It's Christmas

It really is Christmas. I've been to town and bought presents. I also had a gluwein and a hotdog at the Christmas market. I bought two pairs of black shoes and a coat.
Town looks beautiful in the snow, especially Albert Square. It's been snowing again. The Town Hall looks even better than usual with the big red Father Christmas outside and the busy people milling around the busy stalls. I got some German sausages too. They'll go well with the hampers I'm getting people for presents.
In work there has been a dramatic turnaround in the attitude of the consultant cardiologists. All of a sudden they can't do enough with me. There going to start symptom clinics to match our care pathways.
I'm chuffed also because last week on a ward round, yes I've been going on cardiology ward rounds, I made a diagnosis which startled and impressed my cardiology colleagues. I diagnosed a prolactinoma, just from the history. Weeell, they're easily impressed. Things aren't quite as good with the PCT.
So the Christmas tree is up, the ham is ordered, the presents are bought. Rachel and Emily are coming home.
It's Christmas!

Wow, I can't believe it's been two weeks since I got back to England. I've got a reply from one of the people I e-mailed about work in Mauritius. Here's what he said:
'Dear Dr Benett,
Very glad to read your mail and learn that you have the intention to come to Mauritius to practice medicine in your retired life. We all wish to return to our roots and do not get the chance and opportunity for a variety of reasons. I was born in China and arrived in Mauritius at a very young age and have adopted it since.
The City Clinic group is known for its H-Tech services. We have in our group 4 CT scanners including one Toshiba 64 Slice, 2 MRI and two angiography machines including the recent Flat panel G.E angiography machine.
It would be a good plan if you could come to Mauritius for a brief visit and we could work out a plan to maximize your professional expertise and experience in the City Clinic group. I am more than happy to take you in our organization. The City Clinic has two seaside hotels, one in the South East of the island and the other in the West coast. You are welcome to stay in either hotel. The group has three clinics, the City Clinic being the main institution.
We have quite a few foreign specialists employed by the City Clinic. One has MRCOG & CCST (UK) in Obs and Gynae. One has FRCS & MD in ENT ( Mauritian also came back to return his roots and he is only 40 years old, one Indian Invasive cardiologist MD., DM. One Indian anesthesiologist who does pain and palliative care.
Please do not hesitate to write if there is any further information you may need.'

Sounds good doesn't it?

The last day, for now

I missed recording anything about yesterday. That's because nothing must happened. It was my last day on the beach and sa ce passez bien.
Today was different. It is the Sabbath and I met Viv at church. She had been staying at Beau Bassin with her school friend May. After church we were invited to the Gueho house for lunch. On a bien manzer. Daniel is a retired pastor in the Adventist church and was formally the President of their churches on the island and environment, which includes Rodrigue and the Seychelles. He married Rose-May (nee Derblay).
Their house is opposite the Derblays where Max now lives with his sister Alice. They are Anglicans, strangely. Max's father Ory used to teach the children on the, now famous, veranda.
We had a fun time over lunch. Francoise and her daughter Muriel were also their. We were later joined by Danick Derblay and his wife Orelly, and their two children.
After, we went for a little walk around Balfour, a public garden named after a former governor of Mauritius. It is famous for it's giant turtles, and the view of a waterfall in the valley beyond. The other side of the valley is the presidents house. You can also see Port Louis, Le Pouse, Signal mountain, and a saddle shaped mountain called Ory.
Danick took us back via his and Orelly's house. They are a lovely and loving couple, and very generous. They played some sega for us. She on the Ravan, (a hand held drum) and him playing the guitar.
By this time it was late. Danick drove us back for an early night and early rise. Tomorrow it's home. I'm glad to be going home. It is time, but I have also enjoyed my stay, and getting to know who all these relatives are.

Mauritian identity

'I've tried three times, but you'll just have to experience it for yourself I suppose' Viv told me with a flourish, in the way only Viv can. We're talking about getting a Mauritian identity card as a prelude to getting a passport; of course.
A couple of days ago we had queued up and I'd applied for me birth certificate, just to see if I could. Today was the day for picking it up. Simple. The girl had said to just take it to a building a block away and it will be straight forward. Simple. I believe her, Viv and Edwige are sceptical. 'You never know in this country, you could be lucky. If they like the look of you, it can happen, so dress well' Edwige counsels.
The morning began with climbing Le Pouse. Denis was our guide, with me and Graham, or Gra-ham as Edwige pronounces it. In return he calls her Teddy. Edwige is Vivianne's cousin. They've been married a long time, live in Hertfordshire and have two daughters. Graham is a keen lake land walker. We drive to the foot of the mountain where we meet up with Denis. The girls go off to Port Louis
Denis has done this walk with various groups many times. Off we go. It's a steady climb, about 900m, and the sun is getting higher. It's hot, but there's a great breeze. The last bit is a scramble, medium according to Graham, and we reach the summit.
The view is spectacular. Denis points out the towns below, and the peaks. There's a great view of Port Louis, and two boats heading into harbour. The breeze is South Westerly, so the harbour is protected, unlike Grand Port down south, hence the choice of Capital city. There is a rock called window rock, or mountain. It is a slit in one of the rock faces. The ships needed to line up the window with the head of Peitr Both behind and they'd know they were on the right course.
We saw a Paille en queue, the white long tailed National bird, falling and rising with the warm air currents. In the distance we could just make out the outline of offshore small islands through the light haze. On the west coast there is Flic en Flac, and beyond it the lighthouse at Albion. 'I could stay up here all day' says Graham, and we agree.
Back at the bottom and we drive past St Pierre. This is where Dr Hector Clarenc, my great great maternal grandfather is buried along with many more from his legitimate family. We visited the grave, I must say, with mixed feelings. My great great grandmother, with whom he had several children is nowhere to be seen. I takes photos all the same.
Then it's time for them to go to lunch with Antoine and for me to collect my birth certificate and hopefully my identity card. It'll be fine, I dint need to change into proper clothes these will do. I get a taxi in.
Mauritians are a grumpy lot anyway, but this driver is particularly grumpy. Sucking his teeth, tutting and grumbling about everyone, and all sorts. It''s a bad time to go into the Capital.
He dropped me close to the right building. I walked straight in, passed over the chit, and bob's ye runcle. Simple. I produced the twenty five rupee stamp and the certificate is officially embossed. It's even got an identity card number on it. This is going to be easy.
Now off to the TM building, where the identity card should be, as good as, waiting for me.
Up to the first floor and into the room. Viv had told stories of queues stretching out of the door and waiting for hours. She'd been knocked back a couple of times for not having the right papers. Not me pal. I've got my birth certificate, hot off the printer, my driving licence (withdrawn but who's to know), and my UK passport to prove who I am.
The stark, unfriendly room, is quiet apart from a few glum Endu (Indians - Hindu) awaiting their fate. This is going to be a piece of cake. Perhaps, I should have had a shave, combed my hair, put a proper shirt on and worn trousers, but hey, I've got my documents. That should do..
I ask a man where I can pick up my ID card. He says something in Creole, which I don't get, but fortunately he also points to a woman who is currently chatting to someone else. I wait for her to finish, wondering if I'm jumping the queue.
She can see I'm waiting to speak to her, but this doesn't seem to encourage her to complete her conversation.
Eventually she stops and I catch her eye. 'Excuse me, I want to get a Mauritian Identity card' I ask politely. She pauses and looks at me up and down disdainfully as if I've just brought in a bad smell, and sucks on her teeth as she raises her eyes to the ceiling. 'Your papers' she snaps. I give her my birth certificate. 'Passport'. I hand it over. 'First time you apply?' she asks bluntly with a characteristic Mauritian accent. I nod apologetically in case this means extra work for her. She sighs and goes off into a room, without saying anything and leaves me in the waiting room, with thirty two Endu eyes looking at me. I pretend they're not but then look up and give a British smile of embarrassment 'h, hm'.
Our lady comes back. 'You av your British Nationality documents?' more of an order than a question. 'Well, I have my passport' pointing to the maroon booklet she's holding. 'Non'. 'You ave to ave your original papers' in that officious jobsworth way that officious jobsworths have of saying 'tough luck mate, you're not getting any further today'. I tried to appeal with a winning smile. No good. I suppose they have their reputation to maintain.
Back at Antoine's we all have a good laugh about it. It's lucky I don't need it. The rest have eaten and I'm catching, after he shows me his Caroom board. I remember playing this as a child. You flick, sabuteo-style, wooden discs like draughts pieces across the table into pockets at each corner.
After (late) lunch we take Antoines maid, and cook, back to her village. It's a place called Albion and we're calling in anyway to look at the light house. I remember it being pointed out earlier today. Le Phare aux Point de Caves. Edwige managers to get the key off the light house keeper, 'he's nearly drunk already', and up we go up. At the top we can see for miles, right up to the top of Le Pouse.
It's been that sort of day, from high points, to disappointments, to highs again. I'm exhausted. I think truthfully I lost my Mauritian identity when we came to England and stopped speaking creole. I am English now. Still it would be fun to try again. Next time.

More from the beach

I don't think I mentioned the purple and yellow coral yet. Today, as for many days I've been out snorkeling. At first I had thought that Flic en Flac bay had only dead coral, but then discovered some live stag horn coral. Today's discovery was quite unexpected.
On the sea bed lies, amongst much else, large boulders, naturally enough. Some boulders are of rock, smoothed over the years by the sea, but others are of dead, white calcium carbonate coral exoskeleton. I had got used to seeing these. Then I noticed that one of them was sort of glowing. It was as if it had been fitted up to a purple neon light, the sort you sometimes see at night in shop windows. It was a faint glow, but a gloriously living glow. It was a wow glow.
Of course then you notice more of them, not as spectacular, but definitely there. There are also yellow and blue bolder corals.
Another new fish today was one with a blotchy camouflage, like on a Giraffe, but on this fish's back. One moment it was there, then disappeared, then back again.
Back on the beach I hear someone call 'Hey Rasta man'. I turn round and he's talking to me. He is in fact a bit of a Rasta man himself, in fact more of one than me. I know I haven't shaven, must look at bit wild, but coming from him I take it as a compliment. He proceeds to talk to me in slow Creole which I mainly understand. He seems thrilled to discover that I'm Mauritian and that I can make sense of what he's saying. He notices my necklace and says he can make me one from coral. I ask if he can make one in Mauritian colours. Of course he can. He says it's difficult to find coral that is 'zaune' - creole for yellow. OK, I agree, but how much? He asks me to make him an offer. 400. He laughs and comes up with all sorts of reasons for it being more. We settle on 1,000 RS, twenty pounds. I know he's ripping me off, but he's been entertaining and fun. He runs off and in a suitable while, so he can say he make it from scratch, he comes back with the finished article.
It's not really in Mauritian colours and it's made of plastic beads, not really coral but I accept it. Hey Ho. It's cool man.

Weird fish

Another day on the beach, why not? You'd think nothing much happens lying around on the beach. Mostly nothing does. Time eases by rather than at it's usual hurtling pace. Swim, read, doze seems to be the cycle, until finally the sun sinks sufficiently for people to put their tops on and start to drift home. I have two bars I go to now on the way home. The bar staff are only charging me 100 rupees now, so I must be a regular.
I went snorkeling a lot, not really expecting to find anything new, but I did. There was the Picasso fish, that's what Edwige called it. A bit bigger than the angle fish but the same colouring and without the long dorsal fin. There is a 'sansbras', a huge worm thing with an open mouth at the front. it's maybe a meter long but apparently it can grow enormously long. Creepy. In the coral were three mew fish. One, a tiny deep royal blue body with a fluorescent lighter blue upper markings. The second, a bit bigger, with a yellow underbelly, a red upper body and bright blue in between. The third was the most spectacular of all. It has a square brown body with bright blue spots all over it. It's mouth and rear fin make it look like one of those chocolates you get is a Roses box for Christmas. I also saw something that looked more like a eel. Pale aqua green throughout and almost translucent, with a thin pointy hose. It shot passed, paused like the March hare, and shot off again.
From my shaded beach chair I observe that adolescent boys and girls are the same the world over. The girls walk about or stand in groups on their own giggling about stuff behind their hands. Boys play football. Er, that's it.
I'm going for tea with Edwige and her husband Graham. She is Viv's cousin by two routes. Should be fun.

A new identity and a new aunt, perhaps

A muted shriek of delight burst out from the three of us in the hushed atmosphere of the National Archives building in Quatre Bourne.
Me, Vivianne and Francoise Gueho had gone there to find the dates on some more ancestors. This really is exciting, especially when you come across something unexpected and accidentally too, as we just had.
The National Archive is an unremarkable, well actually boring, building from the outside. It is hard to find and is tucked away on an industrial estate in the meddle of nowhere. Inside it is studiously quite. On the inside men and women in suits are pouring over huge files and others are stacking those files away. On the face of it the place is drab and colourless. There are some interesting black and white photo's and references to historical events. It is, after all a library, a library of peoples ancestry. Someone comes to attend us. They are used to these sorts of enquiries. After a little scratching of heads, stroking of beards and initial disappointment we are set on the right path. We hope.
Vivianne has got stuck at Grandpere Benett's grandparents. You can imagine the number of different ways you can spell Mootialoo in an essentially illiterate age, and which is the first name and which the family name of some of these ancestors?
We were meant to be looking for the marriage dates of one pair when, by mistake, we came across the birth of one Yerramah Mootialoo. She was born 25 th October 1918.
Well we couldn't contain our excitement. Yerramah, you see, was granpere's mother's name. Granpere was born in 1895. You see what I mean, he was 23 when this girl was born.
After high fives, illicit photographs of the event and 'what do we do now?', we get the bus into Port Louis. To the office of registration of births, deaths and marriages to be exact. We need to find the names of this child's parents.
While we are going there I thought I'd see how hard it is to get a copy of my birth certificate. Why? To see if I can get a Mauritian identity card, of course. With this I should be able to get a passport which will be fun in itself, but would give me the rights of a Mauritian citizen, in particular rights to work here and buy property.
It could hardly have been easier. After a short queue, I show them my driving licence, and remind myself that I am 'John Ivan' on my official documents. ' Typical Mauritian eh' snorts Viv when I tell her. The helpful young woman finds me on a screen and the birth certificate will be ready for collection on Thursday . I will then have to queue up for the identity card at a building just down the main road. We'll see how straight forward it is then. How exciting!

A day on the beach

Today was hot, very hot. I lay on the beach under a parasol. Then snorkeling, then under the parasol. I saw three angle fish all together. I read my book and dozed. It was hot.
Before that I'd checked my e-mails. It was too hot for anything else.

Beaches, Ben and St Aubin

Peter, Kate and Jen leave today, and I'm moving apartments. I'm moving to Toun's place in Flic en Flac, but first we've got to get Peter to the airport. I still haven't heard from Siva about working here. Maybe I didn't send to the right address, or maybe it isn't meant to be after all.
We'd come up with a plan to make a trip out of getting to Plaissance where the airport is. A taxi can take us down the West coast, and we can pick up some sights on the way.
It is quite an early start, 8am. We drive through Tamarin, a fairly well to do town where the houses are bigger and the people whiter, and on to La Preneuse. Here is the site of a Martello tower. It is one of a small number dotted around the island. They are placed on the coast and guard the few breeches in the reef where attacking enemy ships might try to land. On top of the tower would have been cannons focusing their fire on that spot. Below are soldiers quarters and below that, stores of ammunition, food and water.
Mauritius is hard to attack because of the reef. We've decided that it has to be volcanic to be able to weather the ferocity of the waves. The coral must grow in gentler waters either side of the breakers.
Next a beach called La Prairie. A beautiful stretch of sandy beach, and virtually empty. There's a man standing in the sea with his head under water and prodding at something. Probably looking for octopus, we decide.
Further down the coast is Maconde rock. We climb it to get a great view of the coast line and the amazing turquoise colour of the sea. I don't think I've ever seen that colour so vividly before. There is also a yellow block of concrete about a foot square, may be bigger. A geo-cache point perhaps?
The next beach is called Gris Gris, literally grey grey. There is no reef here, or if there is it virtually joins the beach. The waves are huge and the Indian ocean crashes down on granite coast sending spray up into the hot air. There's a sign warning us that it's dangerous to swim. No kidding!
Down the coast a little further is Ilot Sancho. You can walk to it at low tide, so we do. Pirates used to stow there treasure here. A real treasure island.
Next it's StAubin. This is a French colonial house and the site of an old sugar factory and rhumary. The house is excellently preserved, with a wide veranda and spacious bedrooms, all in wood. There is a botanical garden with strange plants. One, called a Chorisia tree, has a spiky trunk. There is a Bilimbi tree with it's sour fruit, a cocoa tree and many fabulous flouring plants.
The highlight is the vanilla plants. They need meticulous cultivation and preparation, hence the very high price of the pods in shops. Finally the rhum distillery. We end the tour with rhum tasting, of course.
Eventually we get to blue bay, too late for a swim, then to the airport and we say goodbye. Back to Flic en flac.
In the evening Edwige, Viv's cousin, drives us to the other end of the island, to Grand Baie. Viv's old junior school friend Ruby, lives there. We're going out to dinner at a posh restaurant. Her husband is Ben, and he's a prominent doctor in Port Louis. He seems to know who is who. He says he'd be happy to be my contact and gave me his e-mail address.
It's been a very long day. Tomorrow is going to be a beach day for sure.

La Vallee de Ferney

It was like going into Jurassic Park except we were in a rickety bus, and the time scale is much shorter. Sandy is an enthusiastic young Mauritian woman who is our guide to today.
'You are stepping back 400 years to the time when men first came to the island' she informs us. She switches with ease between English, French and Creole. Vallee de Ferney is in the South-East of the island. In fact, on the way we stopped at a street sellers stall right under the landing flight path and saw a plane go right over our heads. She tells us that this is the part of the island where sugar cane was first introduced, from a cutting from Java in 1639, by the Dutch. The first growers made an alcoholic drink from it called in Creole, larac. It must have been the forerunner of rum.
The dutch also brought Ebony with the same cargo. Actually it was Ebony the Dutch were most interested in, and grew large plantations of it. When the European market for this wood was saturated, they literally abandoned the island.
The natural rain forest that covered most of Mauritius was also cleared for sugar cane, but this bit of Indigenous rain forest remains. Two hundred hectares has been left and is an active conservation area. Here endangered species are kept from extinction, and repopulate the forest. The reserve was due to have much of it's precious land bulldozed to make way for a freeway. This, despite pressure from conservation groups and local petitions. However, a very rare specimen was discovered. A tree thought to have been extinct, the Nail wood tree, came to the rescue. It does not pollinate and so has been reproduced by tissue culture. Only 80 individuals exist.

The Jurassic bus drops us off in the middle of the forest for the start of the hour and a half walk. Sandy leaves us and off we go. It is hot and insecty but brilliant. We walk past the nail wood tree, and many trees that were due to be cut down.
Then the forest opens up and we're near the end of the walk.
'Look, look' says Kate, excitedly 'it's the Mauritian kestrel'. We'd been told that we might see one if we were lucky. They were down to one breeding male at one point, but now there are about 1,000 individuals. It has a characteristic flight and is there soaring high in the hot sky. We also get to see a Mauritian white tailed Parakeet, and a flying fruit bat.
The whole area is owned by Franco-Mauritians, blanc-Mauritien, who also use the land to hunt wild boar. I suppose they must be direct descendants of Asterisk and Obilix or the French aristocracy that fled at the time of the revolution. I don't like the idea of these people owning large swathes of my island, but at least they appear to be being ecologically sensitive, so two cheers for them.
After a good lunch it's back home to pack, for the next move. I'm going to Toun's tomorrow, and Peter, Kate and Jen are off home.

More lounging around

'Tu est ici pour Diwali ?' Vilasha tells me. That's the name of the beach chair attendant. We are sitting at her table for lunch at Gloria's fast food van again. It turns out that next week is indeed Diwali, a time when Hindus go mad-for-it.
The day has consisted of nothing very exciting. I phoned Max Derblay to let him know that I had the keys to the flat, that I was staying with Peter for a few days, and that it was very kind of him to sort out the linen after I go. I cleared my e-mails at the very cheap Internet cafe and we had headed for the beach on what turns out to be a rather overcast day. We should have gone walking, it was the perfect day, but we didn't, that's for tomorrow.
I started a new book. The end of Adrian Mole had left us wondering whether he and Pandora would finally get it together. The new book revolves around an episode of road rage. I hope he gets his come-uppance.
One of the great things about Creole, being a spoken rather than a written language, is that there is no correct spelling, and so no incorrect spelling. For those of us that never thought spelling was that important, it's a real liberation. Say what you see, then hear the word. Once it's written down it is fossilised, dead. A spoken language is alive.
We end the day at a posh new bar called Hippocamp (seahorse) and then on to a Karaoke bar. We're the only ones in, so that's OK. Tomorrow we're going walking in an indigenous forest.

Signs of hope at Flic en Flac

I'm beginning to realise that most of the French I knew was, in fact, Creole. Creole is itself 75per cent French. Actually it's better than that. if you speak French and you get it wrong it's probably Creole. So I'm going to keep speaking French and if I get it wrong I'll call it Creole.
Yesterday was a beach day, a windy beach day. The parasol didn't work so we took our loungers into the trees. Gloria, the deck chair attendant, has become our chum by now and reserves our places. We don't know if she's really called Gloria, but she might be. her family do the fast food outlet from a van on the beach. They do a superb biriani, and mine. Their kebabs are actually baguettes filled with fried meat and spices, why not?
Despite the breeze I went snorkeling. In Flic it's like swimming over an elephant grave yard. The White coral pieces lie randomly on top of each other like bare bones stripped by vultures. It's depressing.
So imagine the joy and surprise as there before my very eyes glides an eight inch angel fish, striped in yellow and black with a multicoloured snout. I followed it for a while, and there was a patch of live blue tipped coral. Not a very big patch, maybe four square meters, but live.
It's Marie-Claire's so we're eating at Papaya, an authentic Mauritian restaurant. We have Poisson Creole, Chou chou, fried rice Mauritian style, and I had crepe banane after.
The night was finished off at Edwige's nad her husband Graham's appartment. then a final goodbye to my nieces twice removed. I shall miss Anja, Mel and Nadjia.

Joselyn's birthday

Jocelyn was 60 yesterday, and we all crossed the Island to Trou D'eau Douce where they have a campement. We came here last time in 2004 on a pirate ship. It took us to Isle au Cert, where we had a beach barbecue and danced the Sega. On that occasion we'd gone up the Grande Riviere Sud Est to some spectacular waterfalls.
This time there's no time for such a large scale venture. Jeurn has negotiated a lower price on the van trip and his lot and ours are travelling together. It's about 30K but it will take an hour and a half.
On the way stop at Bel Mar (creole spelling), where we stayed last time. Then I had all my children with me, my siblings and their children and it was terrific. We'll have to do it again.
We stop for some gateaux piment, samousa, and farata and then a swim. I bought three genuine labelled t-shirts from the factory outlet shop. In the car park we bump into Philip and Ingrid, Jocelyn's son and in-law who direct us to their place. It is spectacular.
Their campement directly overlooks the beach. The reef is incomplete at Bel Mar and so the waves come tumbling onto the beach and role up it's gentle incline before disappearing into the sand. The scene is idyllic, with palm trees on the edge of the beach tilting, some towards and others away, from the sea. A cool sea breeze gently disturbs the leaves and keeps the temperature perfect. The sea is rough enough for breakers in the choppy deep blue water. The sky is a lighter uniform blue with an occasional fluffy white cloud drifting imperceptibly.
Rob, Jos's husband, curiously declines the offer of a swap of apartments.
The afternoon slips by in a blissful haze, culminating in a toast to Jocelyn and short words of appreciation from husband and son Matthew.
Jocelyn had sustained severe burns in accident before coming out and she nearly didn't come, so they have a maid who does everything. She had been cooking some proper Mautitian scran for later. Sadly, this was not for us and we were bundled into our van for the long trip back. To start with we were in high spirits, but that gave way to somnolence, which I was unable to shake off. I went to bed at 9.40, exhausted from doing nothing, and another fantastic day.

A moving day

Today is a moving day. I'm leaving my studio apartment and going to stay with Peter, Kate and Jen. Mum, dad and Sheila are going home. Most of the Aussie contingent have gone home, just Marie-Claire's lot still here and Viv.
Let me tell you about another couple of distinctive Mauritian tastes while I have an hour to kill.
First of all 'rugae'. It is a tomatoey dish, and I remember it as watery or soupy. That's how I make it at home. Here it seems to be less so. Sheila suggests it is similar to what we know as 'rague'. It could have originated as such, and there's a definite southern European influence to the tastes of Mauritius. The Portuguese were here as well as the French and Dutch, but they didn't stay long. The cuisine seems to be their only legacy, as well as some Mauritian names.
Biscuit Manioc is another taste characteristic of this island. I haven't found any yet. Sweetish and indescribably yummy serve with butter. My mouth is watering just thinking about it.
Gateau Piment, as the name suggests is a chilli cake. It is yellow split peas, soaked over night, then made into balls. They are mixed with salt and chillies and deep fried until crisp. Very moreish, I had thirteen in one go the other day. The split peas expand in your stomach and make you feel full all day. They'll also cure any constipation you might have.
I have talked of Buryani before. Aunty Marceline (Matant)cooks her rice first until nearly complete, then layers in lamb which has been fried in spices and onion. She then finishes off the rice and mixes the layers together just before serving, topping it off with safron.
I'm going to give this a go when I have my Sega party. I might even do it to raise money for the Benett Foundation.
'Mine', pronounced 'minn' is the Mauritian version of Chow Mein. Brought in by the Chinese, who were the main traders and shopkeepers. I haven't seen as many around as I remember. Francis thinks their children may have progressed to better things.

The rest of the day, after moving, is spent on the beach. Juern has discovered so live coral. I'm so pleased, I just hope it survives.
Amongst the vibrant blue tipped antler coral many different coloured fish are grazing. A slightly bigger brown fish looks very grumpy and territorial, rather like Nadjia in a bad mood. As I stand to talk to Jeurn, one of them nips me, and I hurriedly leave their patch. This coral is a bit far out for casual swimmers and doesn't seem to be on a boat route, so it stands a chance at least.
After the beach, a few G n Ts, and hear about Marie-Claire's ear operations and how worrying it has been. A moving story indeed.

Black River and the Beach

'Damn' I curse 'she beat me to it again'. Anja has just stuck her tongue out at me, before I could get in there first. Aren't fifteen year old nieces-twice-removed fun? We are on the beach.
Today is a more relaxing day, after the excitement and exertions of yesterday. We went to the Black River National Park near Chamarel. We walked to a view point, then back down again. It was too hot. We had lunch and went back to Flic en Flac beach. I slept and woke very thirsty, so I have some fresh coconut juice, from the coconut. I can't be bothered even swimming. Now I'm awake, Anja has started the 'call-uncle-Ivan-and-stick-your-tongue-out-before-he-does, game. She's winning, just.
Shall I read my book?
Na, can''t be bothered. I'll go for a paddle.
Now what? I suppose I'll have another snooze. This is tough.
Flic en Flac beach is a coral beach, but the coral is nearly as fine as sand itself. Sadly, nearly all of it in the bay is dead. You can swim to the reef and some is still alive there, but most is white. Lifeless. Dead.
As it's Sunday the beach is busy. Shade is free under the trees, but space is a premium. Families are gathered, picnicking and getting noisier as the afternoon progresses. Pretty soon the drums will start, beating to the rhythm Le Sega. This morning I bought six CDs, and when I get home I'm having a Sega party. Sega is a rhythm brought to the island from the African slaves. It is joyful, sexy and fun. Because of this the plantation owners banned it. So it also became an underground freedom movement. Of course now it is not just allowed, it is one of the delights of the island and a tourist attraction.
It hasn't started up yet. For now there is only the sound of the trees in the breeze and children playing.
The sea gently laps the beach. There are no big waves here. The reef makes sure of that. No sharks either, for the same reason.
Four small boys are playing keepy-uppy. They could have been me, my brother and cousins forty five years ago. This is the very beach pictured on my father's autobiography cover, of me and Peter jumping off a boat. We must have been six or seven years old.
As if to jolt me from imagining this place to be an island paradise, a ferrel dog appears, having snatched a chicken leg from one of the picnics. It is hard to believe that crime and drug abuse is high when you look at the peaceful, lazy pursuits of the beach goers this afternoon.
I think I'll just catch another forty winks while the sun's out

The Derblays on the Sabbath

'We left Mauritius when I was nine, and to be honest it wasn't too traumatic' I told them. I had been asked to say a few words on behalf of my family at a gathering of the wider Benett clan. 'When people would ask me if I have any family in Mauritius, I would say 'well, not really', how wrong I was!'.
We are gathered at the house of Max Derblay, a cousin of my father and there must have been about sixty people in all. Five generations we counted. There is a cousin of my grandmother, who looks just like her. My fathers generation with names I'd only heard of, such as Daniel Gueho who married Rosemay Derblay. They and the families they married into, all went to the Adventist church. The switch from Roman Catholicism was made way back when my Grandmother, Granmere Suzanne, was persuaded by her friend to make the change.
Vivianne has organised it all, with Roseline Gueho and many others. We even have name badges so we know who everyone is.
Then there is our generation. My siblings and direct cousin, but also wider, such as Martine Gueoh and others.
Next, Marie-Claire's daughters are here, Nadia, Melonie and Anja. Marilyn and Jocelyn had their children and with them their grand children. Five generations.
The day had started with trip to L'Eglise Adventist de Beau Bassin. The interior of the church was new and unrecognisable from our day. It was full. The sermon was in French, and I'm pleased to say I followed most of it. The preacher was expansive, passionate and funny. Just as I imagined he would be, although a little short in stature to be totally convincing. The songs too were in French, which I joined in with, with gusto.
After the service we met people, all of whom seemed to be our relatives, then on to the big lunch.
It is here that I am giving my few words. Viv had asked if I would while we were eating, ten minutes earlier.
So I tell them how we had lost touch with each other over time, but then last year reconnected and I'd gone to Australia. It was here that we had promised to meet up again in Mauritius.
Before me, our eldest cousin here, Francis, had spoken and made the link with the different family lines. He used the photos that Viv had found of a family gathering on the exact spot in 1947, and another one even earlier.
Before Francis, my father had spoken. He told of the story of how his father, Granpere, had set up the Benett foundation. We don't how true it is, but Grandpere did not attend the church, only for his daughters weddings. Apparently, he didn't tithe to the church either. In his last days he thought he better take out some insurance on the after life, and settle his account. So he left a considerable amount to the trust fund, which has gone towards the education of poorer children in the church.
Whether it is true or not, it is believable. He was a clever business man. Let us hope he got a return on his investment. I think he has, don't you?
After the speeches we have a huge family photo, on the same veranda as the photos all those years ago. One in the can for posterity. As aunty Marceline said ' I am proud of the blood in my veins'.
Tonight we're going to a Sega show, then lots of them are going home tomorrow, but it wont be the last I see of my family, I'm sure.

Le Morne

Friday was another great family day.
Viv has arranged for a boat trip to a remote beach. We have to be at La Gollette at 9 sharp. We are heading to the south-west of the island near Chamarel. The district is Black River. This is a mysterious part of the island where we never ventured when we lived here.
For a start, it was too inaccessible. The roads were just tracks and no one had cars anyway.
Secondly, it was a frightening place. It was where the African slaves would escape to, and where they went when they became free people. It was a place associated with voodoo and witch craft. It was an ungodly place.
Today it is still poor. Lining the road on the way we drove past a corrugated iron collection of shacks. In La Gollette it is noticeable that there are many more black people.
We find our boats, somewhat later than nine o'clock, and set off. First stop a patch of new coral to snorkel over. The blue and purple tips showing that they live. All sorts of brightly coloured fish weave their way between the coral antlers.
Then a beach barbecue for lunch. Plenty of food and rum and we all have a great time. There are about twenty six of us all together. It takes some organising. Well done Viv.
Another little swim and back to base after an exhausting day. I sleep for a hour before out again for dinner, then a Sega show and off to bed. Tomorrow is an even bigger family day.

Long Mountain and Mr Subramanien

Today may prove to be one of the turning point days of my life.

I could have gone with the others to the beach or Chamarel in the south. Instead I had a really strong sense that I should be with my parents. So I went to Quatre Bourne with them. Mum was meeting an old friend from her teaching days. meanwhile dad, Marceline and I went to Queen Victoria hospital. I was born there and I had a vague idea I might bump into someone who knew the family name and they could be a contact. I think I'd like to work in Mauritius in a few years time when I retire.
The hospital is a bit of a cottage hospital by our standards. It's all on one floor, but there are surgical theatres, and an outpatient block. I took photos. There were cues of people at the gynae and cardiac clinics. Some of the buildings have been replaced but many are the same as they were 54 years ago.
It seems to have suffered from cut backs too, as the once well tended gardens are barely attended lawns. We didn't bump into anyone.
The family moved here because Granpere worked there. He was an 'Infermier', a sort of specialist nurse and did all sorts, including midwifery. After we went to see dad and Marcelines house. It had been knocked down of course. The surrounding fields of sugar cane were built over. The place had changed.
Later we went to Mountain Long, where Granpere had worked earlier. It is little more than a village, but it had a small hospital. Above the village is the imposing and stark edifice of Peitr Both, the second highest mountain in Mauritius. Long Mountain looks pretty basic, like you'd imagine a third world village high up in the mountain. It is isolated, now still with one road in. At least it is tarmacked.
The sugar cane fields are all around but there is also green countryside. There is a cool breeze, and a stream where my mother was taken to by my father when she first came to the island aged 23 years. Sounds romantic, and it was good to see them walking hand in hand to the stream, but it must have been terrifying too. This country would be a marvelous place to work sometime.
Earlier, after the hospital, we had tried to find our old house in Quatre Bourne again. Dad couldn't remember exactly where it was. The corner of Farquar and Ollier, he kept saying, but the streets are not named well and we got lost several times. We almost gave up.
Luckily mum has a friend who still lives near our old house, so we called. After a few more failed attempts we finally found her and she showed us the way.
In fact Phyllis is one of the reasons we moved to this location. I remembered that her son is a doctor, perhaps he can help me find a contact on the Island, to fix up a retirement elective. No luck, he is in England. Perhaps this pipe dream isn't to be, after all.
We found our old house. It was as we left it, structurally, but every thing else has changed. Before there were fields all around, no concrete fence and surrounding houses. Still it had kept it's originality and charm.
As I looked through the fence, my father opened the gate. From the house a stern looking man emerged. 'Excuse me, but I am Yves Benett. We built this house, would it be OK to have a quick look at it'.
The expression on the man's face changed instantly and was replaced by a broad smile. 'Of course' he grinned, barely containing himself. 'I remember you. You taught me at the Royal College' in his best Mauritian French. It turns out he was very young and dad had left soon after, but still he recognised the face and remembered the name. 'You have a very famous name at the Royal College' also bouncing with joy. 'Please. Come in and have a look if you wish'. So we did. Inevitably it was smaller than I remembered, but I did remember the lay out. This man, Mr Subramanien, clearly loved this house. 'What do you do now' asked my father as we were going round, no doubt curious to find out what had happened to his forgotten student. 'Oh I was a humble civil servant, but retired now just today'.
We looked round, mum noticing little changes, but essentially tastefully kept. We took photos of us and the house and Mr Subramanien.
As we were leaving I asked if he'd like me to e-mail the photos to him. He was delighted and went to get his card. Then I don't know what made me ask, but I asked 'What did you do in the civil service?'
'Oh I was in the Government. Permanent Secretary in the department of Education, and before that in Health'.
Is this a coincidence, or is somebody telling me something? We shall see, but there aren't many days when this much happens. So now I'm exhausted and having an early night. Probably.

Day 4 Port Louis and Grand Baie

'India will never be British while Mauritius remains French'', so said Pitt and before long it was British. We were to find this out on our tour of the 'history of sugar'
We had set off on another travel day, this time to see the capital. We passed through Bamboo again and called in at the church where Granpere and Grandmere were married in 1921. The church is still run by Mme Eclezio, a famous name in Mauritius. Her son has been awarded a Nobel prize for French literature. When we all emigrated to England one of dad's cousins is said to have remarked about the loss of status that comes with emigration, that 'even Mme Eclezio will be sweeping the streets of London.
We also learnt that my grand mothers' father, David Davis had done as my Granpere did and changed his name from Ducachan (not sure of correct spelling). It seems our family comes from Hyderabad, although this far from certain
It seems that after the abolition of slavery in 1807, the British continue to import 'indentured' Indians. These, though technically not slaves were treated as such, with poor wages and conditions until 1824. This is the origin of my family in Mauritius.
Today we are proud to explore this past, but it must have been very different in those days for Indians are regarded as lower class, as opposed to the more aristocratic French. They had fled the French revolution and set themselves up in Mauritius, safe from the revolutionaries.
So we had a brief stay in Port Louis and set off for Pamplemose, a botanical garden established during the French period. It covers 26 hectares, so we took a guide who should us the best bits. He was funny too. I have some great photos of rare plants.
After that lunch and off to Grand Baie. A quick swim and home.
I'll tell you the story of how Mauritius passed from the Dutch to the french and then to the English another time.

Mauritius 2010

I'm in Mauritius and no e-mail connection, apart form this brief one. However, I am keeping a daily diary which I'll load on when I get home. So far visited Beau Bassin and Maheborg, but here for three weeks so plenty to tell when I get back.

Day 1 Finding everyone
'Ivan?' someone shouts questioningly from across the road. I'd just gone into Flic en Flac to get some washing powder. It’s Najia, Marie-Claire’s daughter. I couldn't tell at first, but it had to be someone from our lot, so I crossed the road.
'Hey. Small world. Fancy seeing you here?' I gave her a little hug. Jeurn, her father, was there too. They had arrived yesterday and were taking a stroll also. 'Where are you staying?' We exchanged Mauritian addresses. It turns out there not far from me, and really quite close to Sheila, Mum and Dad. The rest are staying at the Pearl Bay Resort.

'We'll see you on the beach at about ten' we agreed. Marilyn is here with her sons Daniel and Alex. Daniel has two boys too and they’re here. I hope we can all meet up soon. So I head back to my apartment. I have a studio flat in Flic, about 300 yards from the beach. It's actually a converted garage. Still it's reasonably well converted and reasonably priced. Pearl Bay, I find out later, is a much more plush hotel complex, I might have booked in there. In fact I'm going to be moving to Tounes' campement in about a week. Toune is my father's cousin, and although I've never met him, he is part of the family.
So I get to the beach and sure enough we all gather. My cousin Francis is also here with his children Dolly and William. He has a car. After an excited exchange of travel stories my generation decide we have to go to Beau Basin, where we grew up. So we leave mum and dad on the beach. Me, Vivianne, Francis and Sheila pile into Francis's hired car and away. Well, after tasting a Flic en Flac beach pineapple drenched in a sweet and spicy syrup, that is. Ah, a Mauritian taste alright. Yesterday just when we had arrived I'd had several gateau pimment, and samosa. The tastes of the island.
First stop is at a church in Bambou. It's the Catholic church where my grandfather and grandmother were married. It is a beautiful, and still maintained, colonial Catholic church, but not so ornate as some. We sat in a pew imagining the gathering. No doubt many disapproved, but those present would have been looking on joyfully, wondering if such a marriage could survive. 'What, an Indian and a French girl?'. Grandpere must have changed his name before the wedding to Benett from Moochialoo. In fact Granmere Suzzanne was also of mixed race. We saw a picture of her mother, Marie Davis with her father David Davis. David Davis had also Europeanized his name from an Indian one.
After the church, it’s on to a cemetery in St Martin. 'Granpere's people came from St Martin' Viv tells us authoritatively. Viv spent much of her last visit chasing our ancestors, the records being in Bambou. There were no Moochialoos burried here, but there is an interesting story of a Jewish part of the cemetery occupied by so exiled Jews during the war. There is also a family connection, that one of our more distant cousins married a Jewish man and came back to Mauritius. He has been tending the graves.
On to Beau Basin and we stumble across Rue Pere Laval. 'This is where Rose-May lives' Francis suddenly says, and goes into the drive. Rose-May Abraham is in and not at all flustered to see us all. We go in and exchange memories of that house. It is relatively small, and I have few memories of, but I distinctly remember the Lychee tree which we climbed up, or was it another one. We took photos anyway.
After that we had some food in the square, Dahl Pouri and some Biryani Poule. Heavenly tastes. We stopped off on the way at Queen Elizabeth College where mum taught and we went to Kindergarten just at the entrance to the school. I never knew it was so close. Then on to Rue Telephone. That's the road we lived on. At one end the Rose family. At the other the Benetts.
A little walk further to the end of the road and we can go across the roundabout, over looked by Sacre Couer, to Marilyn’s junior school. I wonder where my junior school was as I have no memory of this one. Then La Rue Mosque where at one end lived the Cheron family. Further down that road and it’s back onto the main Rue Royale. Apparently there we small bars on this bit of the street. This was where the men would gather and drink rhum.
Finally I get back to my apartment for a rest. We're meeting later for a meal at the Pearl Bay resort and some Sega.

Day2 Maheborg and Blue Bay
‘That’s where Marie-Claire pushed Marilyn off the roof’. We peered up to the top of a two floor building. ‘That second floor wasn’t there, but we lived on the first floor, in the apartment with the balcony’ continues Viv. Of course Marie-Claire hadn’t really done that, the two girls aged about four and five respectively, had climbed onto the roof and were throwing stones onto the road. Luckily, well beyond luck probably, their maid, Cécile, was alert and saw Marilyn fall to what would have been death or severe disability. A cousin, Louis Abraham I think, seeing what had happened rush to the roof and caught Marie-Claire just as she too was about to loose her balance.
We had come to Maheborg, Mauritius’s second city, to see the Cheron house. They had moved there from Beau Basin where Guydoux, the father, had set up and bought a pharmacy. They lived literally, over the shop. The location is the busy main street. Noisy, bustling and dirty. The buildings are a metaphor for Mauritius itself. Faded, unrenovated and in some places literally falling down. ‘I love it, I feel as if I’ve come home’ declares Daniel, Marilyn’s son, without irony. The shop we pass is blaring out ‘Exodus’ by Bob Marley. I’m not sure about home, but certainly there’s a feeling pf returning to our roots being here. Not so much Maheborg as Beau Basin, but I think I know what he means. ‘You could buy something cheep here, I expect’ I encourage him. ‘I think I might just do that’ he replies optimistically.
Maheborg is where the ‘Grand Port’ is, a huge natural harbour formed by the reef. It was here that, in 1810, the great Mauritian sea battle between the French and the English fleets took place. French culture was, by then, already established, but the Island’s governance passed to the English. Overlooking the Grand Port is a mountain that looks like a lion. Guess what the name of the mountain is. The lion is lying down; its head is looking up into the sun and its back feet trailing in the sea. It is a pretty cool sight, and the more you look at it the more like a lion it becomes.
Mauritians now speak French and English, but they prefer to speak to each other in Creole. There was a lot of Creole being shouted in the market we visited, and the best bargains are made in quick fire Creole. There are also food sellers calling for business as you pass them. I bought some Makacha-a-coco. Makacha is like a small sweet bread bun. The ‘a coco’ bit is a coconut filling, like a doughnut. An authentic taste of Mauritius.
Another authentic taste is the Biryani. That’s where we go for lunch, to the best biryani in town. When we arrive, a little behind the others having stopped for rum cocktail, they have run out, so were making a fresh batch.
It was after the biryani that we went to see the Cheron house. A very nice Chinese person let us into the back yard to see the very spot where Marilyn nearly fell to her fate. It is strange, and good, that people are prepared to let about twenty complete strangers into their house just because some of them used to live there.
After Maheborg we went to Blue Bay, a beautiful little beach further north. This beach is not as gentle as it first looks, for it has claimed the lives of many young people. It suddenly becomes vey deep not far out and is prone to rip tides. Still none of us is in the mood for being brave and we content ourselves with splashing around in the cool salty water.
Some stay, including me, to watch the sunset, ‘le couchez du solei’. It’s been a long day. Our driver, we’d hired a taxi for the day, is very patient and waits until we’re ready to go. Then it's back home for what should have been an early night.Instead, we stayed up to listen to Viviane’s latest discoveries about the Benett family. She has found a photograph taken some years ago of the old family, at a gathering. They are lined up on the veranda of the Derblay house which we are visiting later in the week. We’re going to have a similar photo of our generation. Who knows, in a hundred years time the next generation might do the same. What a shame then that we’re not all here.
Internet connection lost, not sure why, anyway I’m keeping a diary for my blog to try to be able to recall what we did and saw.

Day 3. A day on the beach. The priority is toilet paper. I have been taught a severe lesson from ignoring advice about street trader food. It seems to be a passing thing but all the same, better safe than sorry. While I’m there, why not get a Mauritian SIM card, they’re all the rage. The helpful girl answers yes when I ask ‘ esque vous parlez Anglais?’ . As I said they all do. I‘m also starting to realise that the French I thought I knew was partly creole. Not so much the words as the accent. For example, I’ve never been sure how much to emphasise the ‘r’ in merci, thank you. My inclination is to hardly use it at all, and now I see why. It sounds more Scouse than Parisian.
Well I couldn’t get into my phone to try the SIM card. So I bought a new phone. The most basic one they do. Perfect, I’m all set up now.
Today is a lazy day, or it was meant to be. I did actually spend large parts of it on the beach. I also swam out to the reef, well nearly to it. I decided to go out with Jeurn, he is a good swimmer. I’m less confident, having been scared to death as a child by stories of rip tides and children drowning. However, if I have my flippers I can go anywhere. So off we went.
The coral on the Mauritian reef is mostly dead. It is white, crumby and lifeless. What a damn shame. There are bits of healthier coral and all I can do is hope that someone is thinking about it and looking after it.

Day 4 Port Louis
Factions are beginning to get established as the group is too big to keep as a single entity. People want to do different things at different times. Tomorrow we’ll be together on a boat ride, but today a group is setting off to the Capital, Port Louis.
The government buildings are being renovated so we can’t go in. The botanical garden and natural history museum are also closed. Never mind, plenty of time later. The Cordon shopping centre is open. It is modern, new and bright. We attempt a bit of bargaining but really it’s too soon to be buying souvenirs (I wonder what the French for that is). It’s too hot outside. I must come back when it’s cooler.

The tenth of the tenth of the tenth

It’s the 10th day of the tenth month of the tenth year of the millenium. That’s got to mean something. For me it meant that I woke up after an early night for the first time on successive nights of the weekend. It’s been, sort of, out of choice. I didn’t really want a big one. So when Cath phoned to ask me round for a soiree, I said I had something on, which I did. The thing I had on was to meet up with Tim, but he’d got smashed the night before and wasn’t up to it. I wished I’d known before then I could have seen my brother who was in town. So I stayed in. I wanted a gentle weekend and that’s what I’m getting.

That’s not to say it’s been uneventful. Not at all. I discovered Skype. I spoke to Emily for the first time– live from New York, ladies and gentleman, and could see her as she spoke. She is beautiful. I hope Shaun doesn’t mess her about, as it seems he may be doing. Also I spoke to Tan Sicito from New Zealand. He’s lovely, but not beautiful, well not physically anyway. Who says technology has gone too far.

Talking of the men’s group, I haven’t been since John went mental for me suggesting we might consider the viability of the group. I guess he’s built his career on belonging to a men’s group. Anyway, I have withheld much of what I think from this blog. I feel fondly for the group and the times we had, but with Ian and Ken gone it's not the same. I still get on with some of them on an individual basis, but I think it was something for a different time. Perhaps I’m wrong, but we weren’t going anywhere as a group.

Another thing that happened yesterday was that Fee dropped off the tape I’d lent her. I hope it helped her. Strange really that she must have dropped it off and scurried away. I e-mailed her to hope that she had made a copy.

There are couple of big things happening this week. Firstly, I’m presenting the business case for the tier 2 cardiology clinic. If it comes off I shall be able to control the referrals through, managing most of them, and being able to place pressure on secondary care to reduce activity.

Secondly, I’m going to Mauritius again. Wow. I’m beginning to get excited and really looking forward to it. This time my cousins will be there and maybe we can relive some of our youth. Can’t wait.

So on the 10/10/10 what exactly have I learnt. Maybe nothing. After all, here I am on my own, at 54 years old.

I think I’ve learnt three things. Trust God, love one another, and believe in yourself, or do I just re-learn them every ten years. I'm sure I knew that on the 1st January 2001.

Working with Wythenshaw

Today I met with the clinical director of Wythenshaw Hospital cardiology unit. It was so refreshing to find he was very open to working with us and developing services. Such a change from the MRI who are obstructive, arrogant and complacent.
Rhey havw not seen the writing on the wall, the hand having writ moves on. Watch this space

The map of medicine

Well the talks went well, but more importantly the primary care cardiology pathways got endorsed by the cardiac network and they will be placed on the map of medicine. This is an internet portal for the pathway. There are governance arrangements we need to sort out, but it's all on track.
The MRI however, are being obstructive about the GPwSI teaching and clinical governance support. So I'm going to Wythenshaw for help, they seem much more open to innovation. Once we get that support in place then we can get started. I don't think the MRI have any idea what the consequences of their stalling will be. I will close them down.

Barcelona next?

Back home and anxiety as I realise I have bitten off more than I can chew, and left it all until after the summer holiday. Now it IS after the holiday, I have it all to do. I'm giving talks on different cardiology subjects on Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday is going to be mad, as two important board meetings are happening at the same time, and I have to make sure important things get through. Thursday evening I'm meeting other GPs to talk about providing a community cardiology service, and where I want to promote my company 'Heart Networks UK'. Then there are two big hypertension meetings. I'm going to be talking and chairing them in Nottingham and Manchester.Still, I met someone in Stockholm who has invited me to their house near Barcelona. We'll see.

Stockholm

It's Sunday so it must be Stockholm. I've been invited as a guest of Servier Laboratories at the European Society of cardiology meeting here. They are presenting, what they hope, will be ground breaking study on the use of their drug Ivabradine in heart failure.

I flew in last night, settle down, then go for dinner with three of their people. They are all very cagey about the results and reckon not to know. However, they have a huge stand, with lots of people from France and the UK. It is a French company. The top executives are staying, not in a hotel, but have hired a boat in Stockholm harbour. Hardly the actions of a company who are on the brink of disaster.

I get up reasonably early this morning and make sure I get a good seat in the 'hot topics' section. I forgot my glasses, so I'm going to need to get reasonably near the front to see anything. First, there is a paper on using stem cells to improve heart function in people who have had heart attacks. It works, a bit but it's another step in the right direction. Next there's a drug that can reduce Pottassium levels in people with heart failure, presented by Bertrand Pitt no less. Yes, yes, get on with it. Then the SHIFT study. Sure enough Ivabradine does improve management of heart failure, well it reduces hospital admissions, although it doesn't statistically improve mortality. Anyway, that's good enough to give them all a boost back at the stand. We're going out to celebrate tonight.

After a 'long lunch' I take a nap and now I'm getting ready to go out again. It's a hard life

The birthday season

It was Emily's birthday yesterday and will be Rachel's on Saturday, but first I must finish my stories of Sipan.

Tuesday 17th August

Breakfast overlooks the bay and on to the Adriatic sea. The guidebook say that from outer space, the brightest blue spot on the planet is the Adriatic sea around Dubrovnik. I can believe it. These Elafite, or Deer Islands, have 'relied on the city of Dubrovnik, in whose possession they had supposedly been from the 11th century' the poorly translated tourist board information tells us. The nearby island of Lokrum is where, legend has it, Richard the Lion Heart of England, was ship wrecked on his way to third crusade in 1192. He was so grateful that he gave the city of Dubrovnik sufficient money to begin the building of it's cathedral.

After breakfast we went for a walk around the village where we are staying. Sipanska Luka, or just Luka, is faded in it's glory. It was once the capital of these islands, but now the buildings remain erect only because of the sturdiness of their original design. There is an old colonial looking government house, which is reputedly up for sale for five million euros. It looks like it would take ten times that to renovate it.

Back at the hotel we have a coffee. A little girl is being patched up by her parents having trodden on some glass. I suppose I better go over and see if she's alright. 'Is everything OK?' I ask tentatively. 'Yes' is the rather terse reply. 'Only I'm a doctor, in case you need one' I say hesitantly. 'Ya ya, so em I' answered dad, abruptly and looking up from the child's foot. 'Oooh Kaay then' I turned and slipped away crest fallen at the rejection of my offer of help. Never mind.

We spent the rest of the day by the sea, lying in the shade and dozing between reading. I woke to the sound of Italians talking animatedly about what, I'm not sure, but it had something to do with Armando and a restaurant. I couldn't tell if they were complaining about his cooking or looking forward to seeing that evening. Either way they all had an opinion, each of which differed violently from the others.

I got up and walked over to sit on the wall nearby. As the voices died down, so the crickets seem to get louder, the sun was falling a little and it was beginning to get cooler again. A couple of boats hummed up the channel. A dog came sauntering past looking for something. He stopped at my towel as if he'd found what he was looking for, gave it a sniff, cocked a leg and peed on it.

***

That night we ate at the restaurant just next to the old colonial building. The meal was good. We found out that the former government building was owned by a Canadian family who lived across the village square. In fact they were eating there tonight. They got their money, we're told in hushed tones, after the war, when the grandfather went to Chile. They have recently returned and are now looking to sell.

Wednesday (I think) 18th August.

On second thoughts it's probably not a good idea to hold my Darlek birthday card out of the window where German and Croatian people are having breakfast. I don't suppose they react well to being told they will be 'exterminated'. I have a vision of them suddenly getting up in unison, forming a single file and marching off, Sibermanlike, to receive orders from Darvros.

It's 9.15am and we've got up a bit earlier than on previous days, so a more leisurely breakfast and we can watch others getting ready for the day. At the entrance to the hotel, which we go through to reach the open air breakfast area, are gathered hundreds, well twenty or so, German children, excitedly jumping up and down around their carers for the day. The Kindergarten are, it seems, going to be pirates. The main teacher is a man with long hair and a beard, just the part. For today he has a patch over one eye and a bandanna.

I said I wanted to walk to Sudarud, so off I set. I'll come back by bus a little later. By now it's about 11.15 and the sun is high. Up a steep incline to begin with and then across the top of the island. It's about a five kilometer walk and getting hotter by the minute. The land is dry but still green. There are several olive trees and vineyards in various degrees of cultivation and care. Many are neglected completely. The houses are scattered across the countryside and also in varying degrees of repair. Along the way there is a monastery. Apparently there are thirty three scattered around this tiny island. It seems hardly a hardship to live here though. Inside the church some workers are lazily trying to renovate the ornate walls and alter.

The road to Sudarud is single track and unmarked, but wide enough for overtaking. I walk on the left of the road to see on coming traffic. The only conventional transport that crossed me twice was the bus. On one occasion a chugging sound started behind me. I looked to see what appeared to be a motorised vehicle of some sort, like a large petrol driven lawn mower, pulling a cart upon which were sitting two men in their sixties. As they gradually passed me the driver gesticulated to the back of the truck. I wave 'no' to indicate that I didn't need a lift, but thanks.

The road is lined by a variety of wild flowers, many familiar looking, like the ones in England, but other more exotic ones too. I pick the dozen or so different varieties and pledge to look them up when I get home. I didn't of course. There are three finds of butterfly I came across too. One is a large brown winged type with white stripes. Another, smaller brown with black or purple spots, and thirdly a pale yellow one.

I suddenly feel like I'm in some sort of film with the road stretching ahead and behind, but not a sole to be seen in either direction. The crickets are as loud as even, but apart from that it's perfectly still. There's not a breath of a breeze. It's surprising how mush cooler it is in the shade, but I can't dally. Fortunately I brought a bottle of water. I love it.

In the distance a church bell chimes midday, and a mad dog crosses me and the road from one field to the next.

Before too long the road starts to run down hill, and I enter Sudarud. As the main ferry port it is the destination for many day trippers from Dubrovnik who want to see the islands. My first priority is a beer. This little fishing port, turned tourist attraction, is bigger than Luka. There's a small bay and a few resting fishing boats. As I approach the harbour I can see that the pirate ship we crossed on our trip to Dubrovnik, has moored up and the trippers are disembarking. It soon became apparent that this boat full are English holiday makers.

There are a couple of bars, which I get to just before the rush. It is on a platform overhanging the harbour. Here there is a gentle breeze and I order a beer. The table next to me has four middle aged women, talking in an accent I don't recognise, but looking identical. They could be Israeli or Palestinian, I can't tell. There's an Aussie couple and another couple who aren't speaking. After a little stroll around it's time for lunch. I sit at the next restaurant and order some food. Fried fish, boiled potatoes and overcooked runner beans. It's all floating in a heavily garlicked olive oil. Washed down with a glass of white wine it's just what I wanted. Time to go back to the hotel and meet up with Sarah. The bus must be here, as the main passenger ferry is just pulling in. Round the corner and the bus has unloaded. Running towards me is the Kindergarten making a loud noise as it rushes past.

Before long I'm back at the hotel. We head to the North side of the sleeve of water that leads to Luka. I lay down on the grass under an olive tree, avoiding the spot where the dog had dishonoured my towel the previous day. We have a dip in the water and then I return to reacquaint myself with Adrian Mole. He is now in is mid forties, in a dysfunctional marriage, and has a spoilt young daughter. The book begins with Gordon Brown becoming Prime Minister. I do like the way Sue Townsend, reflects pretty much my own thoughts politically through her dialogue. I have, after all,grown up with Adrian and his author.

It is peaceful, if not quiet. Occasionally a motorboat or car breaks up the constant chatter of the crickets. Something keeps biting my legs but I can't see what. I doze off in the heat but wake with a strange feeling on my leg. There walking in a neat line across my thigh is a row of ants, biting their way to their next meal. I jump up and brush them away. Right it's G & T time.

That evening we had dinner at the best restaurant on the island. It is on the water a little way along the south side of the channel. It's a set menu, you get what you're given, but it is excellent. We start with octopus burger, then a light risotto, followed by the main course of fried fish, and lastly a pudding and schnapps. All to the sight of the sun setting and boats coming and going. Another perfect day. We must eat here again.

My Birthday in Dubrovnik

16th August

'It is your birthday and you must celebrate, or you will be exterminated' the Dalek insists in a crescendo stuttering voice.

It is my birthday and we are going to Dubrovnik. I got to decide what we do, so we catch the early boat, not too early, about midday actually. We'd slept in late and nearly missed breakfast altogether. I'd been given a present of a tour guide of the historic walled city. I'd also been given the best birthday card ever. It's a doctor Who card with a Dalek greeting as you open it. Our room overlooks the breakfast area so I open the card so see if any of the people below can hear it. Some look up with a bemused expression. It makes ME chuckle anyway.

Later we are sitting on an old passenger boat waiting for it to set sail from Sudarud, the main port on the island and fifteen minutes from our hotel on the bus. The boat looks as if it should have been decommissioned years ago.'Oh my God' exclaims Sarah,'I've seen a fish this big' and she extends her arms to full span.'It was so big I had to gasp' The fish is swimming along side the boat. When we had arrived, the crew were having their lunch in the galley. It's a large bowl of some sort of broth. There are six or seven of them, big burly guys and they are tucking in. The journey costs 23 Kuna, two pounds thirty, each. As we leave the harbour a 'pirate ship' sails by with some very unlikely pirates on board. They seemed to be having fun anyway.

One of the large Croatian sailors points upstairs and we follow his instruction. 'Huala', I thank him. I certainly wasn't going to argue with him.

The first island we stop at is Lopud. This is a more 'developed' island in terms of tourism. There is a long promenade, may be two hundred meters, with a narrow beach just wide enough for two rows of beach chairs. There are half a dozen bars and some shops. The church on the hill dominates the shoreline. The harbour is too small for the bigger boats we saw at Sipan. Many more people get on here in a quick turn around, and we're off again.

As the sun gets hotter we move into the shade. There's a gentle breeze. More people get on at Kolocep. Soon we can see the city of Dubrovnik itself.

As with Porec, Dubrovnik was once part of the province of Venice, and later part of the Ottoman Empire. There is a strong Catholic history with many monasteries and influences from the Dominican, Franciscan and Benedictine orders. The Jesuits also had a great influence here. The city was devastated by an earthquake in 1667. After the second world war Josip Broz, known as Tito, was able to hold the disparate Balkan states together in the republic of Yugoslavia. Although a Communist state, it became part of the non-aligned group of states and in the 1960s opened up to tourism. After Titos death Croatia became independent. Their first president, Franjo Tudman, has given his name to the main bridge out of the city.

The homeland wars are still recent and too raw to be talked about. We are strongly advised in all the brochures not to mention the war to locals.

Dubrovnik is hot. A taxi takes us to the old town and we have a beer as we plan our afternoon. The Franciscan Monastery is the first stop.
It claims to house one of the oldest pharmacies, and it's worth a look and some illicit photos. Then we take a walk along the wall. The city is famous for it's wall. It is the walled city. This is an amazing sight. The only other example I've seen, and on a smaller scale is Carcasson, France. The roof tops are tightly packed and invariably made of new terracotta tiles. The old ones were lost in the blockade of recent years. The city has made an almost full recovery from those dark days.

Then we have a swim in the sea. Here in Croatia, people just get in wherever they can. The water is clear everywhere. There's a collection of people at the bottom of one part of the wall, by some rocks. So on with the speedos and into the water.

After the swim we lunch in the old town. I really fancied sardines. We sat down at one of the many fish restaurants. No sardines. At the next restaurant I ask 'Do you have any sardines' and add 'molin', Croatian for please. My attempt to endear myself falls flat. 'Yes, small fish' replies the waitress without expression and points to the menu. 'Fried' she continues. 'Could I have mine grilled?' I enquire innocently. 'No' she replies firmly but quizzically. We waited for the sardines expectantly and wondering what exactly we would get.

What came was whitebait. No wonder she was adamant they couldn't be grilled. They were good actually, especially washed down with a glass of wine.

The 'racun' please and we pay the bill. There are so many ancient and wondrous buildings, but an unexpected one was a highly ornate Eastern Orthodox church, recognisable by it's absence of pews.

We have another drink. The sun is hot, so we have another drink. Time to head back to the ferry port and we hail a taxi. Our friendly driver asks us how our day was. 'The war was good' I slur, and immediately correct myself. 'The wall, the wall'.

I think I got away with it.

The rest of the trip is in silence. Back to Sipan and another perfect evening meal. It's been a busy and tiring day.

Sipan 2010

The following is what happened on our holiday in Sipan. The notes were written on paper and transferred to this blog. Since some followers have revealed that they prefer shorter pieces as their attention span is limited I shall do one day at a time.

15th August

This is day 1 and it begins uneventfully enough. We'd got over the 'House' thing and we're on our way. Books to read, yes. Alan Bennett's 'Telling Tales'. We call in at WH Smiths, and there it is. The book I've been looking for 'Adrian Mole: the prostate years' so I add this to my collection for the week. I shall enjoy re-acquainting myself with A A Mole.

The flight went smoothly apart from being told off by the air hostess for moving seats before the food was distributed. '
We have a dinner plan you know' she says rather tersely. We were moved back as the whole plane watched. You could feel the silent tutting from the other passengers. Sarah has also checked the price of this flight and it is now down to 68 pounds from over 200. Ah well.

Dubrovnik airport is the sort of airport you'd imagine in Eastern Europe. Not that Croatians are really Eastern European, more Mediterranean. The building is aging and rudimentary. It is little more than an airstrip. Getting through customs is easy. After collecting our luggage we go to meet our contact.

'Hello, my name is Ivan' a heavily accented large man greets us. 'You must come with me' he says mysteriously. 'Hello' I reply 'My name is Ivan too' hoping to build a bit of a rapport. No response. 'Follow me' he insists without expression.

He shows us to his van. The back window has been smashed. 'The summer air conditioning' he attempts a joke. Hmmm, we exchange a glance. I hope it wasn't shot out! We climb on board, then drive through to Dubrovnik on a fast road that doesn't quite seem adequate. It's like the opening scene from a James Bond film. The road is clutching the side of a steep hill side, with only a thin piece of metal between us and a sheer drop to the ocean. Ivan seems inpatient with the other drivers as if we're in some sort of time trial.

We screech to a halt at a port the other side of town and jump onto a speed boat. Ivan pushes the throttle full on and we skim across the water to our destination. First impressions are that these islands are perfect. The sun is hot, with a gentle breeze. The light is brilliant. The islands are greener than the Greek ones. The sea is a rich turquoise and clear.

The speed boat takes us right to the door of our hotel on Sipan. He helps us off. 'That will be 130 euros'. Sure, I wasn't expecting to have to pay cash, but luckily I've got it and pay him. We're glad to be here.

There is no sand or sandy beaches, but the rest of it is wonderful, unexploited and unspoilt. You'll be interested to know that a half litre of beer is 250 Kuna, that's about two pounds fifty. We lunch at the hotel on the quay side overlooking the bay that is to be our home for the next week.

Sipan is a volcanic island about five kilometers long, with a long deep channel up the centre of it leading to the open sea. This channel is about a kilometer long which means that the town at the far end, Sipanska Luka is completely protected from bad seas. It also means that the sea is more salty than the main ocean.


After exploring the village we went to the beach. The sand that is there forms a thin layer on what seems like a concrete base. Luckily I'd brought my snorkel and so I'm happy.

That evening we ate at the restaurant attached to the hotel. It's grilled fish tonight. On a Bar-B-Que. The ambiance is perfect as the sun sets. A cool breeze blows off the sea and rustles the palms and pine trees. As the sun sets, the fishing boats and tourist yachts are bobbing up and down in the harbour. The sun bounces off the ripples of water towards us as it sinks behind the distant hills of a neighbouring island and lights the clouds a brilliant purple. As the sky darkens the palm trees, up lit, contrasts dramatically green against black.

We have a mixed seafood starter, mainly fresh prawns. Then on to the main fish course. It promises to be perfect, all freshly cooked before our eyes.

The fish was cooked, just, but tasted of lighter fuel. Like when you've had trouble starting your own B-B-Q and had to squirt stuff on it to get the flames going. What a disappointment. Still it didn't take away from the wonderful start to our holiday.

We're on our holidays

So here I am watching 'House' on my holidays. Sarah is upstairs packing and I'm here watching House. It's not like there's anything else on, there isn't, it's just that no one has asked me. What am I to do? Just watch it I suppose. Still it would be nice to be asked, as I'm a guest, and these guy's do nothing but watch House all day.

Dubrovnik here we come

Emily has gone back now. It was lovely to see her, of course, and also meet her 'young man'. It was his birthday too on Tuesday. Mine next Monday.

This morning I have to sort out my accounts. In fact I don't know why I'm doing this now. I should be sorting out my stuff.

I'm also putting the finishing touches to the plan to provide Cardiology services in the practice. This time it may really come off! I could spend all my time doing this ... I wonder?

Anyway, before all that I have a week in Croatia to look forward to. Yesterday, here, it rained and rained, how wonderful it will be to just lie in the sun. Talking of which the price of flights to Mauritius is coming down again, so must remember to book them on return from holidays.

Emily's coming home

Emily is home tomorrow - yeay. With new boyfriend Sean. It's weird her being away for so long, and the longer she stays the more likely it is to become permanent. Still whatever makes her happy. I'll always be proud of her and be there for her. I wonder what this Sean is going to be like then. No pressure on him I guess. Shall I do the fierce, fatuous or hilariously funny father? I don't know yet, I'll be meeting him tomorrow. Better be sensible I suppose.

Lizzy is waiting for her 'A' level results in a week or so. I'm so proud of her too. Let me make it clear, I'm proud of all of my children in equal measure, and will be proud of Lizzie whatever her results. She wants to go into a very demanding profession, social work. She has a distant aunt who is high up in the Aussy system. It would be good if she did a placement out there. I'd go with her of course.
What about Rachel, you can't say fairer than top marks in her year at Uni? She's working too long hours as a waitress. Jonny, I've spoken of recently anyway, and is, as far as I know, safe and well and on the way to Santiago.

I have a new charge though. Hammid is a nineteen year old from Afghanistan. He is seeking refugee status but the crazy system is blocking him. His father was shot by the Taliban and his brother too. He was smuggled here in a van, but because he had to stop in France when he developed appendicitis, he can't seek asylum here, only in the first port of call. He's scared witless, but the authorities wont listen. meanwhile, I'm determined to keep him safe.

I'll be 54 at the end of this week. 54 years OLD

Relief

It is with great relief that I can announce that Jonny has been able to pick up the money I sent him through Western Union. It was accompanied by a phone call from a very relieved Jonny too. It is still amazing to me that the money transfer could have happened at all, so far away.

There we are then. It saves me wondering how he will survive.

Emily is coming home this weekend, for a week. I'm looking forward to that too. I haven't seen her for what seems like ages. I do miss her greatly.

On another, more exciting note, Sarah and I are going to Sipan Island, Croatia for a week. It looks absolutely spectacular. I can't wait. I have found a photo of the place.

Jonny's in Bolivia

I wasn't sure where Bolivia actually is, so I got hold of map. It has borders with five other South American countries. It's where Jonny, my wandering son, is right now. It's also where Ernesto “if you tremble indignation at every injustice then you are a comrade of mine” Guevara was killed.

He's in Vallegrande to be precise. A small town south-west of Santa Cruz de la Sierra. It was here, at the hospitals mortuary, that the body of 'Che' Guevara was put on public display after his execution by the US backed Bolivian army in 1967. His burial site was kept secret to stop it becoming one of pilgrimage, the cowards. In 1995 his body was discovered near the airstrip at Vallegrande . On October 17, 1997, the remains, were sent to Cuba, with those of six of his fellow combatants. They were laid to rest with full military honors in an especially built mausoleum in the Cuban city of Santa Clara, where he had lead the decisive military victory of the Cuban Revolution. Before he was killed his executioner, Mario Terán, asked if he was thinking about his own immortality. "No", replied Che, "I'm thinking about the immortality of the revolution."

Jonny's there but can't access any money. There are no cash points that work in Vallegrande. The Bolivian currency is the Boliviano. The exchange rate is about 10:1. There seems to be a bank though, and an Internet cafe. Thank goodness for modern technology and the wonders of science. So no need to panic.

It turns out there is a simple way of transferring money these days. It took me a little time to find out, and some help from Rachel. The transfer has to be through the Western Union bank. You can do it online if you register, but strangely they don't take visa debit cards. So we had to do it by phone 0800 833 833. It's so much better to talk to someone who knows what they are doing in these situations. I'm still unsure if he's going to pick up the money, but we've done what we can for now. Unfortunately I told Anne who, like when she was told that his airline had crashed, began to 'spaz out'. It's what mothers do. Of course the aeroplane hadn't crashed, just the company - Zoom.
I remember I was in Paris with my cousin Marilyn. I had been tipped off by Rachel that this had happened and had sorted it out already when I got the panicky call. I was tempted to keep the suspense going but it wasn't worth it.

So I hope Jonny gets the money and is safe. I'm also very proud of him for making this trip and taking the risk. It's what I would have liked to have been brave enough to do. I'm glad he made the pilgrimage.

Thieving bastard

I don't know what to say really. Last Tuesday some bastard stole my new red 'stumpjumper' specialized bike from the locked garden shed. They can in and unscrewed to door from its hinges. Fortunately I don't have an emotional attachment to it, except it was the on hat accompanied me on my trip from Edinburgh.

Then, to compound the damn cheek of it, he came back to take whatever else was there. This time though Hamid spotted him and gave chase. He didn't catch as he disappeared down a side street. I'm not sure what Hamid would have done if he'd caught him. Apparently he was a big white guy with a shaved head. I suppose i can get it back on insurance so it's not all bad.

The worst aspect of it is the feeling that I must have been watch with the bike and putting it into the shed. I used to feel very safe here, at least after Sam let. Anyway, mustn't let these things get to you, and I still have my old trusty bike.

***

On a hot summers night in 1974, four or five young men were beging to get ready for a streak.

I was at the front and off came the clothes. 'Come on guys' I beckoned as I ran out through the glass front door. I headed up the path a short way and turned to see how far back my chums were. My colleagues, my compadrays, my fellow travellers.

They weren't anywhere. Well they were, they were just heading back inside and closing the door behind then. Quick as a flash, a streek even, I ran back to prevent them closing the door, and then, no doubt locking me out in my birthday suit.

I stretched out my arm to the wooden frame and missed.

I can remember a lot of lughter from behind the door, then a great shattering sound of splintered glass, more laughter which then sudddenly changed to silence. Smiling faces became ashen.

I looken down to see glass all over the floor, and then saw my left arm. A six inch flat had been sliced to reveal white shinny bone, and higher up a four inch gash also to the bone. I had no pain.

As I looked at the bare flesh it quickly began to turn red, and then to drip blood onto the floor. My brother was lead off to sit down while other sensible people called an ambulance. While waiting for them I had to get some of my clothes back on. With my left arm in the air to try to stem the blood flow i out on my underpant. i gave uo with the rest. Fortunately all function was present and correct. I had missed any major nerves or arteries, and no other exposed part of my anatomy had been damaged.

The ambulance took me to casualty, and the poor registrar was got out of bed. i remember how meticulous he was. The adrenalin pumpng through me had made me high and I was jabbering away to the nurse, telling how I'd been accepted to medical school, what we'ed been up to and all sorts of nonsense until eventually she say 'I think it would be better if we just had quiet while the doctor finishes off'. I got hte message and shut up.

My parents came to see me later that day. Dad had to be given a chair to sit down. Few words were said as the space between anger and relief has no words.

I was in hospital for a week, and had become a legend at school. Jack Addy the teacher in charge of the 'special paper' had come in to see how I was, and thinly disguised his 'disappointment' with me not taking the paper more seriously. As for my friends I got lots of visitors and was briefly a hero.

I don't know what happened to Grahams parents front door. I assume it got mended. Grahams parents never spoke to me again

Castles and Queens in Mid-Devonshire

Some of my friends have said my blogs are too long. Actually it's not 'some' of my friends, it's Jonny Oldham. His attention span is clearly very short, and let's be fair, he's not very bright. So I'll keep it short this time and talk very slowly.

Down in Devon on Saturday morning, we woke up to The Western Morning News (voice of the West Country since 1860) declaring front page news that a great offer was starting today. 2-for-1 West country cream teas, details inside. I didn't bother to read the article. David Miliband had given them an exclusive interview, and in a scoop asked whether it is to be 'the end of the road for speed cameras?' I didn't read these either.

1 e4 c5; 2 Nf3 Nc6; 3 Bb5 Nf6; 4 Nc3 Qc7; 5 d3 d6; 6 0-0 e6; 7 Bxc6+ Qxc6; 8 e5 Nd7; 9 d4 d5; 10 a4 b6;11 Re1 h6; 12 Ne2 a6.

Once we'd woken up and taken in this amazing news, we set off for a walk on Dartmoor. Not too strenuous you understand, just enough to make us feel we deserved a lunchtime pint and lunch.

13 h4 Bb7; 14 c3 c4; 15 a5 bxa5; 16 Rxa5 Qb6; 17 Ra1 a5; 18 Nf Bc6; 19 Nh2 Nb8; 20 Qh5 Bd7; 21 Re3 Ra7; 22 Rg3 Qb3; 23 Qe2 Ba4; 24 Nh5 Qc2; 25 Qe1 Rh7

The Devonshire countryside is quite beautiful, with it's undulating hills, green fields and tree lined roads. We were expecting rain but none came. Egg ham and chips and a couple of pints and we were all pretty tired.

26 Ng4 Nd7; 27 Ne3 Qb3; 28 Bd2 g6; 29 Nf4 Be7; 30 Qb1 Bxh4; 31 Rh3Be7; 32 Nxg6 fxg6; 33 Qxg6+Rf7

Then it's back to Ade and Sue's for an afternoon nap. Up again and me and Ade do a bit of business talk while we are still sensible. Then it's time for dinner and wine. Couple of bottles of bubbly, a Chablis, and bottles of red.

After dinner its conversation, TV and games. Only this time I decide to challenge the others to a game of chess. Sue needs to go to bed as up early for work.

34 Rf3 Bf6; 35 Rxf6 Nxf6; 36 exf6 Kd8; 37 Ra3 Qb5; 38 Ng4 Rad7; 39 Ne5 Qxb2; 40 Nxf7+

I do pretty well to start with, attacking, confident, and decisive. The two of them are a bit undecided on tactics, but play safe. Although they are white and have started, they fall behind as I go one Castle up, following a cunningly devised trap. There can be no way back for them now. I'm starting to prepare my winners speech. Gradually the wine and over-confidence start to take over and then two fatal mistakes. For no reason whatsoever I hand over one of my Castles. Never mind, back to level pegging, and really I'm in a much stronger position. No problem, my Queen is controlling the board. Couple more moves, and why the hell did I do that? I've lost my Queen, just didn't notice that Bishop. Must have been in my blind spot, or just careless.

It's hopeless. Black resigns

Meanwhile back in 1974, on midsummer night, more or less, the sun had risen on the end of school party. The remaining few were wondering what to do now. The Tams had just finished 'Be young, be foolish, but be happy'. We were.

So we decided to go for a streak.