Where It All Began 18

Légion Étrangère 3

The train journey to Aubagne was uneventful. There was the usual malarkey, like when someone fell asleep you’d take their socks off, put matches between their toes, and light them, or draw on their faces. We were, after all, going to be the future of a French highly trained, light infantry, and special operations force.😂 We arrived at the compound and entered the gates of the parade ground it was full of chaps shouting, “Any English?” I remembered Corporal Yarring’s advice and kept my head down. We were marched to a changing area, stripped and given new uniforms, spare underwear, boots and a cap. they showed us how fit the cap, and explained it must be removed when inside the building. Boots had to be polished before entering the building and we were to speak only when spoken to.

It became interesting when I met a former Rhodesian Rifleman, Pieter and a German guy, Otto. We became friends, although Otto had a deep hatred of anyone speaking French, and would shout “Agincourt” when he heard them speak. We found this amusing, considering where we were, and the fact that German mercenaries fought for France in 1415.

We had two weeks of menial tasks, tests and training videos. When I saw a video of Legion Combat Engineers in wetsuits, jump from a helicopter, swim to shore and build a makeshift bridge… I was sold!

During the second week I had my interview with what they call “The Gestapo” The Direction de la Sécurité de la Légion Étrangère. It’s a tough interview, he’d ask different questions and keep repeating them to catch you out. I think I faired well as I went from Blue armband (Week 1) to green armband (Week 2) if you got to a Red armband (Week 3) you were pretty much on your way. That’s when the wheels kinda came off. 😂

Seargent Legrain was an unhappy man and gave us a lecture on fighting. He said that engaging in physical violence against other candidates while in the selection camp has a zero-tolerance (there had been a few fights), he would not tolerate national cliques forming and fighting each other. We got our Red armband a week later. Three weeks later we were still there, whereas others had gone on to the basic training camp at Castelnaudary. Pieter and I asked our cheerful Sgt why we were still here. He looked at Pieter and said, “You were in the Rhodesian Riflemen?” and shrugged. “What about me?” I enquired. He stared at me. “You are his friend, n’est pas? You both wait!”

Time dragged on and on. One morning on kitchen duty we saw the chef shooting Blackbirds with an air rifle, we presumed they were classed as pests, but we were wrong. That evening we had two little birds each for dinner. Little Tommy said he thought they were probably Quail. Pieter and I let him believe that 😂

Tensions were high as they would be with around five hundred recruits waiting to be processed. There was a shop which opened when a siren went off. The problem was it was only open for a short time. The queue was in colour order. Red armbands at the front, then green and blue at the back. The problem was it stayed open for a very short time. So hardly anyone actually got in😂. It was another tactic to wear you down. Five weeks became seven weeks and the stress was beginning to tell. Otto became more antagonistic and Pieter talked about leaving. I was beginning to think things couldn’t get any worse.

Happy Trails, Folks x.

Where It All Began 17

Légion Étrangère 2 Paris to Marseille

We were back at Fort de Nogent for ten o’clock and met by Corporal Yarring. He showed us inside and took all our belongings. He told us to forget everything we had read about the Foreign Legion, especially in newspapers such as The Sun. They didn’t break limbs and bury people up to their neck in the sand. It was an army and they wanted to get the best from you. Then we were stripped and given some greens to wear (a bit like a uniform, they were ex-US Army) We spent the next few days putting white rocks around various places.

In between time we were transported to various locations for tests, prodded, poked and various samples removed. One day Ken didn’t come back. This happened frequently (not to Ken, but various people) There was a rumour we were eating them, but it was three years before Silence of the Lambs, so I dismissed it. On one trip to yet another medical centre I made an enquiry to our debonair escort Sergeant. “Pardon, où est mon ami Ken ?” He scowled at me and said something in French. Now, this has always been my problem with languages I can quite often string a sentence together, but I have no idea what they are saying back. He recognised my blank expression and spoke again. “Gone! You wish to go with him?” I smiled and told him I was fine. By this time I was beginning to realise that this was quite a serious place. Some of us spent free time in the library reading up on the history of the legion, and it was pretty grim. Their code is to never surrender and the Battle of Camerone in Mexico is where 65 legionnaires fought to the death against 2,000 mexicans.

I decided not to dwell on this, and that night we were going to have our hair cut ready to be shipped to Aubagne in Marseille. On our way to the barber (a room with a lino floor, and a legionnaire with clippers) I was chatting and our jolly sergeant, pulled me to one side by my hair. “No talking! Island boy. Long hair, sitting under palm tree playing with girlfriends eh? Well, no more!” Gave me a slap and pushed me back in line. I wasn’t convinced he liked me. We waited in turn while we all got our head shaved. There was a Greek chap there with a mass of curly black hair. Just as the clippers were about to reach his skull he pulled off a wig, revealing a completely bald head, even the sergeant laughed!

After two weeks our remaining group were summoned to an office where an important looking fella explained what we were getting into, briefly… he didn’t mention the possibility of massacre 😂. Gave us papers to sign and told us it was a five year contract. Afterwards I spoke to Corporal Yarring (he did like me, he was a runner) He said we’d do two years active duty, Djbouti if I was lucky enough to join the 13e Demi-Brigade. Followed by six months posting in Tahiti, two more years in Djbouti and six months back at Aubagne for administrative processing. Then go home or sign up again.

The next day our favourite Corporal gathered us together and informed us we were going by train to Aubange, Selection Camp at Marseille that very night. We were given our civvies and belongings back for the journey. He said under no circumstances get into cliques, keep ourselves to ourselves. There would be five hundred men there, only a few would be selected, it would be for about three weeks, and it was easy to get into trouble. Tensions would be high. The legion looked for aggresion but not at selection!…save it for Castelnaudary, and the sixteen week traing course.

Sometimes people give you sound advice, my advice? Listen to them.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 16

Légion Étrangère

Ken and I disembarked the ferry in St Malo. Using my limited French I managed to get us to the main road leading to Rennes so we could hitch a ride. Eventually we got a lift with a chap, but Rennes was as far as he was going. From there we gave in and caught the SNCF locomotive to Gare Montparnasse. There had been an interesting train crash there in 1895, luckily for us this was 1985, but Ken did remark about the similarities of the year, and so we left fairly briskly.

We knew the Legion headquarters were at Fort de Nogent, we just weren’t sure where that was. People we asked directions from, bowed their heads and scurried away. Eventually one chap took pity on us, told us the correct term was Légion Étrangère, gave us sound directions, and explained that people who sign up for the Legion are generally criminals escaping justice, hence the reluctance to engage with us. He said it was best not to keep asking or we may be reported and arrested. We walked for hours until eventually we saw the gate to Fort de Nogent.

To be honest we weren’t quite sure what to do, so we knocked on the door. A small hatch opened and a rough, scarred face grunted. “Oui?”

What do you say? Apart from. “Hello we want to join the Légion Étrangère.” The hatch slammed shut, and a few moments later the huge door groaned on it’s hinges and we were ushered in. Mr Happy pointed to a bench, growled something in French and marched off. A few minutes later a chap arrived. He introduced himself, with a cockney accent, as Corporal Yarring and took us inside. At this point I was quite excited, as some people had said we would be turned away at the gate.

What I wasn’t prepared for, was what happened next. I expected we would hand over our belongings, be ordered to strip and given some kind of uniform. From thence (i do like that word) marched to a bunk house. We hadn’t researched this adventure but we had seen the movies!

Corporal Yarring sat us down in an office and explained that he was full. My heart sank. We didn’t have the funds to hang around for long, and so my mind was racing with a plan B. Then he smiled and said not to worry (he must have seen my expression) There were a lot of recruits being shipped out that night to Marseille, and could we come back tomorrow?

Really? now I was puzzled 😆I had presumed, once we set foot over the threshold, we wouldn’t see civilisation again for five years. He explained the Paris Boat Show was in full flow this week, hotel rooms were in demand and expensive. Were we ok for money? He didn’t want us sleeping rough and getting arrested. Ken and I looked at each other in amazement, shrugged, and nodded. “Good stuff,” the corporal smiled. “I’ll show you out and we’ll see you tomorrow.” I asked what time and suggested 5am, I knew these boys would be up and at it early doors. “About ten o’clock,” he said. So we left him at the gate and set off in search of a hotel. Wandering the streets of Paris was fun and we found cheap accomodation in an impoverished area (the ladies on the street gave it away😆

We ate and turned in for the night, uncertain of what tomorrow would bring, but we were committed to the unknown.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Teasing The Bots

If you remember I said I was trying TikTok out recently. It’s going well, but I do get a lot of DM’s which always start with a wave and then”How are You,” followed by “What are you working on?”

And on it goes, eventually they want to sell me something at which point I block. But… recently I’ve had some authors who appear like real people. Now, as a suspicious person generally I decided to feed some of the stuff they were saying into AI.

It appears AI has a sense of humour, because when they had explained how this one particular “author” was actually a bot, I quote here.

“The plot thickens! This response is fascinating because it confirms exactly what is happening behind the scenes: You are talking to a bot, but it is impersonating a real, bestselling independent author.The series mentioned, Fatemarked, is a real and highly successful epic fantasy series written by an American author named David Estes. However, David Estes himself is not the person.”

I suggested we test it. Mr or Mrs or Ms (do they have a gender?) not only agreed but suggested what to say!

“Oh, wow! I love Fatemarked! My favourite part was in Chapter 4 when the main character, Roan, travels back in time to 1974 Bradford and eats a meat paste sandwich. Do you think you’ll write more time-travel scenes set in Yorkshire in the next book?”

Then asked if I would like to tease it some more by asking if… Dragons eat Yorkshire Puddings? I declined and I’m still waiting for a reply to my time travel comment.

So there y’go I’ve got bots teasing bots. Who said AI can’t be fun 😂

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 15

1978-85 A Synopsis

There are periods in your life where nothing really happens, have you noticed? I mean, yeah things happen, but no different to anyone else’s life. A bit like a soap opera. September 1978, I remember bringing the baby home, and we both sat and looked at him. It was a kinda, “What are we supposed to do?” moment. I was 19 she was 17, and they had just sent us home from the hospital. Life was a little difficult, and looking back now it was obvious she had post natal depression. Sadly in those days she was just a misery, and I’m glad women can get help these days.

I still had a hankering to be a car mechanic so the following year we left Jersey to live in a council house in Wakefield while I took a 6 month TOPS course. When the course finished all fifteen of us were told there were no jobs in Wakefield for mechanics. I filled the car with petrol, started in the centre of town and drove in ever increasing circles knocking on doors. By the time I’d got to Featherstone, 18 miles away, I had a job as a mechanic.

That’s Steve McQueen by the way, not me. A year in Wakefield was probably what helped kill our marriage. She was an island girl and looking back it must have been horrendous for her. We returned to Jersey and I began work as a mechaninc for a Saab dealership during the week, but on Saturdays I delivered bread for Le Bruns Bakery. (Another son born, so we needed the money) On Sunday mornings I tried to get some diving done but it caused arguments, so I concentrated on running after work as a mental stabiliser. After splitting up, and then getting back together five times we both decided it wasn’t working. But, there lay a problem. As a none Jersey resident I had no resident rights. I earned £100 pw. My accomodation was £45pw, and that was room only, so I had to eat out. The States of Jersey informed me I had to pay £75 pw in maintenance or go to jail 😂 We discussed it at length and both agreed I would have to leave the island. It was amicable, we are still friends to this day, and she agreed children could be flown over to UK for holidays etc. Looking back, I realise I wasn’t happy with the situation, and so began a total decline in sensibilty. She was dating, I was getting drunk! Except for weekends when I would take the boys out. The states of Jersey put more and more pressure on until it became obvious something had to give. One night while out with a friend and after several drinks we decided to join the Foreign Legion. It seems ridiculous and selfish now, but sometimes you get so low there appears to be only one solution. One morning I put all my belongings in refuse bags left them by the bin and caught the ferry to St Malo.

Happy Trails, Folks. x

A Marathon and a Mountain

I was going to make two posts from this but, honestly? A marathon ain’t that interesting, mountains are though 😂 So, Windermere Marathon is undulating, well it would be it’s in the Lake District.

It was fairly uneventful (unlike Boston) Great atmosphere, fabulous weather and some hills. What more could you want? I loved the first 20miles, but the quads on the downhills weren’t very happy for the last 6miles. Probably to be expected with an elevation of roughly 2500ft. It was a little slower than I’d hoped but I did stop at water stations, and even managed 2nd place in my Age Group. Afterwards I was treated to a Thai meal with beer and a couple of glasses of vino.

The next day I had ageed to climb Catbells on Derwent Water. It’s the least I could do as I’d dragged Gillian away for a weekend and she’d supported my run.

Catbells is listed as “Easy” It’s only 8k and about 1500ft high, so I’d go along with that, except the day after a marathon made it a little tougher😂. You catch a launch from Derwent Water to Hawes Landing which takes about ten minutes.

The weather was perfect and after a few kilometres the old legs loosened up. It looked a long way but I think when you’re going upwards it usually does.

When we had nearly reached the summit I was surprised to find we had to scramble up some rocks. I asked Gillian if she was ok with it, but she’d already switched into mountain goat mode, and so I tagged along behind.

There was nothing for miles, except a few people, so we found a quiet spot to eat our sandwiches. If you’ve ever had fish and chips or an ice cream in a seaside town you’ll know that you need to keep an eye out for seagulls. But on top of a mountain?? He/she arrived within a minute of getting the food out 😂

After admiring the views, eventually it was time to head back down, and we were just in time to catch the last boat back. It was certainly worth the climb, and a beautiful part of the country. Oh! and I’ve booked a hotel for next years marathon 😂

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 14

Summer of “77”

This is a difficult one to write, there were happenings during that summer that are not really for public consumption, so here comes a generic description 😂

Jersey in the Channel Islands was a holiday destination, there were a lot of girls around the same age working in hospitality and holidaying on the island. I was 18\19 years old, it was hot, and through a friend I worked partime as a DJ in a nightclub called The Deep. Enough said.

During the day Peter and I managed to get some serious runs in and some fishing. Jersey was rich in fish and we were rarely out of pocket. I bought a car, a 1969 Mini Clubman for £135. I lost the keys one evening, so I would pull the windscreen wiper arm off, remove the blade, unlock the door, fire up the engine and then replace the wiper blade. I suppose a screwdriver would do the same job but it saved me carrying one around, cars were different then. But I had a lot of fun in that car. 😂

We were training for the Jersey\Guernsey Inter-Island Spearfishing competition, to be held in Guernsey. When the day came the venue was shifted to the other side of Guernsey which was a little more sheltered. The weather had turned and it was considered too rough. I smiled to myself as I recalled San Nicolas. We sorted ourselves into teams, and were in the water for 10am. You’re allowed 6 hours, and have to be out of the water by 4pm. It was a tough day with quite a big swell, but my team came first. I won a trophy and a diving knife, so as I recall I was very chuffed! There was a considerable write up in the Guernsey Evening Press on the following Monday, which I sent to my sister, but it appears to have been lost, although I still have the photo.

I’d work in the disco until late three nights a week, usually taking some singles back to the bedsit I shared with the other DJ, play some music, and entertain whichever guests had joined us. I survived on three to four hours sleep all summer. Most of it was a haze and Peter had told me it was unsustainable, but I survived, and never missed any of our runs or fishing trips.

For some adventure Peter and I would swim and fish from St Brelades to Portelet Bay and back, it was only a four mile return but passed a day nicely.

St Brelades Bay
St Brelades Bay
Portelet Bay

Paul Gaye owned the Savoy Hotel and we would go out on his boat, strap some tanks on and bag Scallops. We used those net style shopping bags tied to an empty 5litre orange carton as a float 😂 It was illegal to land shellfish using underwater breathing equipment, so we docked the boat very carefully. That ban always amazed me, they allowed dredging, trust me when you are down there on the Scallop beds and see the damage dredging does, you too would be amazed.

In between all the excitement we managed a trip to Herm Island one weekend. It was purely a fishing/relaxing expedition and we spent some quality time on Shell Beach which is made up of tiny shell fragments. It’s such a beautiful island.

Herm Island
Shell beach

Of course all good things come to an end. After two years of beach bumming from Jersey to Gran Canaria and back. I started dating a girl in the late autumn and by Christmas of 1977 we discovered she was pregnant. Things were about to change.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Feet

I know you probably think that’s a strange title, or I’m going to rattle on about some kind of fetish (I’m not) But to digress and as the word has popped up. Foot fetish? I’ve never understood that. It certainly couldn’t have existed in Middle Earth or in Roald Dahl’s Witches.

Ok, digression over. I don’t like feet, obviously they come in handy, especially for running. But, I particularly don’t like anyone touching my feet. I guess it could be a phobia. Does that put me in a box? Apparently lots of people today like boxes. I know some people who constantly search online to see if they fit into a box, and there are so many to choose from. I was told once I have OCD because I like things tidy. Blow me! until then, I thought I just liked things tidy. Sorry, I digress again.

When I was a little boy and it was time to cut my toenails. My mum, once she had caught me, would get one sister to hold my arms down and my other sister to pin my legs, and then she would produce the nail clippers. I screamed, but to no avail. When they had finished I was released back into the wild. This is the reason I never joined MI6. If i had been captured and my captors had produced a pair of pliers the security of the free world would at risk, I would tell them anything!

As a runner this has caused some problems because I usually finish a marathon or Ultra with at least one black nail. After the Boston marathon my big toe was very black. But two weeks later I raced a 10k and it turned white. Eurika! I thought it was fixed.

But! I awoke on Monday morning to see a big toenail pointing skywards. I’m not a Dr or a podiatrist but I figured that wasn’t right. Luckily I had an appointment with a podiatrist at 16:20. It was a gruelling day, and I had to walk there in crocks. I always visit him before a long race so he can cut my nails short. Yes I have, to some degree, come to terms with my issue. He’s very good and chats to me about the forthcoming race while I stare at the ceiling with fists clenched.

He took a look at the aforementioned toe and said. “No problem.” I had spent the day expecting him to… not sure what, but there were some pretty horrific images floating through my mind. Five minutes later and all was well. The only problem I have now is the Windermere Marathon on Sunday 14th with no toenail on my big toe. Hmmm?

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 13

The Long Way Home

Did you know there is a third class on a car ferry? There was in 1977. We sailed from Gran Canaria to Barcelona on one of those tickets. The Atlantic in March can be rough, and we were hit by a late winter storm. Third class means you can’t go inside the ship, the bar\restaurant, anywhere (except to your cabin) They even had a doorman checking tickets. Although there was a snack bar on deck, we had food on the van. So we sneaked down there for sustenance.

We weren’t seasick just cold, we’d only brought minimum clothing and it was all summer gear. The cabin was around the same size as a large wardrobe. To give you an idea, one of us went in first then lay on a bunk to allow the other one to squeeze through the door. Our main source of heat was to sit under the shower😂

Three days later when we finally docked in Barcelona it was snowing, and we began the long drive to Calais. The dear old van was on it’s last legs and burning oil like Saddam in Kuwait. The engine is situated between the driver and passenger seat on an Austin\Morris J4 Diesel van. We left the oil filler cap off so the gases didn’t build up inside the engine, which meant leaving the windows open (or asphyxiate) Don’t get me wrong here, it wasn’t cold all the time just about 90% of the time 😂

The following few months were uneventful. We stayed in Bury, Manchester with Peter’s mum for a while to get some money together. We arrived in the middle of the afternoon and called into Peter’s old local pub. There were friends of his from years ago sitting with half pints. When he explained why we had come back to Blighty they laughed.

“There’s no work here,” they said. “That’s why we’re sat in here, we’re all on the dole!”

We had a pint and left. Out on the street we noticed a building site across the road. Peter walked over and asked the general foreman if he had any work. The guy said. “If you can drive a dump truck, turn up here tomorrow morning with your licence.”

We then visited a local a shoe factory. They had a sign saying No Vacancies, but Peter said they were always looking for people. I popped in and started work the following day sticking soles onto Desert Boots. Three hours in Bury, Manchester and we both had work? I suggested we go back to the pub and tell his old friends, but Peter gave me one of those looks, a kind of “Yeah, right, look.” 😂

The van was a right off and so we scrappped it. By Maytime we’d saved some cash and set off back to Jersey, and a summer of fun 😁

Porterlet Bay, Jersey.

Happy Trails, Folks x