Madagascar

Saturday / yesterday saw an unusual gathering in London - of 70 people with links to Madagascar; it was great to catch up with so many people with a passion for the Great Red Island. The meeting was organised by the most excellent Anglo-Malagasy Society.

Lemur expert Alison Jolly (in the centre of the photo) advised and helped us plan our research when we were setting up our first expedition to Madagascar which eventually led to the Crocodile Caves expedition and to my LEMURS OF THE LOST WORLD. Alison has written extensively on Madagascar, and most recently has produced a series of delightful story books aimed at 4 - 8 year-olds to promote lemur conservation; she's holding a couple of examples.

My first trip to Madagascar was at a time when the country was just opening up to outsiders and Hilary Bradt (on the right) got in touch for tips on her first trip; subsequently she became a faithful friend to me, and to Madagascar. She has written many editions of the Bradt Guide to Madagascar, and is of course the founder of Bradt Guides publisher of A GLIMPSE OF ETERNAL SNOWS.

The Making of a Sportsman

My Dad was a school master [his choice of job description], a man of letters, a lover of books and language. He headed up the PE department in an inner London school and he had a life-long passion for fitness, and games. Even in his old age he loved to play scrabble, or even snap. This week I had the privilege of celebrating his life by presenting the Joe Wilson memorial cup to the sportsman of the year at Ernest Bevin College – the school where he taught in the ’60s, ’70’s and early ’80s. This was at the school’s first dedicated sports awards evening and it was full of accounts of competition successes, but in line with Dad’s philosophy, the PE teachers and coaches also described the inclusively of the games activities and how pupils are encouraged to join in whatever their level of skill.

I don’t know whether Dad’s inclusive ethos came from his father’s commitment to service, community and swimming (he was an Ulster Presbyterian of the old school and a cavalryman in the Great War) or whether it was from Joe's time in the Army. I suspect it was a bit of both, but I shared a war story, illustrating the tough times Joe’d had during his early twenties.

My Dad joined the Irish Guards during the 2^nd World War – when he was just 19. His platoon was in Normandy being shelled and they were pinned down in shallow trenches.

Terry shouts from a neighbouring trench "Hey Joe: Got any matches?" Terry had received 200 cigarettes from his Mum that morning.

Joe says, "Yes."

"Could you bring them over?  I've cigarettes and no matches."  
Joe says, "Well that's tough luck! If you have no matches you can come over here for them."
"Ach Joe, we're gettin' shelled!"

"I know. Bring your smokes over here."

German shells are thumping around them. Terry needs a smoke badly. So he crawls over to Joe’s trench and they light up. They’d smoked maybe half a cigarette when they heard this thing coming. The sound of it, the scream of it. They hit the deck, there was an awful explosion right near by. It must have been a 120mm shell. They look out to see a big pall of smoke covering Terry’s trench.
Terry says, "It went into my trench ... thank goodness I came over …"

"YES, if I’d gone over there, the two of us would have been mincemeat!!”

 The Irish Guards were often in the thick of it and only a handful of the original volunteers survived the war yet despite the carnage there were still times when nothing was happening. They had to wait. Joe and his platoon-mates seem to have filled that time with sport. It kept them fit and must have helped stop them thinking of the horrors they’d been through and what was to come. Maybe that’s why Dad’s philosophy was just to get on with life... and enjoy whatever time you get. Dad stayed in the Army – in Germany – until 1946 and was apparently pretty hacked off when he was demobilised – it meant he missed competing in a big inter-service swimming gala, in Cologne.

 

Irish Guards 1st Company Christmas 1945 - Joe has the ball

Water polo 1945 - Joe is 3rd from the left

Joe was a disciplinarian though – in an era before corporal punishment was banned. He delighted in telling a story about a colleague, Reg. It was the first week of a new academic year and rumour reached Reg of an especially riotous class, full of wild and demanding boys. Reg decided he wasn’t going to have any trouble from them. On his first lesson with them he flung open the classroom door and stormed in with a cane in his hand looking like thunder. He said nothing but stroke up to his desk, slammed the cane down hare and glared at the class. He must have looked homicidal. Then he started his lesson. He was treated with respect verging on awe and never felt the need to use the cane or even threaten anyone.

Current teachers, of course use different techniques to gain their pupils attention and respect, and one of Dad’s big things was to give lots of awards, medals, colours and certificates. I was encouraged in this way and still proudly keep my award for having swum 50 yards, when I was seven.

Joe was great in encouraging his pupils – as well as his family – to try new stuff, and not be afraid of messing up. A favourite expression was, ‘Go on – give it a go!’

I believe that my Dad encouraged loads of people to try things even if they weren’t sure they’d make a success of it. He knew that small victories and successes give you something to be proud of – and when you feel good about what you’ve achieved, it allows you to make a success of yourself.

 I’m proud therefore to celebrate such success by awarding the first Joe Wilson memorial Sportsman of the year cup. I hope it will inspire more boys to aim higher in the coming years.

 

 

Remembering Swindon

Life as a GP is so full on that it is a rare thing to do nothing. Maybe that's why rail travel is such a treat. Hurtling through the landscape, it is easy to let the mind drift while interesting or beautiful images flash by, or placenames awake some fond reminiscence. Some journeys convince me that England is too crowded, too covered in concrete, too tamed, but then there is a journey like yesterday's where England really does seem like a green and pleasant land.


Bristol Temple Meads Station

I left the ridiculously Gothic Bristol Temple Meads to rocket east through wonderfully undulating agricultural scenery of the Vale of the White Horse, which looked especially attractive to this East Anglian flatlander.

We swept by russet cattle, and then a kestrel, suspended so still in the air that he looked like he was perched and merely exercising his wings. Then a huge evil-looking circling bird grabbed my attention, but it turned out to be a microlight. Then more signs of the British at play: two hot air balloons rising above the flooded fields, rushing brown streams, hedgerows and little woods with the strange sinuous white horse carved in the chalk down behind. The shadows were long and the clouds had silver linings. They blushed red then turned to a muted orange. Shiny vapour trails looked increasingly like an alien invasion as we drew closer to Heathrow.

The purpose of my journey was a meeting of travel health boffins, and the keynote speaker (and gap year guide author) Tim Beacon talked about what people get up to on their gap years and how easy it now is to keep in touch with home. Yes you can blog about your adventure, or you can just enjoy the experience. Tim isn't the first person to suggest that people either live or they write - so perhaps that's a good thought on which to stop this post.



Reminiscences of the Magic Roundabout and crazily busy hospital jobs

On Extermination

I grew up in suburban Surrey with a fascination of pond life... nose close to water surface, you can witness battles as exciting on any safari. Visiting the home I grew up in this week, I had time to dip into another treasuretrove: my Ballymena-born Dad's library. An Ulster Childhood (written in 1922) caught my eye and the author bio made me smile. Lynn C Doyle is a pen name: say it out loud and you'll hear linseed oil.
Doyle's writing style is lovely but I was a touch offended when I read that rural people of Northern Ireland seem to diss pond-dwellers. They used to say....
"A newt [is] a 'man-creeper', a wicked insect [sic] that if you fall asleep by a waterside crawls down your throat and exterminates you."
I like newts, especially crested newts: they give a touch of the exotic to an English puddle, pond or stream. So what is it about such benign, belly-crawling creatures that scares people so?
Is it that we need creatures to fear (in Ireland there are no venomous snakes)? In Nepal too people have unfounded anxieties about the shiny pin-striped skink - a fine and beautiful reptile that villagers say kills on contact.
Fortunately that is complete twaddle too.

Home help

 

I've spent the weekend with a lovely lot of children's authors - at a conference in Reading University. We talked of books and writing and entertained each other. Our poor beleaguered publishers are having to be more and more careful about money, and can't spend huge sums on so-called mid-list authors. The consensus was that we writers must make more of an effort to engage with our readers. With that in mind - and with the help of my techie son - we've filmed a snippet read from my about-to-be-launched travel memoir; this extract is about the challenges of finding home help. If you like it you'll find two more readings from A Glimpse of Eternal Snows on YouTube.

F-f-f-freezing

We’d stopped rowing after a tough, one-kilometre ‘piece’. My mop of unruly hair was annoying; it tickled my face and was in my eyes and mouth. Finally I had a chance to show it who was boss – tame it with a bungee. I took off my glasses to polish off the steam. They caught awkwardly in my wild hair and I saw them catapult into the river. I lunged for them but all I achieved was to rock the boat. ‘My glasses!’ I shrieked. C at stroke tried to grab them too but they sank amongst ribbons of long green weed. ‘I’ll go in!’ C said, but cox forbade her. I considered disobedience. I could feign a swoon and tumble into the river. Or stand and dive in. While I was dithering, they disappeared into the murk.

Cox sympathised but said, ‘It’s really deep here. There’s no chance of finding them.’

That was a challenge I couldn’t resist. I was a SCUBA diver. I was a cave-diver. I’d swum across a fjord. I’d find them, even if sometimes I’d temporarily lose them when I put them down on the bed at home.

We stacked the blades and eight in the boathouse and while still steamy from the row, C & I returned to the site of the sinking. We knew where my glasses were, but they were light, and could have floated away from where I’d dropped them. The river on the Stourbridge Meadow side was thigh deep where I slipped into the water. I’d kept my trainers on for fear of broken glass and hypodermic but could still that the bottom was squidgy. The water was colder than I expected. Much colder. This was summer, for heaven’s sake. Why was it so cold?

I allowed myself to fall forward. Sheesh, it was f-f-freezing. The cold made me gasp and pant however hard I tried to slow my breathing. How was I going to be able to hold my breath and search the river bottom while I was gasping and spluttering? Then there was the issue of brain freeze. I tried to get all the pain over in one go and dipped right under the water. I was assaulted by pain in my scalp. This was daft. C was shouting encouragement from the bank. I had to do a few dives at least.

‘Two-thirds of the way across. There! You’re in the right place, Jane! Try there!’

I did. Head down, legs in the air to take me down. It was deep. Brain freeze. I grabbed my nose to clear my ears. Further down. It was about three metres deep here. Who’d have guessed the sleepy old River Cam at Cambridge is three metres deep? I couldn’t see much. I reached the silty bottom. Quick feel around. My hand closed around a shell.  Out of breath. Swam for the surface. More gasping and panting. Breath back. ‘Anything?’ C asked.

‘A freshwater mussel shell!

‘Can you see anything?’

‘Yes. More than I was expecting – even without my glasses on.’

‘You’re opening your eyes?’

‘Yes... but it’s sooo cold.’

Brain aching, I surface-dived again. Managed to feel around on the bottom for a second or two. Found a lager can. Saw the red of a Coke can. A silt-covered wine bottle. A hunk of wood. Searching raised the sediment and made it more difficult to see. Need air. Up to air. I surfaced, spluttering and disorientated, in the middle of the river. I swam back to the place of sinking. Dived down. Gulping. Anxious not to swallow any Weil’s-laced water. Cleared my ears. Not much time searching.

‘I’m coming in!’ C shouted from the bank.

‘Wow! Really? You don’t have to.’ And she was in, gasping. Fighting the cold.

A few dives later, with C trying to convince herself the water temperature was ‘refreshing’, we concluded we needed masks.  C had a wetsuit too. ‘Yeh but I’ll do a few more dives. I’m getting used to it. A bit.’ My scalp wasn’t aching any more and I had better breath-control. And I’d found a bit of river with long ribbons of weed just like where my glasses had sunk. I dived down, swimming between the clingy Carlsberg-green strands, searching. The glasses could be caught amongst the weed. I found a traffic cone, a bit of fence, a fishing weight, and various unidentifiable items. I needed a mask. Up for a breath.

Down again, I reached a patch of cabbagey plants, and a big block of concrete.

A different kind of cold was getting to me now and I needed to get out. I was grateful to C for helping me out of the water. My muscles were seizing and it was hard to clamber onto the lovely soft grass of the meadow.

Next day, Sunday morning, I’d unearthed some past-their-sell-by-date contact lenses and was back with mask snorkel and fins, with A this time. I thought of David Walliams and others who promote ‘wild swimming’. They’re clearly tougher than me – although lots wear wetsuits, I guess. After my fjord swim this summer I’d even thought of trying a long swim in the Cam, but now I knew this was utter madness. I’d wondered about the temperature. If the river was mostly ground water unheated by the sun, it would be not much more than ground temperature which at this latitude in England must be around 12◦C. It felt that cold. I was surprised to discover that the Olympics pool is kept as cold as 25 but most of us swim in indoor pools kept around 29◦C. Wild swimming info implies that 15◦C is likely in English rivers. Does anyone know?

I slipped in watched, without interest, by several well-fed fishermen. It wasn’t any warmer. There hadn’t been much sun all summer. While I was standing unenthusiastically in the thigh-deep water before that first unappetising plunge, a cruiser came by. The engines were quiet, but I was surprised just how much it unsteadied me. It – and others – would churn up the water and my lightweight glasses could have floated anywhere.

I had to get in. I felt like I was drawing attention to myself. I swam two-thirds of the way across the river and made my first brain-freezing dive into murky greenish water. Even with the fins on, it was a long way down. I’d dropped my glasses into the very deepest part of the river. My antics made scullers uneasy. Disapproving oarsmen were perhaps thinking of anarchists in the water. A joined me in the river for a short while. Our attempts to search were interrupted by passing boats. I chatted briefly to people from my rowing club.

A quad approached. The cox asked ‘Lost something?’

‘My glasses!’

‘They’re on your head!’ His whole boat liked that quip.

One of the oarswomen asked, ‘Why’s your son on the bank while you’re doing the searching?’

‘He’s needs more subcutaneous fat,’ I said pompously.

A heard the cox translate, ‘He’s too skinny!’

I continued diving until I started recognising the jetsam I encountered – the same drinks cans, that concrete block, pieces of water-logged tree... I was ready to quit, but A suggested searching downstream.

The cold was starting to get to me again. ‘Three more dives.’ I spluttered.

My left calf started to cramp. Time to get out. Not so easy. Limbs not working any more.

A – now warmed again by the sun – took photos. He didn’t help as I thrashed around trying to get out of the water. I thought of the Ulster dialect word – to sprockle. My Belfast-raised Dad used the word to mean floundering about in an ungainly and ineffectual manner; often people are laughing at you as you get up and try to regain your dignity. That was me on the bank – sprockling. A took more photos to prove it. And I hadn’t even recovered my glasses.

Fjord swimming

It had started by mistake, almost. I’d rowed the three of us across from Aga and when S mentioned he’d packed our swimming togs, I was tempted to cool off in the clear inviting Sørfjorden. Getting in wasn’t easy. A muddle of landslide boulders were covered in bladder wrack and coralline seaweed so it was hard to see where to put my feet: I’m a bit of a dweeb about walking on stony beaches too. And it was cold. Really cold. I splashed water on my arms so the plunge in wouldn’t feel so bad – but it was: cold enough to take my breath away. I kicked frantically to fight the spasms. S & Ʃ were sitting under the trees on the bank laughing.

S said, ‘Keep swimming – I’ve got to get a photo with the snow in the distance!’

I was soon breathing normally again, and even almost started to enjoy it. The fjord was so still I could see the Folgefonna glacier reflected in the glinting green water: this was real wild swimming. Then from Ʃ, ‘Why don’t you swim out into the really deep water. We’ll follow in the boat and you can get in when you tire.’

‘You... must... be.. joking!’ I spluttered. But then I thought about it. Our intended lunch-spot wasn’t anything special. Kicking out in my relaxed breaststroke felt good. Easy. The ripples I made with each stroke scrumpled reflections of snowy patches on the mountaintops.

‘OK – I will then!’ I struck out back across the fjord. The houses on the other side were tiny. Trucks driving along the main road between Utne and Odda were minuscule, but it would be fun swimming out and completely clear of the shore.

I was a couple of hundred metres out by the time S & Ʃ had launched the boat and rowed out to me. I enjoyed my breaststroke – kick glide pull... kick gli––ide pull, and the water didn’t feel that cold any more. I’d swim into pockets that felt almost like a warm bath, but then it would be out again into iciness. Kick gli–––ide pull... kick...

I was going strongly, though I didn’t want to put my face in the water. I was still wearing my glasses and it felt too cold to put my head in at all, so I didn’t rise to Ʃ’s challenge to swim right under the boat. I headed towards a red two-storey weatherboard house. I swam. It came no closer. Even so I began to think I might swim right across. That started a debate amongst the three of us. S thought it was a kilometre across. Ʃ said, ‘No – look how small the cars are. It’s much more.’

I was swimming steadily. I felt strong. I could keep this pace up for hours. I turned and looked back. It was good to change position, but I still didn’t want to put my head back in the water.

‘How far... d’you reckon... I’ve done?’ I asked. ‘A third?’

S was humouring me when he said, ‘Mmm. Maybe. Yes, a third.’

The rowan trees at my starting point on the east side of the fjord still looked large. I hadn’t made much progress. But I wasn’t at all tired and I still felt I could swim across. Then I hit a muscle-seizing cold patch. Maybe this was what the rest of the swim was going to be like. I was gasping again. It must be icy water welling up from the deep. I wouldn’t go on if it stayed like this. I spluttered as much to S & Ʃ. They didn’t hear.

It wasn’t long though before I entered another bath-warm patch, and even the next cold bit wasn’t that cold.

I turned on my back. The eastern side was still close. The red house seemed no closer, no bigger. The water had turned the colour of gun metal. I’d swim a bit further. To the middle at least. I looked up to the glacier and the snow and the mountaintops. I scanned down to the tree line and the pretty houses along the shore. Earlier that same day S & I had climbed high above the fjord, 500m or so up the steep valley wall amongst pine and then birch forest. We looked down not on a single expanse of water but on a varied and varying surface – a map as intricate as any landscape. In places there were tiny waves whipped up by undercurrents, rips and eddies. There were places where the water looked deep dark and menacing, others where the water surface was rippled from a slight breeze. Sometimes the water looked leaf green, sometimes it was almost black.

From the boat Ʃ shouted, ‘What if a whale came alongside!’ His imagination had been captured by discovering that many fjords are 1000m deep; he was sure there were big creatures living down there. He talked of humpbacked whales and monsters.

‘A big whale... wouldn’t come... into a fjord.’

‘What if a giant squid came up from the deep?’

‘You’d... photograph it!’

‘But it might eat you!’

‘Still got both my legs – so far...’ He wasn’t going to spook me, although thinking of that huge body of water below me was awe-inspiring. Being run down by a boat was a more realistic worry.

Something disturbed the surface. I took a mouthful. It was – surprisingly – hardly salty at all. Maybe that explained the lack of seabirds. There weren’t many wildfowl either though: just an occasional mallard or gull. Norwegians seem to like shooting their wildlife.

Time moved on, and so did I, slowly; Ʃ – who’d come up with the idea of this expedition – was starting to get a little bored. He taunted me. ‘Hurry up or we’ll leave you behind.’ S was no lying in the boat pretending – I think – to take a nap.

‘Don’t... make me... laugh... That’ll... slow me down... even more.’ I rolled over to swim backstroke for a while but got a rain-freeze when I immersed my scalp, and I couldn’t see where I was going. Back on my front, I realised my hands were numb. I wanted to make fists but how can you swim breaststroke with fists? I recalled one of my Dad’s stories. He must have been pretty hard. He enjoyed all sports but swimming was his greatest love – a family passion in fact. Above all he loved water polo. He played in Belfast Lough – that wide estuary which opens into the Irish Sea. He described how sometimes he would catch the ball then have to look to see if it was still in his hand. It was so cold he couldn’t feel whether he was still holding it or not. My blue wrinkled hands were that cold now.

I’d set out thinking I’d swim diagonally across the fjord – retracing the path I’d rowed. I realised now though that, although the water felt still and although we were a long way from the sea, there was a significant current. The boat owner later mentioned a tide of 1.5 metres. I changed my plan and told S & Ʃ I was aiming for a rocky spur that jutted out from the western shore of the fjord. I swam towards a warning sign for boats. I wasn’t sure whether this was okay for our little boat but I just wanted to finish this now. I just needed to keep the rhythm going.

There was more flotsam: bladder wrack, leaves and a few larger pieces of tree. The channel was getting shallow. S & Ʃ were suddenly animated, looking out for rocks now. The current increased a lot. I needed to swim much more strongly to make headway against the tide but I didn’t want to kick out against jagged granite. It’s hard to see anything from the water surface. S & Ʃ in the boat said they could see the bottom now. They were worried about running aground. They suggested I climb into the boat but I wanted to touch the western shore – so I could say I’d swum right across, the entire two-plus kilometres.

Just a few more strokes. I checked before I put my feet down. I saw clean rippled sand but that’s not what it felt like. It was sticky, like mud. But my feet were down and I could stop swimming. How good it felt to have my feet on the bottom at last. S & Ʃ again suggested I scramble into the boat then they’d row me back to the jetty we’d launched from. I was standing in chest deep water. I didn’t have the strength to get myself into the boat. I waded in to where it was shallower but had the oddest sensation. Standing now waist-deep I felt as if I was being pushed forward – back into my horizontal swimming position. After an hour and a half of swimming (S reckoned it was an hour and a quarter) my body had decided I shouldn’t be upright ever again.

The sensation soon passed, though my rubber-legs took a while to return to normal function. The pay-off was the long luxurious shower when we got back to the cottage. It was delicious.