antlered fellow in the bottom picture is a Sambar.</span></div>
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