Seminal Personal Places

First there was seminal music in the two-part Echo of a Song blogpost then, it was the turn of the blogpost Seminal Written Words, picking up just a few memorable jottings I have enjoyed over the years, and now it’s Seminal Personal Places, places that bring back memories etched in the mind and evoking different and varied emotions.

At the end of Seminal Written Words, many years ago, I wrote about Roger Thomas’ postscript to his Carreg Cennen visit.  It finished with the following:

“But I do believe that when you follow an old drovers’ road or pilgrims’ trail, those footprints that went before you, although long gone, leave a legacy.  Their residue reveals a sense of attachment, or perhaps higher purpose, solace and comprehension.  It’s the same when you come across a place that immediately speaks to you in a language you can – yet can’t – understand.!”

And for me there have been many of those, but that’s perhaps for another blog post “Seminal personal places!”  ……. Et voila!:

Indeed, thinking back over the years, there are so many places that could easily qualify for the accolade of being seminal (a quick reminder – influential, important, formative, pivotal, inspiring to name a few), but I’m going to restrict myself, at the moment to just five, no six, but who knows, if the spirit takes me and I think of other memorable places or indeed find new such original places, there may have to be a Volume Two!

Here they are in no particular order:

 

Nighttime on the Stroud Commons

Chris Ferris must take the blame for me discovering these particular seminal places, as there are indeed seven commons spread out above Stroud towards and indeed just beyond Minchinhampton.  I should explain, Chris, is a woman that unfortunately I have never had the privilege of meeting, despite spending many nights with her, in the comfort of my cosy chair or occasionally in bed, whilst wandering amongst the nighttime woodlands around her home!  Chris is the author of several wonderful books, as well as a champion of badgers, that came about as she suffered from acute back problem. Finding it increasingly difficult to sleep she started to walk the woods around her house and discovered not only another magical nighttime world, but also one where sinister and dangerous people got perverse pleasure in persecuting badgers and indeed other wildlife, through badger baiting and lamping. Her vivid and wonderful descriptions of this magical world where the colours all drained away and the sound intensified in books such as The Darkness is Light Enough, rather than the more sinister aspects, captured something in my imagination, that led to me becoming a noctambulist, quite simply one who walks at night!

The commons around Stroud are rarely completely dark, the light from the surrounding valleys or bright moonlight making walking relatively easy.  I have no idea how many hours I have spent, in all weathers, wandering around these magical places, thinking, solving problems and at sad times taking solace from the majestic night scenery, at times sitting on one of the many benches quite simply lost in thought, or talking to the dog!  I have so many tales I could, and often do, tell (worldly or other worldly!) of these nocturnal wanderings.

Indeed, after discovering the joys of nighttime walking initially alone and later with my dog, I decided it was time to share the experience.  So, I started, after checking out the health and safety implications with the Cotswold Wardens for whom I had led daytime guided walks for several years, to lead moonlit night walks in various locations on the commons.  They were usually well attended, even during inclement weather, I think largely due to the novelty value.  As with all Cotswold Warden walks, they were not simply walks, but included snippets of history, geology, folklore and the like, and I feel that whoever came enjoyed the experience immensely.  On one memorable occasion, I had a phone call prior to the walk, as pre-booking was essential, from a couple who described themselves as quite elderly but also quite active.  They asked if the walk would be suitable for them and as we didn’t walk far and on this occasion were staying very much up on the top in the open common land, I said they would be fine.  On arrival, I discovered that they were in their late seventies and had some fifty years ago emigrated to Australia.  They had returned a few times to visit the home country, but with advancing years felt this might be their last visit.  As we set off and I started to tell my interesting facts and point out various locations visible by their lights, it became apparent that the couple had visited the common often as youngsters, during their courting days that coincided with the 2^nd WW.  They started to reminisce about how they were up on the common and had been able to see the bombs dropping on Bristol some 30 miles to the southwest.  As they warmed to the audience, I gave up my prepared spiel and left it to this delightful couple to share their reminiscences about war time Stroud, their lives.  With increasing confidence, they even ended up nudging one another and giggling, as we passed by some of the old now unused small quarries that abound on the common previously producing stone for the houses below, saying things like “do you remember what we got up to down there!”  A great time was had by all, not least by the elderly couple, who were so thankful to have had the unexpected opportunity to revisit old nighttime haunts.  I think the rest of us felt the thanks were due to them for making a lovely moonlit night so memorable.

The commons are truly a wonderful seminal place for me, especially at nighttime, and I have very happy memories of time spent walking there in the hours of darkness, hearing about wartime courtship ranking high on the list, but we also drank champagne and ate bacon butties we cooked up there, as we welcomed in the new millennium and were rewarded with nearly an hour and a half of 360 degree firework display, from the surrounding valleys.

 

Early morning on Wingletang

When I first visited St Agnes, many years ago, I fell totally head over heels in love and when you’re in love you do crazy things.  As a rule, I’m a night owl, as you may have gathered from the previous section, loving the solitude and peace after a busy day and when working often didn’t go to bed before 1 o’clock in the morning and later at weekends and holidays.  I always said that my ideal day would start at 10 ish in the morning and go through to 3 o’clock the following morning.  Now retired, it would be easy but have settled on a 1.30 to 2.00 o’clock bedtime, rising usually between 9.00 and 9.30.

So having discovered the magic of the Isles of Scilly and in particular St Agnes (interestingly most regular visitors seem to have a favourite), I found myself burning the midnight oil writing, sketching and painting and generally bringing out the creative in me.  Nothing crazy in that I hear you say, but I then found there were not enough hours in the day on our all too short weeklong holiday we spent on St Agnes each year for many years, the week of the late May Bank Holiday, so fairly long days anyway.  I then found myself wandering during the hours of darkness, smelling the briny air, the wind ruffling my hair and usually lots to see, if only distant twinkling lights and spotting the light patterns made by the various lighthouses.  And although the lighthouse on St Agnes had long been retired and used just as a daymark, so regularly repainted, on several occasions I managed to light up the disused lantern, by aligning bright moonlight behind it.  Interestingly, the light was relit recently to commemorate the late Queen’s Platinum Jubilee and although not there in person to see it, I did see some wonderful pictures and a video, all very emotional, as the island sort of grabs you like that.  Just recently, my Facebook has started to pick up various posts from the islands, perhaps telling me it’s time to go back!  But on one of these, taken from the helicopter as it departed from the islands, in the comments I was pleased to see I wasn’t the only person to shed a tear each time I left.  I used to say the only thing that made it bearable, was knowing that I was coming back the next year!

I guess you’re still waiting for the crazy and for those of you who know me well, getting up early to watch the sun rise on another Scilly day, whilst crazy, is also quite an achievement for me.  I’ve never been one to rise early and to do so requires a real effort, or element of craziness.  So, with insufficient hours in the all too short week we spent each year on St Agnes (approx. 168 hours, which somehow makes it seem scarily short!) and the urge to encounter the island in all its moods and hues, I began getting up to watch the sunrise, and although it didn’t convert me to being an early bird rather than a night owl, it was a truly invigorating and even spiritual experience. Arriving alone and feeling like the only human stirring in the pre-dawn light, standing watching the colours seep back, as the sun rose over the other island in the magical archipelago, is an experience never to be forgotten, and I can still feel the early warmth of the sun on my face, driving away the cold night air, at least on those days when the sun appeared!  It was a different but equally memorable experience on those drab cloudy days, I’m not just a fair weather walker, when the daylight took longer to appear, and on mysterious foggy days the imagination would run wild.  Regardless of the weather returning “home” for a cup of tea and some hot buttered toast, finished off setting me up for the day!  In hindsight, how I ever managed the long drive home when the week was over, having slept so little is hard to imagine, although I do recall the odd powernap to recharge the batteries on those days when I had watched the sunrise, walked the island maybe several times, there was a convenient pub that was hard to pass, observed the setting sun and maybe wandered onto Wingletang again after the pub had closed!

And despite the title of this piece, returning to watch the setting sun make a golden pathway over the sea to the new world and the subsequent later magical darkness of night, where the sound of kittiwakes returning to shore after a day at sea, are reminiscent of the anguished cries of drown sailors, make this something of a twenty-four-hour seminal experience!

Re-reading this I realise that I need to tell the reader a little about Wingletang, if only to explain the title! Wingletang, or to give it its full name Wingletang Down, is the last place on the Isles of Scilly before you get to America and consists of 28 hectares of barren rock-strewn heathland, punctuated with large weirdly shaped granite outcrops, craved by the wind, rain and sea. It is surrounded on three sides by the Atlantic Ocean and feeling almost remote from the rest of the island much of which is small fields traditionally used to grow the early daffodils for which Scilly is famous, but also to graze cattle and grow food for the islanders and visitors.  It starts, as you head towards America, at the end of a track lined by stunted trees called Barnaby Lane or can be accessed either side by the coastal footpath, and is criss-crossed by numerous footpaths between the bracken, heather, rough maritime grassland and tangled gorse, an area of untamed beauty, with a number of rare salt resistance plants. Two sandy bays pinch it in the middle before it opens out again ultimately dropping over a scramble of huge granites boulders at Horse Point, named I’m sure after the white maned horses that crest the waves that more often than not crash relentlessly into and sometimes over the rocks.  Suffice to say it’s wild, memorable, evocative and irresistible.

 

Before dawn on Jaipur Station

This moment was on the same amazing school trip to India, that features in the final of these seminal places below and led to me properly self-publishing my first book (Moonlit Guruji Travels), such was the life-changing intensity of the experience.

It was a very early morning, pre-dawn, start to catch the train, for the long journey to the next part of our Indian odyssey or adventure.  Despite the early hour there was a tremendous amount of hustle and bustle as the station day was an early riser.  As our coach dropped us of on the station forecourt we were, as so often in India, assailed by what from a distance could be misconstrued as an angry baying mob.  In fact, it was a throng of people all wanting to carry our bags, show us the way to our platform, help in any way they could or maybe even simply try out their English on this strange group of pale travellers, often rather disconcertedly reaching out to touch particularly the fair haired girls in our party.  Usually, there was no ill intent, just simply a fascination and maybe the chance later in the day to relate the story to a friend. Having successfully negotiated this melee and got passed the ticket barrier, things were slightly less frenetic, as only those travelling or having been enlisted as porters got onto the platforms. And it was our platform that is the next of my seminal places, for most certainly a very different reason than the others written about here.

I have a picture of the little boy, and it is one of the illustrations in the above book, and if anyone asks me about a lasting memory of my Indian travels, yes the Taj Mahal was magnificent (albeit smaller than I thought it would be), as were many of the other places we visited, but it’s that picture that’s indelibly printed in my mind and the subsequent smile which I sadly didn’t capture, and found so emotional at the time and still do, now many years later.

This rather wary little boy who looked about five, but was probably two or three years older, due to malnutrition and the life he led, was there when we arrived on the platform.  He was there, alone grubby and unkept, wearing simply a pair of dirty, shabby shorts and battered sandals, the shorts held up with string and gaping at the fly making it obvious he wore nothing underneath.  I said he was grubby and his bare torso had a patina of dust from where he slept, in his home which was under the platform on which he now stood, quietly hoping for something to make his life better, if only for a brief moment, some food or a few rupees, from this affluent group of strangers with such light coloured skin carrying large packs on the backs, but not all our worldly possessions.  He lived, with numerous other waifs and strays, under the platform quite possibly with no family, surviving by begging and boarding the trains when they arrived at the stations and using his teeshirt or other rags to clean down the floor under the passenger’s feet hoping for a few rupees or some leftover morsels, to help survive another day.  

Some of our party gave him a few coins, some food items from their bags and one gave him a banana, which he looked at quizzically, not really knowing what to do with it.  He was then shown how to open it and as he took a bite he smiled.  I remember thinking at the time that I couldn’t really comprehend how living like he did, constantly hungry and probably scared for much of the time, what he had to smile about, but then as I said above he was hoping for something to make his life better, if only for a brief moment, and this was that moment and worth a smile of gratitude.  It was these encountered and heart wrenching moments, that meant I came back from India a different person to the one who travelled out there, and why that brief moment on a busy pre-dawn Jaipur railway station, so clearly etched in my memory all these years later, was truly formative and pivotal, indeed seminal.

 

A small cluttered sitting room Sandwich

(I must admit to this being previously used elsewhere, but such a seminal, life-changing

space that it just must be included here!)

 

Memories are wonderful things, and I often find myself thinking and hoping, that as I get older my "memory storehouse" will not become full and as I learn new things and take on board further revelations, some of the more precious earlier memories will not fade and disappear altogether.

Then for no apparent reason, maybe a line in a book, a tune or a picture I find myself thinking about some long past, indeed I thought long forgotten, episode in my life.  Sometimes just an atmosphere may be enough and whilst sitting huddled against a cold August North wind, with the tent billowing around me and my wife dressed for a polar expedition rather than our summer holidays, I found myself perhaps not surprisingly, thinking about a far off warm, cosy place way back in my past.

    

In an instant, involuntarily I had gone back nearly twenty years to what almost seems another life.  I was in the upper sixth of a medium-sized grammar school with a small boarding department. I was one of these boarders and as such was part of an educational establishment of very old roots and which even then still had many Victorian elements within its ethos.  Boys of eighteen in the prime of their lives were only just beginning to be allowed evenings out, a generous four per term with a curfew so early as to be an insult to a fourteen-year-old today.  However, there was light at the end of the tunnel, and one progressive member of staff, responsible for a boarding house of some forty boys in which I had the dubious honour of being a prefect, did request that if I was late returning from an unofficial night out, could I please not use the fire escape above his bedroom!  All my laborious efforts to tread quietly were in vain, defeated by an old creaky wooden floor and his sleep was thus interrupted!!

    

About this time a group of friends and myself found what in hindsight must have been a welcome "legal" escape from the confines of school! A new young vicar had moved into the town and was also responsible for ministering to the spiritual needs of the one hundred and twenty odd resident boys. Due to this pastoral role, respectability and being a useful P.R. role between school and town, he set up a weekly discussion group in his converted garage, to which some of the older boys were allowed to go and mix with real people. Despite the garage becoming unbearably cold during the winter months, the sense of freedom and good company kept us going.  This meeting provoked many discussions and branched out into poetry/prose readings and songs in the folk-style, someone being able to strum a few notes on the guitar that lay in the corner and went horribly out of tune in the cold weather. Well from little acorns...., before long talk came round to planning an event on a larger scale. The vicar had been involved with the running of a folk club whilst resident in London, before coming out into the sticks, and it was decided to hold a folk concert as part of a week-long festival due to take place shortly in the town.  Local amateur talent as well as a few professional singers/musicians known to the vicar were to make up the bill.    

 

That was the start and preparations continued apace, and before long the event was planned and I started to make acquaintances outside my own circle of school friends and began to feel part of the local community recognising "real" townsfolk as they went about their business.  One such couple were an extremely talented pair of amateur musicians who performed at the folk concert and were also very involved in the setting up of a weekly folk club in a redundant church in the town, a direct result of the most successful earlier concert.

 

The concert that formed part of the town’s festival was to take place in a small warehouse that had been converted into an extremely primitive theatre. The stage was such that performers with guitars had to be extremely careful, due to the swinging of the proverbial cat being quite impossible, let alone getting carried away and trying to turn in an up-tempo number!  Looking back, the fine performance of Dylan Thomas’s Under Milkwood was an ambitious feat, the one saving grace being that the scenery designers, who did a brilliant job, didn’t have much backdrop to fill!  The couple of real townsfolk mentioned above, not only sang and played a variety of instruments at the concert but were also involved in the production of “Milkwood.”  They were what I am sure the head of my school would have called “hippie-types” and to make matters worse lived together as husband and wife but weren’t married, how times change!  Their only saving grace seemed to be that they both belonged to respected local families, and perhaps it was only a phase they were going through!

 

Their open friendliness and a seemingly deep understanding of the Victorian manner with which my school operated, drew me towards them, providing perhaps a shoulder to cry on!  It was therefore quite a coincidence then to meet them again shortly afterwards when out at the pub with my brother (a school rebel who had only recently left, with I would imagine great sighs of relief from the staff, surprisingly having made it to the bitter end!) and his then partner.  Being with big brother I had shunned the normal haunt and was visiting the pub over the road, a small place with the bar taken up by several large and heavy pine tables and the walls lined by old church pews. It was as we got our drinks and looked around for somewhere to sit that I noticed Jan and Tony on one end of an otherwise empty table.  We joined them and they were quickly pulled into our conversation. There ensued an evening of laughter, friendship and anecdote that I can honestly say changed my life.  Towards the end of the evening Jan and Tony said to me that if ever I wanted a bolt hole from school, I could call round for a cup of coffee and a chat, and often being in such need it was an offer I just couldn’t resist.

 

So almost too quickly after the offer, I found myself turning into their road and approaching their home.  As I had been forewarned, I wasn’t surprised to see it looked just like a shop front full of many nick-nacks and artefacts.  The tiny house was squashed into the corner just passed a pub and surrounded by industrial / business units, many of which were deserted. Imagine then my disappointment when having knocked at the door there was no reply. However, undaunted I tried again shortly afterwards and had more success.  Initially I was a little worried that the offer in the pub, made at the end of a pleasant evening may have simply been a pleasantry, but I needn’t have worried as I was on this occasion and any other made warmly welcome and made to feel special.

 

I was then shown through the small front room that had previously been a shop and still contained some of the original fitments, as well as a homely clutter that gave the place a well and truly lived-in feel. We then entered what I later realised was the hub of the house, a tiny room with one wall full to overflowing with a fireplace, books, records and the hi-fi.  The rest of the room was equally full with an old tatty 2 seater settee along one wall with crammed bookcases above, and on the opposite wall were a pair of matching armchairs with barely room between for the sitter’s feet, and yes you’ve guessed it more shelves of books and assorted nick-nacks.  The final wall contained three doors with the access from the front of the house to the kitchen in front of them. The middle door was to the stairs, the one on the left to a minute bathroom and the other to a thin cupboard.  The whole room although completely full, then had the trappings of family life, there also being two small children (Louise and Ben) in the house, with pictures, discarded toys, half-read books, empty coffee cups and a plethora of musical instruments filling in any gaps! From the back of this room there was the kitchen, stretching long and narrow between cupboards and shelves stacked high with tins and jars of every size and shape, reminiscent of an untidy apothecary shop.  Then at the end of the kitchen was a laden kitchen table, which it was surprising that it could ever be used and the back door on which was hung a variety of aprons, coats, bags and anything else needing a home!  This door finally opened onto the equally long and thin back garden, beyond the small, cluttered kitchen table and low back window.  The garden had a small irregularly shaped lawn surrounded by a profusion of large shrubs and old cottage plants. 

 

It is surprising how as I write this some 25 years later(!) the details all come flooding back so vividly. But on the other hand, I have so many fond memories of this time that perhaps this helps them to linger on in the mind.  I was to spend many a happy evening in that tiny middle room, which although only really able to seat 4, would often be filled by considerably more.  Live song and music would often fill the air for many an hour interspersed with “real” conversation, that made leaving the room very difficult and explained why I had to creep, not always too effectively, back up the fire escape, long after I should have been tucked up safely in my bed.  Eventually, many years later, I found out that Jan and Tony were known by the housemaster, who also seemed to know where I was and was therefore able to turn a blind eye. Words hardly do justice to the warmth of the friendship I felt at this time and many happy incidents keep springing to mind.  Like the afternoon when together with the children I received lessons in water divining in the small back garden and located the hidden well, or the times spent at the folk club once it had got off the ground. 

 

I said that that chance meeting changed my life and if nothing else it started a lifetime interest in folk music, which led on to some solo performing of unaccompanied largely traditional songs.  Indeed, it is new year time as I write this, and these reminiscences make me even more determined to fulfil this year’s resolution, to feel once more the buzz of the audience!

 

I have dwelt for some time about the warmth of the friendship felt at this time and for many years afterwards. After I had moved away, we kept up an erratic correspondence, and I would occasionally visit.  These visits were not always prearranged, and I would often arrive unannounced and always receive a warm welcome, the like of which I have always tried to pass on to friends visiting me ever since.

 

Imagine then my horror on arriving on one occasion, not having been in touch recently, to find the shop window empty and the house having that unmistakable look of being deserted. In vain I knocked and searched for some message of where they had gone all to no avail as my fears were confirmed and my loud knocking simply echoed around the empty house.  In desperation and with a bit of quick thinking I remembered that Jan’s mother used to run a shop just around the corner. Great then was my relief when I found the shop open and Jan’s mother still behind the counter, and I was quickly directed to their new house just a short walk away.  I found the new house which was low fronted but certainly much bigger than the other house and knocked firmly on the door. Quickly Jan’s head popped out of the window, said “Hello Roger,” as though we had last seen each other earlier in the day and said, “Hang on I’ll be down.”

 

In the space of time it took Jan to get downstairs, she had rearranged the sleeping arrangements to put me up, invited me to stay until the end of the week (today being Monday) as they had been invited to a party on Friday night and it would be great if I could go!  All this before she even knew if I wanted to stay or not, but suffice to say it was a great party!

 

True friendship and very many fond, happy memories.   

 

School Assembly Time

I’ve said it lots of times before, but maybe still a surprise to some, I used to be shy and retiring, I know it’s hard to believe, but again as I’ve said before my wife will bear this out!  Indeed, as I will have recounted to many of you, I know exactly when that changed, after an interview for a deputy head’s job which I didn’t get and during the debrief by the “man from Shire Hall” was told I didn’t get the job because I wasn’t blonde and vivacious! Somewhat non-PC even then, but also rather life changing as a couple of weeks later, at another interview I made the decision to at least be vivacious, although going blonde seemed a step too far, and I got the job!  The headteacher of that school, Heulwen, is sadly no longer with us, but over the years as her deputy we developed a strong and lasting friendship, even after I went on to my own headships and subsequently moved to France.

Having turned vivacious for the interview, I subsequently had to maintain this impetus when I started the job and was told subsequently that part of my duties was a weekly assembly, at the time rather daunting.  It’s one thing being in a classroom, behind closed doors, with 35 children and maybe one supporting adult, but in a large hall with a couple of hundred children and all the staff, could and probably did initially, lead to sleepless nights.

But, pinching some of the words I wrote for her obituary: “Heulwen was so special and always so supportive to everyone.  You came up with an idea and however zany it might be, her first reaction was not a don’t be silly or that won’t work, but rather “What can I do to help!”  That’s why I guess she made such an impression on everyone and took me from being “shy and retiring” (yes really, ask my wife) to the Roger I became, largely through Gastrells!  In the early days of working for her, school curriculums were going through a period of unprecedented change and she and I would have to attend many meetings together in Stroud.  As we walked through Stroud, we would end up with lots of documents to carry (somehow, I always seemed to end up carrying her handbag!), but as we went, she seemed to know the whole of Stroud from the local politicians to the Big Issue sellers and others down on their luck, all who greeted her fondly, and would often reminisce about some past event.”

All this genuine friendship and camaraderie made the thought of my weekly assembly much less daunting, I was amongst friends, and confidence grew and my assemblies flourished, at least I thought so!  Mostly stories with a moral, rarely religious, but often involving dressing up and enlisting the enthusiastic help of some of the children and maybe less enthusiastic help from others on the staff!  It did however land me in a little trouble, going back to my obituary, I mentioned that only twice whilst Heulwen’s deputy did I come close to a serious reprimand: “The second occasion, was after one of my assemblies, when yes, I admit I did occasionally dress up in woman’s clothing (I’m sure carrying Heulwen’s handbag must have had a profound influence on me!), although more often than not it was other members of staff, who were already women, who dressed up as witches, princesses or the like!  On this one occasion, I had got rather carried away (I know it happened quite a lot!), and afterwards Heulwen took me on one side for “a quiet word!”  However, it was not to do with the cross dressing, but rather that maybe an hour and twenty minutes for a morning assembly, however enjoyable it had been, was probably a little too long!  As I said before she was so supportive and did indulge us at times!”

Then, when I left this school and became a headteacher myself, assembly time became a lifeline, a time to get out of the office and pause writing policies and newsletters or trying to balance the books!  A precious time when I could interact with the children and almost get back to being a teacher, not a paper pusher jumping through hoops as each new directive came from on high!

Many times, I would bump into other teachers who would say “I saw one of your assemblies” as I did on occasion take assemblies “on tour” for fundraising or simply at the request from a colleague, who perhaps knew a little about my antics!  At these times I would usually not ask them if I had dressed up as a woman, because that really was very rare, despite the evidence to the contrary in the family photos that we are currently digitalising, these being out of school activities, and usually for a good cause, if only merriment!  Indeed, virtually the only time I cross-dressed was on the occasion of the annual pantomime, where I surprised the staff with an unannounced, non-rehearsed, impromptu, largely adlibbed Christmas offering, and convention dictates that the pantomime dame is male!!  No, my stock answer to “I saw one of your assemblies” was “Did I take my clothes off!”  If they looked at me askance, I knew it wasn’t that particular assembly, that did indeed tour some of the local schools, and often, as now there wasn’t time to explain, so either you’re someone who knows or you’ll have to ask me next time you see me!!

Assemblies really became my happy place and thankfully, left the shy and retiring me a long way back in the past! I did also surprisingly, learn to curb the length to something more reasonable, unless of course I got carried away ……….!

 

Roof of Pachewar Garh Fort

(Again, I’m going to use something from a previous publication: “Moonlit Guruji Travels”, which chronicled a life changing trip I had the privilege to make, accompanying a three-week school trip to India from my children’s secondary school, which saw the birth of Guruji, a new inspirational leader!)

 

The journey from the Bissau Palace was long and hot with all the hustle and bustle that we had come to expect in India.  Having left the main part of Jaipur, we turned onto the open highway, only to find it very similar to the road we had just left, although affected in many places by extensive road works.  It certainly looked like a motorway in the making.  Eventually, after some deliberation about the way, our guide and coach driver never having been there before, we turned off onto a single-track road out into the desert.  We passed several lake areas which had no water and had probably seen little water for several years and we also travelled through haphazard villages, like so many in India, with primitive mud huts, small shops, chi stalls and various other workshops, temples and public meeting places (often little more than large mud huts) for groups to congregate in and the use of the village at festival time.  In many of the villages there were also village squares, not lush green with village ponds and ducks lazily dabbling, but dusty often untidy areas surrounded by rubbish – what a shame that plastic was ever invented! – and more often than not cows, goats, a collection of village dogs, boar and some shops and stalls.  It was probably here that the village pump, often a modern galvanised affair was situated, and buses would stop and gaudy Indian lorries congregate.

 

We also passed many isolated thatched mud huts, sometimes singly and at other times in small groups, small farmsteads trying hard to grow crops in this most arid of climates.  Each of these was surrounded by a number of the most amazing onion shaped haystacks, bulbous with a small bottom and coming to a point at the top.  To stop these huge structures from toppling over, large stout wooden poles were propped around the base.

 

Finally, hot, flustered and many of us suffering from gastric problems, caused by the chicken at the previous night’s dinner, the coach skidded to a halt in one of the village squares, where several jeeps waited to take us to the nearby fort.  In a scene reminiscent to a kidnap in a spy film, seven of us were bundled into the first jeep, our feet barely touching the floor.  The rest of us followed as the jeeps filled up - into the vehicle, doors barely shut and we were off at breakneck speed, at what could only be described as an uphill bobsleigh ride, as we careered up the narrow village streets with mud huts close on either side and barely enough room for the pedestrians, mostly ladies in bright sarees carrying heavy loads on their heads, to jump out of the way as the maniac drivers hand on horn, sped round the corners and through the double gate house into the grounds of the fort.  Out we jumped, taken along by the frantic activity and half expecting to be marched, at gunpoint, to our place of incarceration awaiting payment (hopefully!) of a large ransom.  Instead, we were met by two silent members of staff, one a woman in a sari, who applied, with her thumb, a large bindi to our foreheads and a man in white pyjamas and with a turban on his head, who gave us a brightly coloured flower – a traditional Hindu welcome.  Passing through the gate, the hotel owner greeted us and showed us through to the inner courtyard for cool drinks, shade and peacefulness.

 

The fort is truly a magical place, built originally by a mogul king, large brightly coloured and towering above the surrounding countryside.  It is just about square with large turrets on the corners and part way along each side, and was originally surrounded by an outer wall, now in most places nothing but an untidy mound.  Passing in through the small doorway, you enter a large rectangular garden, green and lush and somewhat incongruous in such an arid region.  This covers about half the inner part of the fort with rooms situated on two floors in the turrets.  To the back of this lawned area the fort is divided by a wall behind which most of the accommodation and domestic quarters are situated, with this end further divided into two smaller squares each with a small central courtyard.  Around the courtyard on the left are situated most of the rest of the guest rooms as well as the owner’s accommodation, and restaurant opening off the courtyard.  The rooms are arranged on three floors with various balconies, dark winding staircases and walkways linking them together.  The final quarter houses the kitchen and other domestic rooms and is largely still derelict, in the state it was in when the present owner inherited the place. 

 

If all of the fort had been like this and indeed worse, as it was on all accounts severely overgrown into the bargain, it took a considerable amount of vision, courage and an enormous leap of faith to take it on and produce what is there now.  The owner, the wife of a high-ranking army officer, decide to renovate the ruin and, in the first instance, open up just a couple of paying rooms and see how it went.  When this proved to be a success and as the seasons passed, more rooms have been added up to the present total of sixteen, with our own room the last to be done.  Once the new bathroom for our room was complete then, at least for the time being, no more rooms were to be added.  The effect was stunning, a refurbished mogul fort, in the middle of the Rajasthani desert, simply but effectively decorated, providing a hideaway well off the beaten track, where weary travellers could rest awhile, a million miles from the hustle and bustle of busy Jaipur that we had left some hours before.  The developments also had a very positive side to them, the fort providing work for many of the villagers from the large village that swarmed around the fort and spread out onto the surrounding plain.

 

By now it was lunchtime, and we dined as was becoming the norm, in some style an array of dishes set out on a long table for us to help ourselves to.  The staple food was rice, naan bread, chapatti, a curry of some description and dahl with a number of other local specialities added.  This was sometimes rounded off by a sweet, that lived up to its name as the first and largest ingredient, by far, always seemed to be sugar.  Lunch finished and after a short rest finding whatever shade and respite from the relentless sun that we could, a walk was planned out into the surrounding village, to see rural life and to have a cookery demonstration.

 

We set off, a somewhat out of place bunch of still very pale Europeans, and quickly as became the norm, we gathered quite a following.  But here, perhaps by carefully selecting the route away from the busy main street, and by a number of the locals accompanying us we were not besieged by hawkers, beggars or indeed children wanting pens and sweets.  Instead, the locals, if interested at all, wanted to shake hands, say hello, exchange a few pleasantries and maybe have a photograph taken.  As we walked down the dusty street, a small village street in real India, it certainly felt like we were experiencing real people, proud people who were pleased to show us their lot and welcome us into their village and houses.  We made our way to the house of one of the hotel employees, where we were obviously expected as when we entered the compound a number of charpoys, low beds with woven webbing tops, that served as seating and beds and were an important part of the furniture in any house, were set out facing the corner of the yard where the outside cooking stove was situated and the lady of the house, with a bright shy smile creeping out from under her saree was busying herself with preparations for the cookery demonstration.  Sitting by the wall were two of her small children, a tiny boy and slightly older girl, dressed obviously in their Sunday best and told to sit quietly and be on their best behaviour.  This proved a tall order as the demonstration was quite long and at one point, the excitement of it all got too much for the little girl and she had to make a quick dash to the loo!!  Also, after a while they became fidgety, and despite Mum’s best efforts to glare at them when they started to poke at each other, Mum also giving the little girl a number of errands to run, she always returned to sit close to her brother, and it appeared trouble could be brewing.  An older sibling was enlisted if not to mediate at least to separate before it got out of hand.

 

The lady of the house proceeded to light a fire in the small hearth in front of the small clay dome, on top of which a small opening allowed a large wok-like pan to be placed and used for cooking.  Whilst constantly stoking the fire, she managed sitting by the fire to prepare the household’s evening meal of; pakoras, mixed and cooked in the large open pan, chapattis mixed in the pan and carefully “rolled” out in mid-air in the palms of her hand and cooked on the ashes raked out from the fire and a curry dish also prepared in the large pan.  All the mixing, chopping and preparation done in front of us using traditional methods, with the cook smiling throughout, despite some of her friends appearing in the back row and silently barracking her!  We were able to taste the resulting pakoras and very good they were too.  After saying our goodbyes and thank you’s, we returned leisurely to the fort, being called over on the way by a proud granddad to see his newly born grandson and stopping before the gates of the fort for an impromptu game of cricket, thankfully the bowler was kind and I was able to drive the ball for what I’m sure would have been the winning run, had we been keeping score!  Then it was back into the quiet of the fort with some further time to “chill” (if only the heat hadn’t been so intense!) before dinner.

 

Time for some limited exploration, and I found a narrow, dark twisting staircase that wound its way up onto the flat roof, a wide expanse with phenomenal views of the surrounding village and the desert beyond.  From this eyrie the true splendour of the fort could be appreciated, as well as the mammoth task that had been undertaken in the renovation, as from here it was possible to see the bit that remained in its derelict state.  In the heat of the late afternoon the surrounding area was still going about its business and a variety of sounds; traffic, shouting, hammering and general bustle came through the hot air, as in the distance clouds of dust indicated the passage of vehicles along the dusty roads.  Also, in two or three places sandstorms could be seen, with plumes of sand twisting across the landscape.  But for the heat, I could have stayed taking all this in for a long time, but the furnace-like qualities of this roof drove me away and into the shade, to relax a little before the evening meal.

 

The evening meal followed a similar pattern to lunch, with the addition of a starter and one or two more spicy dishes to tickle the taste buds.  There was also the welcome addition of ice-cold beer, purely to wash the day’s dust out of our throats you understand!  After dinner we were, once again to be entertained by a musical puppet show, which it transpired followed much the same plot as the others we had seen, including an Elvis impersonator and a nobleman riding a horse in the most manic of fashions, at times both rider and horse upside down!  All this accompanied by some traditional music, and the most infuriating squeaking, reminiscent to the cries of our own Mr. Punch, but considerably louder and seeming to bear no resemblance to the scene being played out before us!  This was to take place on the lawn, but a sudden dust storm, like those I had spied earlier, all but blew away the puppeteer and his theatre, so he beat a hasty retreat into the shelter of the inner courtyard. 

 

There followed a chance for some of the females of the group to try on some of the family wedding sarees and model these to us and then dance to the traditional music.  One of the adult number proved particularly alluring at this!!  Not to be outdone, the boys were lent turbans and performed a number of somewhat zany dance routines, no doubt influenced by the forthcoming school production of the Mikado, that several of them were in!  Then after one of the turbans had fallen apart, there followed turban-tying lesson, quite a task with nine metres of materials to play around with!  Then in true “Generation Game” style there followed turban-tying competitions!

 

All too soon, with the prospect of another early start and long sticky coach ride in the morning, the evening ended and as people returned to their rooms shouting cheery good nights to one another, I informed Guruji that I was going to have one last turn, in the moonlight, on the roof.  She decided to accompany me, and as we carefully made our way up the even darker staircase and stepped out onto the roof a magical light, from the near full moon swept over us.  The light intensified by the lack of any streetlights cast an amazing glow over the mostly sleeping village and surrounding desert.  Intermittent sounds from a raucous party or late-night coffee house, like those associated with a standup comic, the audience busting forth at each punch line, cut the stillness accompanied by the more distant barking of dogs, disturbed no doubt by the noisy revellers.  Apart from these sounds, utter stillness all around with plenty of the heat of the day remaining and despite the headiness of the atmosphere only one moon shone brightly, illuminating the sleeping desert around!  (You’ll have to read the book to understand the reference to just one moon!)

 

How we ever dragged ourselves away from this magical scene I shall never know, but I do know that if we had been staying for more than one night, one of them would have been spent sleeping up there under the stars, indeed the hotel staff simply pulled their charpoys outside and did just that.  But the thought of an early morning forced us down, but not least because of a large terrifying bat in our room, sleep didn’t come easy, perhaps on second thoughts sleeping on the roof with the bats wouldn’t have been such a good idea!