Memories – Charlierobinsonbooks

Where It All Began 30

If you’ve never worked on a construction site I can definitely recommend it. The camardarie and the tough physical challenge is amazing. We had moved house to a sleepy village called Over Wallop, Hampshire. I had to travel quite a lot. Two of the best sites I worked on Kiddington Hall where we were sub-contracted to do a refurb. Jemima Khan nee Goldsmith had just bought it for £15 million. It was to be a weekend retreat for her and her new beau Russell Brand. Although it was 136 mile round trip, it was worth it.

The site I really enjoyed was Lygon Place in Belgravia. It had been used by the Spanish Embassy for years. The eight houses had been sold for renovation and we secured the contract. This entailed catching the 5:20am train into Clapham Junction and the tube to Victoria with a short walk to the site, usually arriving back home around 7pm for 18 months, but once again it was worth the travel. In 2010/11 the cheapest house was £17 million and the most expensive £21 million. All our cutting was done in the underground carpark. I recall one day Roger Moore was due to view a property and we were told we all had to stay underground while he was there. Obviously James Bond would be nervous around a bunch of construction workers. 😂

These were good contracts, because with Tony Blair leaving office in 2007, suddenly there were no hospitals or schools to build. We were so successful we had a 5% pay increase every year. We had escaped the great recession of 2008/9 because of those contracts. But as Bizzare Inc, sang in 1992 Why waste your time? You know you’re gonna be mine…”(I’m gonna get you, baby) I’m gonna get you” In late 2011 after struggling to find more work for some time we had gone from 35 carpenters and 3 foremen… to 3 foremen. My boss had us cutting his hedge, mowing his lawn, painting his fence… anything as long as he didn’t have to lay us off. But I had an idea! 😂

Even though I had enjoyed my time on site it looked like it might be coming to an end. There was still a niggle to do something… “good” I dunno what else you would call it. I had seen an advert in a local paper for teaching courses in colleges. So, in January 2012 I did a short evening course. My neighbour expressed his concern that at 55 years-old maybe it was too late to start another career.😂 By June I had a part time job covering someone’s sick leave, teaching Carpentry at Brockenhurst College. I also started volunteering at a place called Enham Trust that supported disabled people, mainly with Cerebal Palsy. That was such great fun and I met a lot of lovely people. We did three pantomimes while I was there and as you already know I do like a dressing up box. 😂

During the summer recess a job was advertised at Fareham College for a full time Carpentry Lecturer. I read everything I could about teaching in a college, made a model door and frame for my practical lesson test in front of the panel. I winged the interview relying on improvisation rather than experience. They decided I was the best candidate, mainly because of my model and explanation of how to fit a door. So began five years of achieving more qualifications, teaching kids how to saw a straight line and assessing apprentices in the workplace.

I got awards for using IT Innovation in Teaching and was now a fully qualified Lecturer, Assessor, and Internal Verifier. Life was great, but I swear Gillian and I must have Gypsy blood 😂

Happy trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 26

Our new home was a field. It was an apple farm after all. We were the first to arrive, and the boss told us it would be few days before we would start work. Funds were low, so we had jam sandwiches for lunch and salad every day for dinner. Luckily the blackberries were ripe so a late summer evening walk provided us with a pudding. Eventually the field filled with prospective apple pickers and we started work. He paid £40 for every crate you filled and I was managing four per day. Sadly it started to rain on the first day and continued for over three weeks, the cheap Argos tent leaked and we had to put the duvet in the hop house to dry each day.

There was a great mixture of people, Scots, English, and an Italian lad. When you pick an apple you can’t dig your fingers in, you must use the palm of your and gently twist it off. When you drop the apples into the crate it has to be done gently. These are key rules to prevent bruising. Everyday an inspector picks three apples from your crate, ripens them overnight and if you have bruised apples three days on the trot you’re fired. The young Italian sang. He sang all day as he tugged the fruit from the tree and slammed it into the crates. The inspector returned every morning and gave him a warning. As entertaining as it was, I tried to tell my Italian friend, but in return he would say. “Va tutto bene, è tutto bellissimo,” and smile. They fired him on the third day. Because of the continuing damp weather Sally’s asthma got worse and she became quite ill. I looked in the local paper and found a proper tent for £30. I picked it up and erected it the same night. It was larger and older than I had anticipated and the next day the farmer enquired as to who had built a house in his field.

At least Sally was dry and she took a few days off. The two Scottish lads were the next to be fired. On their last night they told me they had sneaked into the barn and urinated on the crates in retaliation. I’ve never eaten a Cox’s Pippin since.😂 The apples you pick in September are stored and go on sale the following year, just in case you wonder why fresh apples go off so quickly. By the end of September there were only two of us left. It rained on our final morning as we attacked the last remaing trees. The farmer paid us and we retired to the pub for a hearty meal. I’d made just short of £700, but it had rained everyday. We sat by the fire and chatted as we ate. As the sweet arrived the sun broke out across the countryside. 😂

It was time to say goodbye. I had an idea to drive down to Greece and pick oranges, but the winter harvest was in full swing from November to January and offered the highest number of available jobs. What to do until November? I knew something would pop up. After all it always did, didn’t it?

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 23

I had two weeks before we were due at the ferry terminal in Hull and decided a rest would be in order. I booked a week in Gambia for Sally and myself. I’d never had a holiday but now, years later, I’m told my life has been one big holiday. Gambia in 1993 was one of the poorest African nations with a small tourist industry. We were instructed to never leave the hotel compound. A young man, Ebrahim, who squeezed and sold grapefruit juice on the beach, offered to take us out and show me around. So we sneaked out, hopped on a bus and went for a look round.

It was obvious there was a rising tension, the place had an atmosphere, and subsequently there was a military coup a year later. We visited his family home and met Charlie the crocodile at the Kachikally Crocodile Pool. Another boy, Cultural, worked the beach selling cannabis. These boys, or “bumsters” as they were called had a scam going. Ebrahim warned me about the scam, but made me promise to tell no one that I was aware or that he had told me, otherwise he would be beaten. The “bumsters” would sell you the cannabis and immediately afterwards signal a corrupt policeman. He would then threaten you with the infamous Mile 2 Prison, the Gambia’s notoriously grim maximum, security jail unless you paid a fine. You would then be marched to your hotel safe and he would take all the money you had. Drugs were never my thing anyway but I had some very interesting chats with Cultural, during his various sale pitches. These ranged from Bob Marley, Rastafarianism, to Nelson Mandela, as he claimed he was South African with a Jamaican accent. Ebrahim later told me he was from a local village. 😂

We returned home and I began to get rid of everything that wouldn’t fit in my camper van. Finally, all I had left was my Snap-On tool chest, weights and diving gear. I dropped them off in a secondhand shop for a half decent price. When I laid everything out the bloke asked. “Who are you? Rambo?” 😂

The following day we docked in Zeebruggue and drove straight to Paris. It was rush hour and driving around and around the Arc de Triomphe trying to find the correct exit was so much fun, some very angry drivers over there! There was an amzing restaurant I needed to visit, Nos Ancêtres les Gaulois, you paid 18francs, which covered your meal and unlimited wine. At the end of the evening each table broke into song. One table began to sing “On Ilkley Moor Baht ‘at, its an old Yorkshire song that tells of advice given to a young man who courts Mary Jane on Ilkley Moor without his hat. I asked if they were from Yorkshire ? But it turned they were from Holland, go figure.

We had an enjoyable five days exploring, but then it was time to move on and find some work! I needed to head south. Next stop Carcassone…

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 22

The next three years I spent building my boss’s disco business. We had a major recession which started in 1989. I pointed out that in Chinese, crisis can mean opportunity. I embarked upon a major sales campaign, visiting every hotel in the area, taking coffee with hotel banqueting manageress’. They had resident disco’s but these guys could be a little unreliable, so I gave them a backup option. To be honest that wasn’t really work 😂By 1991 the recession lifted a little and the seeds I had sown matured, we had gone from 10 disco units to 30, and had claimed 20 hotel residencies. The concept was, we installed the units, paid a DJ for the gig and collected the units afterwards. Plus we’d employed someone to help with installations and collections. By this time we were the largest operators in the north of England. I had a few relationships, but girls generally want someone who isn’t out most nights until the early hours, so they didn’t last long. One pleasure I took was that I had no T.V for four years.

I was still running and I’d done the York and several other Half Marathons in 90mins. I was a DJ in demand myself by now. Mainly because I played music from the 50’s to the 90’s I also used Barn Dancing as an icebreaker, and had a collection of ballroom LPs. I prefered the upmarket marquee gigs which usually finished at 5am. I could also be a bit cheeky, but one evening my mouth got me into a little trouble. I was doing a private girls school dance for the 6th formers and they’d asked for some Barn dances. I announced a dance called Strip The Willow. Before my brain engaged my mouth, I asked “And who wants to be Willow?” The principle wasn’t over joyed.

But, as always I had the wandering bear someway deep, down inside. I decided it was time to travel. I informed my employers I would be leaving a year later. This may sound like a long notice period but by now I was running everything, they were lovely people, I needed time to plan, and I didn’t want all my hard work to go to rack and ruin. A year soon passes, we had found someone to take over, he was one of the more mature DJ’s, and seemed very keen. I had decided I was going to go wherever my fancy took me, first stop would be France. I had bought a Volkswagon Camper. And I was finalsing my plans when I met Sally (real name but she won’t mind) We hit it off from the word go, and when she informed me she had always wanted to travel it seemed I had a travelling companion.

Not a very exciting post this week, but there’s a change coming 😂

Happy Trails, Folks x

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 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.

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.

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

Are You Amazing?

Ever since I was a child I’ve had to be modest. It was difficult. As a toddler I would venture out onto the farm, sometime later I would return to my mother and relate a deed I had done. Occasionally I would need to show her as my vocabulary was a little different to the rest of the human race. She would remark. “How on earth did you manage that?” and shake her head. Sometimes I overheard her chatting to a friend and she’d say. “You’ll never guess what he’s done now? You wouldn’t believe it to look at him.” I remember beaming with pride, but the shake of her head and her scowl was a little confusing.

As time moved on and girlfriends came along, they also seemed impressed. Their comments would vary from. “I can’t believe you just said that.” or “How, in God’s name, did you manage to do that?” Although instead of a headshake or scowl it was usually accompanied by an open mouth and wide eyes.

I left school at fifteen (actually fourteen and a half, I’d kinda learned enough by then, and no one seemed to bother in the 70’s) My initial employers were also astounded by my achievements. A few times I was told. “Charlie Boy, only you could have managed that.” or “I’ve seen some stuff in my day, but that is… I, I don’t have words for it!”

Wives followed girlfriends and the trend continued, I began to believe that I was truly amazing. Paticularly when I was commenting on certain subjects. I noticed how some people were stunned into total silence. I DJ’d for 25 years on and off, I had a bit of patter, and after a gig some hotel managers would shake their heads and say. “How do you get away with it?”

Then of course there were the fancy dress parties. Where I didn’t just dress up I’d create a character 😂The usual reaction was. “OMG!!”

Only the other day my wife retorted to one of my comments with. “You’re amazing, absolutely unbelieveable!!!” I said, as I always have. “Thank you.” She said it’s not a compliment, trust me it really isn’t! After some reflection, I wonder after all these years… have I got it wrong, have I misunderstood? 😂

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 11

Christmas

Christmas, Gran Canaria in 1976 was a little different to a Bradford council estate. In fact, nothing seemed to be planned. Our two Aussie friends had departed for Italy, which I believe Peter was pleased about, as I now had no partner in crime. We were a little short on cash, the fishing was not so good locally, and so we’d taken the inflatable three miles up the coast where it was remarkably better.

You know how life can throw little problems at you? Well, it was one of those days. We’d caught quite a few fish, but when we returned to the inflatable it was no longer inflated 😂 We fired up the outboard but it was dragging the boat under, so we paddled. A long hour passed by before a fishing boat came into view. We scrounged a lift with the aforesaid pancake hanging over the back. It was late when we got back so we dumped the darn thing on the beach, and using what they now call “Black Ops” in the world of espionage, we sold the fish to a restaurant that wasn’t owned by the local Chief of Police’s brother. Yup, we’d crossed a line of a family dynasty.

The following day the inflatable and the outboard had gone. The Police Chief saw us on the beach, came over and told us we should be more careful in all things we do, shrugged and walked away. When you are in a foreign place sometimes you have to accept what is. Anyaways… Peter had to go into Las Palmas, so I decided I could swim the three miles, get some fish and swim back. It was a pleasant swim, and took less than two hours. I knew from the previous day where to fish. You may have been in the sea for two hours? If you have you’ll know your skin becomes very soft. I rested the handle of my speargun tight into my belly and pulled the thick bands back, locking them into the trigger mechanism, at least I thought I had. As I let go the spear flew out and the wishbone of the bands ripped the skin from the inside of my hands. Have you ever been submerged in salt water with no skin on the inside of your hands?😂

Yesterday had been one of those days, it appeared today was feeling lonely and wanted to join in. I tried to load the gun again, but it wasn’t going to happen. My mind likes to toy with me in those kind of situations and so it recalled the film, Jaws where Robert Shaw said blood in the water attracts Sharks. I decided it was probably a good idea to swim back. The swim home took a little longer than the swim there and Peter was waiting on the shore when I finally returned. His comment? “At least the wounds don’t need cleaning😂” Oh well, at least it was Christmas.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 10

San Nicolás

On the west of Gran Canaria is San Nicolás and it’s remote. We’d been a few times, but it was always too rough to dive. We drove down out of the mountains and I could see the ocean raging against the land, but I knew it wouldn’t matter. Peter was not a patient man. There was a jetty where you could enter the water, but with a 40ft swell and waves crashing over our entry point I was a tad nervous.

We donned our wetsuits and walked down to our departure point. An old man shouted “Loco.” Once in the water I swam hard to get away from the wall. Peter had instructed me to stay with him, I lost sight of him within 5 mins.😂 After an hour or so I had a few fish, and decided on one last dive and then I was done. We liked to dive holes, rocks on top of each other formed little caves where fish would lay. I found one and slid into it. On my way out I felt something snag above me, and realised my weight (backpack) was stuck. Peter had told me the only thing that can kill you underwater is panic. So, although I was really keen to re-surface and breathe, I wriggled back inside, dropped down and tried again. I was jolly well relieved when I got out of there, I can tell you😂 Now I had to swim back!

It appeared I had drifted a fair way out. I was beyond the headland and could barely make out the jetty. But, I got my head down, kept finning, and eventually I’d made progress. I saw Peter as I neared the shore and he told me it’d be tricky getting out, and he would take my gear and fish in for me. He told me not to come in until he waved me in. The idea being that a big wave would drop me onto the jetty rather than smash me on the rocks, as he put it. 😂 It worked!

As we walked back to the van a crowd gathered, one of them was the local landlord and he offered to buy our fish. He said he’d take them to the bar and if we called there after we’d changed he’d pay us. Which we did.

He paid us immediately and offered us a beer. There were a few fishermen in the bar who were obviously impressed, not only because we had ventured into that broiling mass, but that we actually survived 😂 A few moments later the landlords wife came from the kitchen with our fish on a large platter. Her husband told us to choose one each and she disappeared again, returning a little later with two cooked fish and those wonderful garlic potatoes the Spanish do so well.

We stayed a while, drank beer, laughed with the locals and revelled in the kudos. Eventually Peter asked for the bill and the landlord waved us away, Apparently we were to pay nothing. Outside the bar the old man who had shouted “Loco” approached me and placed his hand on my shoulder. He said something in Spanish, I looked at Peter with my usual teenage blank expression, he had some knowledge of the language. A rough translation was “Today you have learned not to fear the sea. You must never fear the sea. But you must always respect her, and never underestimate her. You are young and today you maybe underestimated her. Maybe you showed her disrespect, that it is not for me to say. Whatever you did today, she forgave you. Be careful young one. She does not forgive often and never, will she forgive twice.” He squeezed my shoulder, gave me a grin and walked away.

It appeared I had learned yet another lesson. A few years ago I turned this experience into a short story and was shortlisted for the Olga Sinclair prize and published in an anthology Tales From The Tide.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 9

Gran Canaria, Mogan

If you remember, this all started because I asked Gillian if I should get therapy? Her answer was an emphatic, “NO! It would be too traumatic for them!” So I wondered why.

I read recently that Gran Canaria in 1976 was equivalent to a third world country. I remember the day we arrived in Mogan, and to be honest there wasn’t much there. We pulled up by the beach, Pink Floyd’s Wish You Here blared out from John and Mudgut’s van as we unloaded the inflatable and began to put our wetsuits on. A crowd gathered until the local police chief pushed his way through and they began to disperse. It turned out we needed a license to spearfish, which we should have purchased on the mainland! Then came the “but.”😂 If we sold our fish to only one restaurant, he would allow us to continue. A little baffled, but with a sigh of relief, we agreed, and with a slap on our backs he left.

The fishing was good that day, and after a rest we ate some Cambells Meatballs and potatoes, we couldn’t afford to eat the fish, that had to be hawked around restaurants, or in our case sold to just one. We arrived there early evening, and as always went to the rear door. Usually the chef came out, he weighed the fish, we agreed a price, and shook hands. Not this time! The owner appeared, told us what he would pay, and explained it was non-negotiable. We took his money reluctantly, and were about to leave when Peter noticed a kitchen hand smoking a cigarette. He went to have a word and came back frowning. “It’s his brother,” he said. “The owner is the police chief’s brother.”

We needed a new plan, but for now we’d agreed to meet John and Mudguts in one of the few bars, as I remember there were only two. We chose the fisherman’s bar which was more of a shack. Aussie John was standing at the bar with his hands outspread. “El biggo, el bottlo, el wino” he kept repeating to a bemused, rotund barman. Mudguts seemed impressed and commented how his brother’s Spanish was becoming better by the day. I heard Peter sigh. “Dear Lord,” he pulled John away from the bar and explained that A. He wasn’t speaking Spanish and B. The bar only sold beer in small bottles from a chest fridge. We settled down with some beers, and half an hour later the lights went out. The barman explained that the generator on top of the hill supplied power to the village. It was an old generator! “It is ok, Miguel will fix it,” he told us. Sure enough within an hour the lights came back on, everyone cheered, the barman reached for a beer, downed it in one, and there was another cheer.

After the third beer Peter informed me it was time for a run. “Say what?!” Apparently I wasn’t spending enough time underwater and we would soon be diving to 75ft. So, I needed a bigger lung capacity, and to achieve this, I needed to run. I explained we were parked at the bottom of a mountain, which seemed to have no affect. Apparently running two miles up a mountain and then two miles back down again, was good for you, and it was too hot during the day. I should be grateful, I still remember that evening, and I was totally unaware that I would still be hitting the trails fifty years later.

When I returned to the van there was a towel, soap, and note on the tailgate. “Get a wash in the sea, and don’t wake me.” It was December and we weren’t leaving until March. I was an eighteen year-old male, did I need to wash? Apprently I did. It was one of many lessons I was going to learn over the next four months.

Happy Trails, folks. x