Adventure – Charlierobinsonbooks

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 😁

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 12

And Where it Nearly Ended

March 1977 and we had been in Mogan, Gran Canaria for four months. The police informed us someone had broken into a car and stolen some German tourist’s luggage. We couldn’t help, we’d not seen or heard anything, and so they left. I was considering a dive, when a white car screeched into the carpark. Two smartly dressed guys got out, walked over, told Peter they were Cuerpo General de Policía (CID) ordered him to sit on a log and I was taken to the drivers door by one, while the other searched the van.

He banged my head against the van door and asked, “Why you come Espania making trouble?” Now I hadn’t been an angel but my time in Mogan had been trouble free, so I had no answer.

He marched me to his car, put me in the back seat, told Peter to collect me at 6pm and off we drove. I was only 18, but figured this wasn’t an Island Tour. We stopped beside another camper van and Inspector Clouseau got out. Now this was going to be interesting! A few weeks earlier I had been on a night run and as I passed this particular van the guy ran up to me and asked me where his cushions were? I had no idea what he was talking about. He said his cushions had gone the previous night and he saw me running away! Now Clouseau was chatting to him and he nodded and pointed to me.

We continued our journey until we reached the police station. Once inside my detective friend asked me why I stole the cushions. I explained I ran every night but had no need of cushions, so he hit me. To save you any grimacing 😂 Let’s just say this went on for an hour or so. It was broken up by his amigo putting his arm around me and explaining that if I told them where the cushions were he could stop his friend beating me. I’d seen Kojak so I knew good cop, bad cop routine. I’d boxed at school and been in a few street fights so I knew how to take a punch, but not quite so many over a prolonged period, when I finally hit the floor he brought in a German Shepherd (the dog, not a sheep farmer) which barked and snarled at me. Sadly for my detective friends it must have taken pity and started licking my face 😂

There was outrage, some expletives shouted and Rin Tin Tin was removed. I was left to sit in a chair for a few hours with a towel, to wipe the blood off my face and stop the nose bleed, I guess. (I couldn’t see a shower)

Eventually I was helped into reception and given a seat. Clouseau smiled and presented me with some papers. “Sign these and you may go.” At that point Peter arrived spotted me, and shouted sign nothing! He was still shouting it as they ushered him outside and locked the door.

A debate followed that went roughly like this:

“Sign the papers.”

“No.”

This chat went back and forth for about 15 mins. Eventually Clouseau sighed stood up and walked me to the door. He looked at Peter and told him we must leave the island within a week. Told me I was free to go and held out his hand to shake 😂 (It didn’t happen!)

Peter didn’t speak. We drove until we reached the sea. He leaned into the back of the van, grabbed a towel and told me to go soak, the sea water would be good for my mashed face and sore ribs etc. He said we were due to leave at the end of March anyway so no harm done.

So that was it, our tour complete and time to head back to Jersey. Peter must have remembered my statement back in Spain when Mudguts and I had become feral. As I climbed out of the van he said. “ What did the British Consul say, by the way?” 😂😂

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

Where It All Began 8

Almeria

Almeria was basic in 1976, and life was very different for an eighteen year-old in the 70s. I’d been working for three years, and had five jobs which didn’t work out for various reasons. Apprentice Engineer, mechanic, and electrician. I also worked at Morrisons Supermarket and finally at Sherbourne Pouffes in production line upholstery. Now here I was travelling around Spain, home was a camper van and work was spearfishing. Mudguts and I had been told by our two older companions, mentors if you like, to behave. “The Guardia Civil will not mess about, and you could both end up in big trouble!” I pointed out that if trouble came our way? I would simply ask to see the British Consulate. To be honest we were our own worst enemies with a love of local girls, wine, brandy, and mischief. Factor in the landscape and the invasion of Hollywood, years before who made Westerns, such as The Good, Bad, and Ugly only fuelled our rebellious attitude.

Everything was going well, Almeria was Peter’s favourite Spanish town and the fishing was okay. Although we’d had our money taken from us and been put on a meagre allowance, Mudguts and I devised many ways to entertain ourselves. We did moderate our adventures to some degree. But you know what they say? Nothing lasts forever😂

One day, due to a huge sea swell, there was going to be no fishing. Mudguts and I were sent food shopping and given the necessary funds. Here lieth the problem, we had to pass a bar which we had frequented on several occasions. The bar was full of local fishermen, now where was the harm with one beer on a hot day? In those days a game called Spoof was very popular, we were extremely good at it, and had played the fishermen a few times. For us it was a drinking game, the last man standing bought a round of drinks, and we saw a chance of free alchohol. As I say we were good at it. Late morning turned into late afternoon and we remembered the shopping. We said goodbye to our amigos and “kinda walked” from the bar😂.

We should have gone shopping and returned to the vans. Except we had an idea, I have no recollection of where it came from, but we decided it would be good fun to stop the traffic. I lay down on one side of the road and Mudguts on the other. (Go figure!) and pretended to be asleep. There followed a few minutes of car horns, a lot of shouting, and I guess swearing before we suddenly pretended to wake up and walk away, straight into a couple of Guardia Civil officers. They held us by the arms and chatted to some locals who pointed in the direction of where the vans were parked.

Fifteen minutes later, Mudguts and I were held before our older companions, detained, disheveled, and disgraced. Luckily the police said, if we left town by sunset there would be no further action. I allowed myself a grin as I remembered the Spaghetti Westerns which had been filmed here.

I don’t have much recollection of the rest of the day. I do know Peter and Mudgut’s brother John were not impressed by our escapade and it was decided that we would now head for Cadiz. We were, at last, going to Gran Canaria for the rest of the winter. John and Muduts decided to join us, so we headed for the ferry. I wondered what adventures awaited us in Mogan, Gran Canaria?

Happy Trails, Folks x

Ana’s New Book

Uncovered and Into the Wild

Where It All Began 7

Javea

1976, Spain was a totally different Spain to what it is now. Franco had died one year earlier and much of his legacy remained. After the grapepicking we arrived in Javea, and the first thing we were told by the Guardia Civil was, “No es posible acampar aquí.” It was a phrase we heard often. Basically, no camping. Peter’s reply was always the same. “Pesca submarina.” For some reason spearfishermen had special rights, and we were left alone, although we were informed they would check on us throughout the night, which apparently was thirsty work. So, each evening we left a half bottle of wine and two glasses on the rear bumper step.

For a couple of weeks Javea was fun, there was a lot of diving, drinking and a few girls. Mudguts and I reverted to our feral nature, and I have to admit, looking back we were probably out of control. One particular night we had a disagreement with some American backpackers from the campsite. As I remember it, we were (entertaining?) two girls in the rear yard of a bar who, it turned out, were partners of two Alpha Male backpackers. It didn’t end well, we were outnumbered and felt some justice should prevail. Their campsite was at the bottom of a small cliff, so in the early hours, after gathering some ammunition, (stones and rocks). As Maximus the Gladiator said 😂

We only aimed for the tents, but to see so many people running around in the dark, half naked was a joy, until they discovered where the mystery stones were being hailed from, and so they began to climb. We escaped into the night and laughed all the way home. It was short lived! The Gaurdia arrived the following morning and after a long conversation with my mentor, Peter, and Mudgut’s older brother John they left. This, apparently, was the last straw (to be honest, as I said we had been a little naughty before) They took our money from us, explaining we were now to be given a small allowance, enough for maybe a beer. But we knew where we could buy bottles of wine for about 40 pesatas (30p) And the barmen were willing to swop beers for lightbulbs. Yeah, I know it was kinda inventive, but we became quite adapt at appropriating light bulbs from many sources.😂

Eventually we had to consider moving on, the fishing was still not good. But then our fortunes changed once more. We met Laurie and Ronnie, ex merchant seamen who owned a bar in the town, The Cave Bar. After a few beers they asked if we would convert their stockroom into a small eating area. Peter was an electrician and John the Aussie was a builder, whereas Mudguts and I were… well, we were just 18 years old 😂 In return they offered us a flat to stay in, they would feed us, and give us some spending money. So, we set to work.

There was a lot of chicken wire and paper mache used, that’s not the original photo, but its close enough. At least it kept us out of trouble, for now. When the work was done we set off once more. Next Stop, Almeria.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 6

What To Do When There’s No Fish?

We were having a great time in Portbou, but we were spending money with no income. Too early for the fishing season, we needed a plan. As luck would have it our new friends, Jamie and Josephine were heading for Perpignan to apply for work on Le Vendange (grape picking season).

This sounded like a good idea. Three days later Peter, myself, two Aussies, three Welshmen, Jamie and Josephine found ourselves at the counter of a French Employment Office. The girl behind the desk had work in a village called La Tour, for eleven people. Quandary! There were only nine of us. Remember?… Mudguts and I were only eighteen, so we had already spotted the two attractive girls in the corner. Two hours later all eleven of us were seated around an old oak table in an equally old farm kitchen chatting to to the vineyard owner. Well, Josephine was chatting, we were nodding. The farmer must have been impressed, as he took us to a house in the village, told us we could stay there during our employment, and produced a wicker clad bottle, a demijohn, it must have held 5 gallons. He said when we had finished it we could bring it to the farmhouse and he’d fill it. I was happy already!

He did a lot of back slapping, used the word “Bon” a lot and appeared very, very happy. It was sometime later that Josephine discovered from his wife that he had a bad back and took pain killers. The Dr had instructed him not to drink alcohol. His wife said, with a shrug and a wink, he was French and a vineyard owner. Mudguts, who was quite an expert on narcotics (one reason he left Australia) said it was equivalent to taking ‘speed.‘ Three days later we were woken at 5am, taken on a tractor to a field, and instructed how to pick grapes. Interestingly we were joined by a band of gypsies, and told they were fast. Ah, competition time.😊

A porter working during the grapepicking season, France 1976

I’m not sure how I survived the next twenty days. We worked from 6am until 1pm and then 3pm until 6pm. This was the heatwave of 1976 and it was hot! But, we successfully picked more grapes than our Romany friends, and secured extra work for the Mayor of the village.

The nights were riotous, and we rarely hit the sack before midnight, often later. I recall a night when one of the Welsh chaps crashed early, a little worse for wear, and we manged to manoeuvre his bed down two flights of stairs and into the street. 😂 The following morning, as we gazed from the window, it was amusing to see the villagers starting their day. They sauntered by a bed in the street, with a snoring youth snuggled down, whilst chuntering to themselves. But all good things come to an end. In total we completed a 20 day stint at 10 francs per day, so with our purses refilled, we bid a fond farewell to our employer, and most of our friends.

Jamie and Josephine headed for God knows where, the Welshmen set off for Germany, while Peter, myself, two Aussies and the girls we found in Perpignan decided on Javea. Hopefully the fish had arrived.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 5

Portbou

The ferry docked in St Malo, already Jersey seemed a long way back. Time was different back then. Maybe it’s because you’re only eighteen, and you have lots to spare? Eager to reach Spain, we drove the van through the day and night until we hit the Pyrenees. We camped in the heart of the mountains for a couple of days. I’d never seen mountains before. I have to admit come nightfall it was quite eary with those huge, black shapes towering above you. But over the next few months I was going to experience many things I’d never seen or experienced before. Kinda pinched these from the internet, in 1976 we didn’t have an iPhone, just an old Kodak camera, but they look familiar 😂

The first Spanish coastal town is called Portbou. Parked by the beach, and staring out over the sea I was looking forward to diving the following day. Suddenly a Volkswagon camper pulled up at the side of us and a large bearded man got. He ran round to the rear of his vehicle, lifted the tailgate, spat at the engine, kicked the bumper, and began to shout, inferring that the engine was a fornicating, illegitimate nuisance. Peter, my new mentor and travelling companion suggested I get out and ask if he was Australian. Remember, my first ten years were spent alone, on a farm with imaginary friends. Swiftly followed by seven years on a Bradford council estate where I had become feral and led a life not becoming of a young Englishman. There was no way I was getting out. So, with a sigh Peter went for a chat.

It turned out both the bearded man and his younger brother were in fact Australian and the swearing was fury, aimed at an engine that was burning oil. We introduced ourselves to John Mulhall and his brother Peter. It might have been confusing with two Peters but luckily young Australian Peter was known as Mudguts, due to his strange dietry habits as a toddler. It was several months before I discovered this, because of the Aussie accent I presumed his name was Maggots.

When you’re travelling, apparently, alcohol is the key ingredient for getting to know people. So we set up a table, cracked open one of several bottles of wine, and began to wave complete strangers over to join us. Within an hour we had a company of: 2 Aussies, 6 Germans, 3 Welshman, and a couple, Josephine who was French and Jamie an Englishman. The couple had completed a tour of Australia including the 200 mile cattle train hike through the desert. We went down to the beach, lit a fire and stared at the sky. Jamie was aquainted with all the star constellations, and pointed them out to us. If this was travelling? I was hooked.

Happy Trails, Folks x