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About twelve miles to the east of Belfast is the village of Groomsport.
In the fifties, I would spend most of the summer holidays in a caravan near the village. I stayed with my mum while dad worked in his grocer's shop in Belfast. He would come down late Saturday after shutting up, spend Sunday asleep and return to the grind early Monday. The van was one of the few close to the shore and near the highest point of a bluff. A quick roll down the steep slope would take me to a grassy, sandy path over the rocks of the shoreline. Here we could play leaping across sharp fissures where the sea swilled or boomed according to the weather. A level shelf made an excellent diving platform from where we swam and snorkelled through slimy kelp. Then west towards the village a dune backed beach with warmer shallows and clean fine sand provided a launch for home made rafts which inevitably capsized and broke apart before the first wave. Often we would cross the beach to the village with its sole general store for pocket money toys and sweets. Best of all, a travelling funfair would set up in the redundant boatyard near the harbour every season for most of the holiday. This is where most of my pennies went on swing boats, rifle range, roll-a-penny and hoopla. And at night, the strings of lights and organ music and courting teenagers with glowing cigarettes and hot fat smells from the chippie were exotic and exciting and far removed from school days.
In the summer of 59, a lone figure sat at the top of the hill near our caravan. A stranger, a man, was very still and gazed out to sea for hours each day, constantly eating peanuts. I was a little angry at this intrusion. He blocked the approach to the roll and I had to warily circumnavigate and join my route further down with less dynamics.
But every day he appeared I got closer and eventually he broke his reverie and said, nodding at the sea, "I'm going to swim there."
So what, I'd just that morning dived there and swum right round to the beach.
He said "I mean I'm going to swim to Scotland."
He got my attention! You can just about see the Scottish coast about 20 miles away on a clear day.
He spoke again and I noticed his strange accent, "You're from caravan, yes? You have beautiful lady. She is mother?"
I nodded.
"You like peanuts?"
Again I nodded. I cracked open the shell and crunched the nuts. I dropped the halves on the ground where they joined a scattering of others.
"I'm Jason. I swim seas. Have you a name?"
I told him just as mum shouted anxiously from the door. "Come and wash your hands D! Lunch is ready!" Which was strange as I'd just eaten.
I told mum about Jason and I could see the interest in her face. She was a local swimming champion in her youth and had successfully competed in an open water swim at Bangor. Jason was looking over and she waved. She quickly produced a cup of tea and cake as he sat one side of the little table and we on the other. It was the first of many cups and meals over the next few weeks. Jason didn't come every day and notably never met my dad. I could see my mum lit up when he appeared sometimes at the door , sometimes having to be summoned from his seat on the hill. He was going to swim from Orlock Point, about a mile away, to Port Patrick in Scotland. It was about 22 miles direct but currents and tides would make the swim nearly 30 and it would be very cold with possibly a lot of jellyfish. Even if he didn't manage it he was going to swim at the Menai Strait next year and would love us to come and support him. Quite often I would come home from play and find them both talking intently about family and swimming and he told her a lot of his history. My mum was about 5 years younger than Jason but they both seemed equally ancient to me and the last thing I thought about was any sort of attraction other than friendly However amongst my friends it had not gone unnoticed and I was so annoyed when they chanted "Jason's chasin D's mum all round the site." I even defended mum's honour with a wrestle once.
This attractive man dominated our caravan life that year. He became a hero to me as I learnt a bit of his history and of all the people that would be supporting him and how the task ahead was of such difficulty that only one man had so far succeeded in 1947. As well as a support vessel with feeders and medical aid, there would be a radio operator and an official authenticator. On shore both here and in Scotland there would be an army radio station and rescue personnel. Thus it was on the appointed night, when tides and weather were favourable, we were amongst the crowd at the Point. We were swamped by all the onlookers but Jason spotted my mum and came over already coated with heavy grease and took her hand and kissed it tenderly. We watched quite proud of being recognised by the star. He stumbled on the stony foreshore under the floodlights into the inky looking water and once in swimming depth slipped into a graceful breaststroke and then about 50 yards out began a slow purposeful crawl into the darkness accompanied by the small boat. We waited until the boat lights were hard to discern and the shore party began to disperse.
It was difficult sleeping that night being in a warm bed thinking of our friend out in the middle of the sea in cold choppy water. Was he thinking of us or at least of my mum as he slowly pulled closer to Scotland.
The swim could take up to 20 hours and we breakfasted early to get to the radio tent. Half way and Jason was going well and likely to complete in 15 hours if he hit the tides correctly. He was strong and it looked certain he would be successful. We had a picnic lunch on the grass near the tent. All our neighbours were there including my jeering friends but I had been close to Jason and felt so superior.
Shortly after eating we went again to the radio. Jason was in sight of the shore at Port Patrick and was very tired and slowing but was still strong. It looked good and in a couple of hours it would all be over. I didn't understand the static laden messages coming from the speaker but I could see concern on my mother's face. The radio operator told us that Jason's strokes were erratic and he was told to come to the boat. By the time he was hauled on board he was unconscious. He wasn't breathing and his heartbeat was faint. The doctor began artificial resuscitation. His heart had stopped. Nowadays there would be a defibrillator on hand but this brave doctor had nothing but a pen knife. He cut open Jason's chest and directly massaged his heart. It was to no avail and our friend died a few miles from his goal.
Walking leaden and in shock back to our home, my thoughts were in confusion. The terrible selfish idea, that next year's Welsh adventure had been cruelly taken, flashed in and out of an unbearable loss. I could only guess my mother's thoughts. She was stony silent and at the van she carried on to the spot where Jason had so often sat. She lowered herself to the grass and gazed towards Scotland. I didn't know what to do but went to her. I sat beside her and side glanced her face. Her nostrils were flared and curled with emotion and a tear began to bud from her glistening eye. As I reached out and pushed my fingers into her clenched hand, a peanut shell fell out.
To the memory of Jason Zirganos 1910-1959

The car crawled up the steep escarpment road, leveled, then cruised slowly down through the shrubby landscape into the northern sun.
To the left and right, baboons grazed and groomed in peaceful family groups. It was a very hot afternoon and my eyes were closing despite the air-conditioning.
My brother woke me. "Yes, they do look so peaceful but they are becoming a nuisance. They're getting more adventurous and starting to cross into the farms."
I asked if they were dangerous and he said "They would probably run away if challenged here in the open but they can be very aggressive if cornered. I wouldn't want to be in a room with one."
I gazed at the vicious looking canines and shuddered.
We got to the farm in another half hour and it was still light. It was our first visit here and it was beautiful. The modern well designed house and pool was surrounded by acres of fruit trees and a lawned path meandered through well kept gardens, down to the reed beds of a huge lake.
We were staying in the annexe. This was a separate building built specially for my brother's eldest son. He had broken his back and was paralysed from the chest down after an accident on a school outing many years before. The reason for our visit was to attend his marriage to a local girl and he had moved away to their prospective new home. The house was on one level and rooms blended into each other allowing free wheelchair movement, Even the shower and wc was just part of the whole layout and just with a modesty screen separation. There were dozens of wild life pictures around the walls and lovely wooden furniture with very expensive vases arranged tastefully across the space. The bedroom was through a narrowing and had a huge king size bed with a mosquito net suspended from the beamed ceiling.Now I am naturally clumsy and the sight of so many valuable breakables balanced on easily kicked tables made me nervous.
My sister in law came to settle us and to ask us to treat the house as home. "Don't worry about breaking anything. The only request I have is please, please, please be tolerant of the spiders. They are your friends and help control the insect pests."
She gently lifted the corner of a picture and exposed an eight legged monster. I was expecting a large house spider but this was nearly four inches across. " They can get much larger but they are harmless and just walk round the walls at night."
We dined well in the main house that night and I suspect the large quantity of wine helped banish our trepidation as we traveled by torch light to bed. Several of the spiders had already emerged when we put on the lights. They didn't move, just like a wall ornament. But if you turned the light off and on, you could see they had changed position. We played Simon Says for a few minutes but alcoholic tiredness made us wash and get ready for bed. Once in we made sure the net was tucked tight under the mattress. It was comfortably hot with the air conditioning but we new that the generator would rest during the night and temperatures could rise.
About 2 am I woke and of course needed the toilet. We both did. It was too warm now and the tiles felt wonderfully cool as we made our way by torchlight. I happened to shine down to the floor in the bath room and saw several big spiders scuttle away across the very floor we were walking on. I think I was the one to scream first. Alcoholic effects had dimmed. We made it to the closet, did our business staying close together. The heat was too much so I opened the bathroom shutters and a warm draft might have been cooler than the room. Still it would get colder outside as the night.
wore on. We reversed our journey again keeping the monsters in sight and picking the least arachnoidal areas. Eventually under a well tucked net we drifted to sleep.
4 am and something crashed to the floor. Then tumultuous noises came from all quarters of the room. I remember vaguely being told not to leave the shutters open. Now the consequences of my action had let at least one baboon into the house. I could sense those horrible teeth and smell rank breath on my face. Suddenly our mosquito net was torn aside and what ever monster was there could reach out and grab us both. My heart was racing as I fumbled with the torch in the hope the light would save us. The beam searched the room and ... nothing.
Then our netting started shaking and we looked up ready to see an ape hanging ready to drop. A large bat was entangled in the web and was struggling to unhook itself. I shone the light around the room and made out other bats across the floor with their winged arms clicking awkwardly on the tiles. A little bat in the corner of the alcove looked up at us. As it prepared to try and fly I saw its mouth and the back two legs of an enormous spider sticking guiltily out the side. The whole fleet of bats shuffled and flew to the open window and left as they had come. I made it past the broken ornament and pushed the shutters closed.
We had a lovely week on the farm.
We never did see any more spiders.
Have you tried googling yourself?
Well a few years ago I found an entry form in the library to enter a comic poem competition.
I did and won a second prize.
The library was just starting to go all hi-tech and I went on one of the machines after a few weeks and googled my name and the title of my poem. Lo and behold I was top of the list after a few ads for chicken manure.
Coming to the Prima site I fancied republishing my one attempt at writing so I regoogled myself and the title and anything else associated with my effort. Not a dickybird. I was devastated. All that fame gone to nothing. Famous for how long?
I asked TP if she had a copy and yes it was the bottom of the bits and pieces drawer.
It reads okay to me now but at the time I couldn't understand why I only came second.
Under the terms of the prize I understand I am not supposed to do anything with it but I presume that means commercially, so here it is, carefully transcribed for your edification.
My Hens
I bought some hens the other day.
The blasted things just will not lay!
I've tempted them with corn and seeds
and tended all their chicky needs.
I built some larger laying nests
with comfy straw and free from pests.
I even spoke to them in hen,
they answered me just now and then.
They told me nowt about their eggs
but prattled on about their legs,
gleaming feathers and wattles too
and how they love to scrape and poo
in all the areas meant for brood
and filling them with yeugh, not food.
In desperation I phoned around
my friends and neighbours and then found
a helpful farmer, Mr. Fox.
He took one look. "Them hens be c o c k s"
Dafra
I watched programmes about three strong women last night, a religious character, a fictional character and a real person.
The diverse portrayals of Mary Magdalene through art and script reflecting religious, popular and political opinions at the time of their creation was presented by Melvyn Bragg. Described in early scripture as friend of Jesus and most importantly, the main witness to the first Easter, staying to observe and then report to the others the events of the crucifixion and resurrection, she was the apostles' apostle. The fact that these early stories featured a woman playing a major part in an otherwise patriarchal society must have had a strong reason. They could have written her out! So that leads to the question of why the developing church denied major roles for women and continue in some cases to do so.
I love the drama, Borgen. Birgitte Nyborg (played by Sidse Babett Knudsen) has a feminine strength and political ruthlessness tempered by her heartbreaking attempts to tend her fragile teenage daughter. She has to juggle all consuming affairs of state with the mental breakdown of the child and the collapse of her marriage and failing on so many levels yet just managing to keep her balls in the air. It mirrors all those women holding down jobs and yet frantically managing the home without
much help. Birgitte has the highest of powerful jobs but so many women are unable to attain the jobs they are capable off because the duties of home-keeping are either too important or, more likely, so exhausting.
Miranda Hart is ultra real. She presented an affectionate homage to Eric Morecambe. The programme reflected as much of her own character as Eric's. She was always a performer from childhood and had a struggle to get recognised. And now she has become a national figure. She is the awkward clown who I can relate to the most. Shopping for the latest fashions is unlikely to be top of her list. Her lank hair must defeat all but the best stylists. I want to have coffee with her, not Victoria Beckham. Her accomplishments are gently stated. She also acts, Chummy is a beautiful role well suited of course. But it was the final credits of the programme which demonstrated what a remarkable woman she is. As well as presenting, she produced, wrote and directed the show.
Equality matters but it is the equality of opportunity. Aspiring to some goal is not just a matter of removing the obstacles imposed by custom and law but it is up to the individual to work for it and to be fairly rewarded for their endeavour.