author – Charlierobinsonbooks

Where It All Began 20

A Struggling Farm and Homeward Bound

I have to admit I kinda had my tail between my legs after the Legion failure. But as Peter had told me years before “There’s only one person at a pity party!” I had mixed emotions too. I really needed to contact my wife, I had an idea to go to America and my sister was really struggling on the farm. There was a lot of work to do, no money to pay staff, and constant begging letters to the bank so they didn’t foreclose. After a week of 5am starts and 10pm finishes, my sister told me to phone my wife. To cut a long story short I was back in Jersey the week later.

Over the next year I did two stints at two garages as a mechanic La Motte Motors and then for John De La Haye. One day Peter walked into the garage and offered me a job as a shuttering carpenter. It was on the Jersey Hospital car park at £90 per day, big money back in 1985. That’s when I bought my Estwing hammer that I still have. It was hard work, and we had a young labourer working for us. It didn’t take homelife long to deteriorate, and once again I was out on my ear. No one could say we hadn’t tried. Once again it looked like I’d have to leave the island.

The young labourer asked where I was going? Peter and I told him the shuttering game was a front, and we were actually drug dealers. I was going to Columbia to take over from Kenny who was coming home after years of service over there. Our young friend was captivated 😂 Peter threw a leaving party for me and we invited him, telling him it was also a coming home party for Kenny. All our associates would be there including the Godfather.

When the night came our diving buddies excelled. One of them was older than the rest and turned up as the Godfather. Dressed in a smart suit, his glamorous wife by his side, and wearing his huge sovereign ring, which we all kissed while on one knee. He’d even stuffed cotton wool in his cheeks. 😂 Kenny (who was a good looking guy and always tanned) appeared wearing a white linen suit. He recieved cheers and slaps on the back because of his service in Columbia. He had a briefcase with him which we had previously stuffed with flour wrapped in plastic bags.

Peter and I took Kenny into the kitchen along with our young friend. Peter opened the brief case, slit a bag, poked his finger in, raised it to lips and smiled. “Almost pure,” he said. Rather than use a £20 note, Peter’s girlfriend had provided a cuticle pusher with an ivory handle. We gave it to the boy with some flour (cocaine) on a small wooden bread board and told him go and offer it around. I was amazed how many people were willing to shove Self Raising Flour up their noses 😂 When he reached the “Godfather” I had to nip over and whisper in his ear. “Kneel and kiss the ring.” The Godfather patted his head, but refused to sniff the substance, saying he never sampled his own goods.

Back in the kitchen, Kenny informed us he thought he’d been tailed by the police, and we all looked at our new apprentice dealer. “What?” he said, his eyes wide open. We told him he had to leave now with the drugs. He was the only one who wouldn’t be suspected. To keep the case under his bed, tell no one and return with the case the next day. We called him a taxi.

He returned the next morning, told us he hadn’t been able to sleep, and had been expecting the door to be smashed in at any time. Peter slit each bag open in turn and washed it all down the sink. The poor lad looked aghast. We sat him down and explained it was a life lesson. Don’t believe everything people tell you. If it sounds too good or to bad to be true then it probably is. He seemed to get it, I just hope 40 years later he’s not still traumatised 😂

Now it was time for me to take my leave. There was another discussion with my wife, who was now seeing someone else, and she was OK with the fact I would be staying on the farm for the near future. I left for another 3 days of travel by ferry and hichhiking.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Me and me ‘ammer’

I’m not an emotional person, so they tell me. But I do miss being on a construction site. And my ‘ammer’ is 43 years old. So, when I get permission I’ll tackle a bit of carpentry. You know that feeling? When one day you look at something and think, how on earth did it get like that? 😂

Ripping it all out is not a pleasant task. There were wild sapplings behind there, and Ivy that had been growing for twenty years. Plus there is a metal fence behind my fence, protecting them. This was gardening (I’m not a gardener) I persevered and after ripping various parts of skin from my forearms. I won… yeah I know a small victory when it’s only a plant! But that was nothing compared to digging the post holes. Why do builders, on a construction site, bury all their rubble in the garden? I was a carpenter so not guilty your Honour. SDS Hammer Drill down 400mm before I got to soil.

Have you priced timber up lately? The big merchants wanted £5 per length, and I needed 125 lengths. Luckily there is a a wonderful lady called Lisa who owns Belle’s Timber yard and she wanted £2 a length… Go figure.

So, my literary friends, probably not my most erudite, amusing, controversial post, but I wanted to let you know I don’t just run and write 😂 Anyaways here’s the finished product. Now my sciatica is playing up and my thumb joints are siezed after knocking in 1000 nails in, but I do love me ‘ammer’ 😂

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 19

The Finale

We were in our ninth week and getting increasingly frustrated. According to an older guy, who seemed knowledgeable. The three of us Pieter, Otto and myself represented a kind of threat to disicpline. The legion considered us as Anglo-Saxons, aggressive, tight-knit, and capable of causing violence inside the unit. He said they would be running endless checks, and maybe we should keep away from each other. I didn’t think so. There was a lot of aggression in the camp and the three of us made a good team.

But I’d forgotten Corporal Yarring’s warning😂

A few days later Otto got into a fight in the shower with some Belgian guys. We intervened and we did well. “An Anglo-Saxon victory over the Franks,” as Otto put it. The next morning we were enjoying our breakfast when a corporal told us to stay where we were until everyone else had left. I thought at last we were going to be shipped out to basic training. Later we marched to a broom cupboard (literally 😂) It was cramped and there were some other new recruits with us. We waited there for two hours. “We are going to be kicked out!” Pieter said. The atmosphere was pretty gloomy. The new recuits said they had a bad ‘Gestapo’ interview, and were fed up anyway. So what was I doing in here?

Otto confessed he’d stabbed a Turkish bloke in a Berlin street fight, and maybe they had found out. Pieter related a couple of tales from his Rhodesia days, which I’ll never repeat, and if he returned to what was now Robert Mugabe’s Zimbabwe he’d be killed. He presumed this was the reason he was being kicked out. But I reflected on what the older bloke had told us. If a fight broke out involving Brits/Rhodesians and Germans against another group, the staff wouldn’t care who started it they would see a dangerous, cross-national brawl that threatened camp discipline. I recalled Corporal Yarring’s words!

Eventually we were marched past a hatch in a corridor. A soldier asked our name, showed us the five year contract we’d signed, tore it up, and told us not to come back. Pieter, the new recruits, and I had signed up in Paris so we were taken to the rail station and given a ticket back there. Otto? They just showed him the gate.

We went for our first beer in 10 weeks. Propped at the bar, we had all our gear stashed on the floor by our feet, and stood chatting… where to next, who was going where, suddenly one of the new recruits asked me where my mate was. Pieter’s gear had been at the side of mine and he’d been stood at the side of me. But now? He’d gone, it was as though he’d vanished. We puzzled about how he’d got his gear and walked away without us noticing, looked around the bar, and outside in the station, but he’d gone. Someone joked about The Ghost of Aubagne Station. It was strange, and I often wonder what became of him. I caught the train back to Paris, and from there hitched to Calais, at Dover I hitched back up north and decided to visit my eldest sister on the farm for a while. I had a plan.

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.

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

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 😁

Happy Trails, Folks x