Per Ardua ad Astra

No I haven't taken up Latin studies! Per Ardua ad Astra is the motto of the Royal Air Force and roughly translated means "Through Adversity to the Stars". It was as a 16 year old I "joined up" in early February 1980 and set off for my basic training at RAF Swinderby, near Lincoln.

RAF Swinderby was built just before WWII and came under the control of Bomber Command, but in 1964, the year after I was born, it turned it's attention to recruit training. It was immortalised in film in 1987 when several scenes from Full Metal Jacket were filmed there, but sadly it was closed and put up for sale in 1995. What remains now is a shadow of its former self, with nature over growing most of the buildings in the last 15 years and the rest being vandalised or broken into by people stealing whatever was left behind.

I have long asked the question: why did I join up? I was only in for the 6 weeks of basic training, the reason why I left we will get to later. As a child I had suffered, if that is the right word, at the hands of my stepfather, who would find the smallest of excuses to regularly beat me. It seemed that my world was filled with bullies at school and bullies at home. Maybe this is why I have turned my attention to writing and telling imaginary stories, as a way of creating my own safe world. However, that is another blog, for another day, perhaps. To answer the question, why did I join up, I think it is possible that as a young boy I convinced myself that the beatings were my fault and that somehow, joining the RAF would make my stepfather proud of me, as he had been in the RAF in the 50's.

Whatever the reason, on 5 February off I went by train from Edinburgh, to the nearest town to RAF Swinderby, Lincoln. From the second we arrived it felt like I was a new arrival in Shawshank, being herded from one place to another, gathering first uniforms, gym kit, bedding, then eating utensils etc etc. By mid afternoon our heads were shaved to a number 2 and we were assigned a bunk within one of the squadrons buildings. All recruits were divided into sections within the squadron, which are called flights, and I was in flight 7.

We were given two types of uniform: our regular uniforms, that we would wear on a daily basis, and our "number 1" uniform, which consisted of the very smart, almost suit-like jacket and trousers, and best of all, a peak cap. I loved this peaked cap and cherished it my entire time there.

There was one other item you were given, and on no account should you ever forget it. Each recruit was assigned a unique number that would stay with you for your entire RAF career, and beyond. 30 years later I can still remember mine: F8192112. At the same time we had received our training manuals and had to sign the Official Secrets Act.

The first period of training concentrated on fitness and was relentless, with no break for the first two weeks. At that point you were allowed home for a weekend. It was too far to travel for me and for several other recruits, so we remained on the base and would visit the local town of Lincoln. We had to wear civilian clothes as the locals were not very tolerant of us RAF types, but even in "civvys" it was very easy to spot us out of a crowd. I recall one incident when we spotted a guy with a ferocious Alsatian dog in a doorway, his owner struggling to keep it under control. Only when we passed nearby and he asked us for our ID that we realised he was Military Police and there for our protection! Our other source of entertainment was on the base at the station bar and my biggest memory from there was reaching my 17th birthday, being made tremendously drunk and Blondie's Atomic playing on the juke box.

The following weeks were filled with theory training and exams, which you had to pass at a minimum of 70% or you were discharged, and Self Loading Rifle (SLR) training. This was a formidable piece of kit and had just been introduced, firing a 7.62mm bullet. I was always uneasy carrying, loading and firing this gun as I was under no illusion it's purpose. That said, I gained a marksman ranking, the highest in my flight.

As the weeks progressed I made friends with another recruit, and to protect the innocent I'll call him John. Like me he had been bullied in his childhood, but I had come to RAF Swinderby as a young pretender, never letting on my bruised past. John however, brought it all with him and sadly, and much to the contrary of what people think of the armed forces, he was picked on by other recruits in the flight. I had an added advantage apparently, that of my Scottish accent. Our Corporal was also Scottish and immediately gave us a reputation that we lived in caves with gas light and ate raw meat every day. It's only a guess but I reckon this helped enormously and gave me a reputation, though unfounded, of being a bit of a nutter.

One weekend the bullying of John was brought to a head: he had remained behind whilst everyone else headed home for the weekend. He was deeply upset by what was happening to him and I left him crying in the bathroom one morning. This bathroom was huge, and along one wall were 30 or so hand basins. All of a sudden I heard the most tremendous crashing sounds coming from the bathroom and returned to find John had taken a fire extinguisher to virtually all the basins and smashed them. For that burst of frustration he found himself in jail for three days. But worse was to come and something no one could have foreseen.

Part of our regular fitness training was to run 10 miles. The final mile was along a runway, which always seemed far longer than it was. I had just reached the finishing line, exhausted, when I turned to see John further up the runway stop and drop onto his knees, also exhausted but not at the finish line. The PTi's (Physical Training Instructors) were a tough bunch and immediately ran to John and it appeared from my vantage that they were kicking him, forcing him onto his feet. He ran another 20 metres or so and stopped again, onto his knees. He obviously heard the footsteps of the PTi's approaching from behind and launched himself up onto his feet as fast as he could, but, he only went a few more metres and collapsed, face down, not moving. The PTi's on reaching him then ran to the field telephone and an ambulance came and took him to hospital.

During lunch an announcement was made that all recruits from every flight were to assemble outside station cinema in our number 1 uniforms. It was an impressive sight, but the smiles disappeared as the Squadron Leader announced John had died as a result of a brain hemorrhage. We were visibly angry, and for the rest of the day they drilled us hard, keeping us occupied. But they had to let us go at some point and as soon as they did it was a sight to see many young men charging round to the houses of the PTi's, that, as far as we were concerned, had caused the death of John. That, at the time, was a knee jerk reaction, of course. We were angry. I'm not saying that the PTi's treatment of him caused his demise, but he certainly panicked on hearing their approach and rose to his feet quickly enough for a weakness in his brain to rupture.

They were gone. Everything. Furniture, belongings, cars, you name it. Unless we had gone to the wrong location, but we were pretty sure.

I for one was furious, and decided right there and then that I could not belong to such an organisation that could covered up such a tragedy. We weren't even allowed to write about it in letters home or, worst still, we were not allowed to go to the funeral. And so I left on 14 March 1980, discharged with an "exemplary" character.

30 years on and I still remember him. When I think of all that I have achieved in the last thirty years. Years that he never had.

I should always remember his story each time I'm facing adversity. I may not reach the stars but at least I still have a chance.

Are we nearly there yet

"You can see the future adult in the child". So agreed Camille and Anne Fontaine, writers of the 2009 film Coco Before Channel, starring Audrey Tautou.

I've been rummaging through the few photographs I have of myself as a child, and it brought back some vivid memories. Take the photo here of me with a horse riding hat on. On the face of it you would be forgiven for thinking I was some sort of child equestrian, but I'm afraid not. This was me coming in 2nd in the donkey derby at Butlins in Ayr in 1976, aged just 13.

Just to the side you can see my blog photograph and I suppose you can see the adult in this young face, albeit better looking in 1976.

Regular readers will notice that my main blog photograph has now been updated. The previous picture was 9 years out of date so I thought it was best to be honest.

Like all small children I had a sweet tooth and the highlight of my day would be morning break at school when we could visit the tuck shop. Highland toffee, in the form of penny chews, was a definite favourite. Then there were love hearts, refreshers, mojos, cola bottles and a miracle of sweet making, curly wurly.

But a very early memory stays with me to this day, and yes, it does involve food. I was in primary school and it was just before the change over to the decimal coin system we all have today in the late sixties. Every lunchtime a bakers van would arrive at the bottom of the playground selling what to me were the worlds greatest Scotch pies. I would only have a shilling for spending money for the week, equivalent now to a 5p (though the size of the current 10p). This was divided into 12 twelve pennies and divided again into halfpennies (pronounced hape-nies) and these were once more divided into farthings. Twenty four to one shilling. Imagine dividing the current 5p into 24 parts and being able to buy something with each! Another coin was the thrupeny bit, equal to three pennies, a quarter of my weeks pocket money, and this was the price of a Scotch pie. A fortune to a boy of 7, as I was at the time. So I would only indulge in this treat twice a week and the fact I can still remember that gastronomic delight just goes to show how wonderful that pie must have been.

The other thing I noticed from these old photographs was just how curly my hair was. Here I am in 1972 aged 9. I hated my curly hair, though my mother adored it of course. It's a constant puzzle why people with curly hair desire straight hair and vice versa. Now my hair is very short and mostly grey and receding. I'd settle for that mop of hair straight or curly now!

It is remarkable when looking at these photographs just how recent the events seem. Here's one of me aged just 4 playing on my first bicycle in Loch Lomond caravan sire just north of Tarbet, a site my step father ran. Now at 47 years old I can actually remember this photograph being taken, yet some days I can't remember what I did yesterday!

This is one of the first photographs of me after leaving school at 17 when I enlisted in the Royal Air Force. Sadly it was not to be and I decided to leave after just two months, but the experience was one I will never forget, especially the bond that grew quickly between everyone on the same flight, as teams of us were called.

Though I would hope that I am wiser now I am certainly older. When I look in the mirror some mornings I hardly recognise the person looking back. Looking at the photographs gives me a real sense of how fast time passes by, and makes me glad that I have taken the risks in life that have given me great memories of great adventures around the world.

I may not be any wealthier relatively now than that wee boy buying his Scotch pie, but I am most definitely richer for the experiences the intervening years have brought me and the great friends that I have shared those times with.

Terrorism

I think the recession must be biting down hard on old Osama and his subsidiaries as it's been quite some time since he has hit the headlines.

Though that in part could be due to the increased efficiency of western nations in their counter-terrorism efforts and increased preemptive attempts at averting any possible situation.

Take for example a recent US visa application: As you would expect these days the initial application is made online and contains the usual raft of questions in relation to why you would like to visit the US; family questions; education and work questions; and of course the means to fund your visit.

What you will find surprising is that the site also encompasses questions in relation to terrorism. For example:
1/ Have you ever been involved in terrorism?
2/ Have you ever been involved in terrorist activities at home or abroad?
3/ Are you a member of any terrorist organisation?

I kid you not! It goes on like this for about 20 questions with an option to say yes or no! Now I'm no expert in these matters but it strikes me that an answer 'yes' to any of these questions would result in you not being able to visit DisneyLand, New York or the Grand Canyon and would most likely result in an all expenses paid one way trip to Guantanamo Bay!

If this is the level of prevention toward a would be terrorist then I think we should be very afraid. Could it be a result of the recession and cutbacks? I hadn't considered that. I wonder if they assemble everyone in a room at some point and ask all terrorists to raise their right hand. Though it could be an attempt by the US at irony, which is great as it's long been believed that they don't get irony. Then again maybe they don't and that's why those questions are in there? Who knows.

It will be interesting to see how 2011 develops. Here in the UK we are approaching a period of vast cutbacks and layoffs in the public sector, an area which has needed streamlining for some time it has to be said. How this affects other areas of business and commerce within the UK remains to be seen as we are all connected in some way or another.

Maybe Osama has had the same considerations and already introduced a series of redundancies?

Let's hope.

The dreaded lurgy!

How was your festive season? Not over yet I suppose with 2011 just a few hours away. Will it be a party with thousands of people in the streets of some rain swept city, or a friends house with copious quantities of good food and wine, or high on a mountain pass in the Andes? Well for me it will be snuggled down tight under my duvet in my bed.

A friend of mine married a lovely American girl this year and moved across to live in Alberta. This new year he's bringing her over to Edinburgh to sample the delights of the now world famous Hogmanay street party. Frankly, I think she'll be disappointed. Thousands of drunken people all trying to tell you their life story and passing the time until a bunch of fireworks go off in low cloud and pissing rain at midnight. Great! What a night.

I am disappointed though not to be joining my friends tonight in a gathering at one fo their houses. On Boxing Day I contracted what I can only assume is flu and as a result for the past 6 days I have only ventured out of bed for the postie and to answer nature's call. In fact I am writing this today from that very bed.

But that disappointment pales in comparison to my festive experience with a certain courier company. I apologise if you have ever had a similar experience with this same courier company and are about to scream at the very mention of their name . . . CityLink Express Couriers. A subsidiary of Rentokil I think they should exterminate themselves!

Over the last couple of years they have gone through 3 changes at the top and slashed staff to an unprecedented level. So much so that the combined effect has reduced their ability to deliver, no pun intended, to virtually useless.

I had ordered a product online form southern England on the 7 December. Their first attempt to deliver was 24 December! They gave me a handy time slot of 7.30am to 5.30pm, for which I remained in all day, to then change their mind at 4pm and reschedule it for the 29th!

And yes, the same handy delivery slot, the same waiting in all day, the same no show! Finally, on the 30th, they decide they feel like fulfilling their obligation and turn up! The company who sold me the item were marvelous, offering all sorts of compensation. Though generous I don't feel it's fair they are penalised for the inabilty of said courier. In contrast a box was sent to me from Buenos Aires by normal mail and took just 8 days to get to me!

Maybe with the cutbacks of course they don't have vans anymore and had walked from down south. I hadn't thought of that.

There, end the year on a damn good rant!

That aside 2011 holds some potentially exciting adventures of which I am already very excited about and will tell you more about that on the other side.

It just remains for me to wish you all peace, health, prosperity and happiness in 2011. The adventure continues.

Attaboy Clarence

As many people tend to say at this time of year, It doesn't feel like Christmas to me, though watching through the window of my cozy flat as the fluffy flakes of snow gently float down once again, it certainly looks like Christmas. Last year was the first white Christmas in many years in Edinburgh, and this year has been no exception with the first falls arriving late November. It had all but disappeared by last weekend, then during the night on Saturday it came back with a vengeance. Ever since it's stayed well below freezing and it still looks as fresh as the day it fell.

I've done my fair share of wandering the shops, and noticed just how much we seem to rise to the will of the advertisers; buying more food than we can possibly consume, though some give it a good try; pushing and shoving our way through endless crowds to obtain that must-have-but-will-be-broken-in two-days present; then queuing endlessly to part with our hard earned money. Isn't it so much more than this? I'm was on the search for the answer.

One big effect of all this snow and freezing temperatures, and worth remembering when we're buying all that food in excess, is our garden birds. These poor creatures are now struggling to find food and just as importantly, water. I put food in my garden every day, and defrost the bird bath twice a day. I always get regular visitors, such as starlings, sparrows and the occasional robin, but I think the word has gotten out in the neighbourhood that its party time in Graham's tiny 4m by 5m garden! The variety of birds now coming to the garden every day has astonished me, and confirmed just how desperate they are for food. In fact no sooner have I reached the back door after putting food out than they are down, scoffing away. For the record here's the list with the most numerous first. And this was just this morning:
Starlings
Sparrows
Blue tits
Robins
Blackbirds
Wood pigeons
Long tailed tit
Magpie
Redwings
Song thrush
Wren
I'm no Twitcher (the nickname for avid bird watchers) but I spent over an hour at the kitchen window, with a warming gingerbread latte, just watching all my feathered friends enjoying themselves.

Some of my other friends of the human variety, assembled last weekend at Andrew's house and enjoyed our annual viewing of James Stewart in It's A Wonderful Life, accompanied by vats of mulled wine and mince pies. No matter how many times I see that film it always makes me cry at the end, always at the same moment when James Stewart's character George Bailey opens the book Clarence left behind. Inside the inscription reads: "No man is a failure who has friends".

My closest friend is far away this year, currently basking in quite the opposite climate in south west Argentina, and I know she will be delighted at the list of visitors to the garden.

This time of year for me always reminds me of the value of friends, be that human or feathered, and the joy and love they bring to your life. I suppose that's what Christmas really feels like to me, and the answer to my search. Above all I miss those that are far away more than I can describe.

I found a nice friendship quote the other day: "True friends are never apart, maybe in distance, but not in heart"

Merry Christmas everybody.

Spark of genius

Over the past six weeks I have been teaching film making to a small group of 13 year old boys at my local Boys’ Brigade company, and was pleasantly surprised at their eagerness.

About fifteen years I used to run the BB company, the 25^th Edinburgh, and I had been involved for over seventeen years. During the latter ten years I would write a comedy show for their end of year presentation, the parents night. Not necessarily original material, mostly borrowing from the greats of Peter Cook and Monty Python.

The age range of the boys started from as young as 11 and all the way up to 18. It always amazed me that at age 11 every boy would do anything possible not to participate in the show in a lead role. However, let a few years pass and by the time they were 16 or older they were literally fighting each other over the parts! Overall the entire idea was to build their confidence in being able to speak in front of an audience. This was achieved in spades, as they say and many I’m sure have benefited in this boost to their confidence. Maybe some have even gone on to a stage or screen career.

So these past six weeks were a return to a similar idea, and though fifteen years have passed the boys are no different now than they were then, apart from maybe a little more bold. What had changed of course was their knowledge and available references to events past. For instance none of them knew very much at all about princess Diana, and 9/11 was a subject they were a little vague on.

Each week I introduced them to another piece of knowledge in the process of film making. We started by watching a few film clips, making sure they understood the structure of story telling, then went on to develop characters and only three weeks later they were asked to come up with a two-minute story.

Their imagination knew no bounds, to put it politely, but through the inevitable innuendo and gore-ridden ideas, one supernatural story came forward. I was impressed. It had a beginning, middle and end and four very identifiable characters.

Last Saturday, much to their surprise, having gathered them together, I provided them with a small film crew for four hours in order that they could act in, and film their story. The boy who had created the idea for the film directed it and the other boys took turns in either acting a part, filming or recording sound.

The end result, though no Miramax production, is quite fun, and with a few additional editing tricks they have a nice little production I’m sure they will want to show off.

As the production came to an end I did stop to wonder if at some distant time in the future, one or more of the boys would go on to become a successful film maker, the spark of genius being ignited in these past few weeks.

Country paralised!

Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be some doom and gloom blog, but the title is how the tabloids like to describe our current spate of wintry weather. Never are we expected to think that it is wondrous, exciting and magical. Well, my past week was just that.

As a small child, more years ago now than I care to remember, I would trudge through feet of fluffy snow on my way to school. In fact getting to school and coming home were the best parts of the day in winter. It seems nowadays if the family’s four wheel drive can’t get out of the suburbia paved driveway, then junior cannot possibly make it the eight hundred yards to school. Not that it matters though, because today there are three inches of snow in the playground and the school has been shut!

I arrived in Aviemore in the highlands late afternoon on Sunday. All around was quite still and the temperature was several degrees below freezing, the snow glistening in the glow of the sodium street lights. I had opted to stay at the youth hostel on the outskirts of the town, now wrapped in billows of fluffy powdery snow.

Monday. Cloudless blue skies. Not a breath of wind. Minus ten degrees.

Seven miles out of town, heading toward the Cairngorm mountain range, is a small settlement called Glenmore. Here is Scotland’s national outdoor training centre, full of tough outdoorsy instructors, rugged, who stand with one foot on a rock as they tell you of their exploits. Also in Glenmore is the Glenmore café, right on the edge of the campsite, now buried in half a metre of snow. The café is my number one stop when I come to play in this area. A great start to the day with lashings of hot tea and bulging bacon rolls, with a backdrop of the forest birds coming down to feeders at the windows, chased away occasionally by marauding red squirrels, arguably the cutest creatures in the world.

I hired bright yellow snow-shoes and headed out into the sea of snow for the day. The large loch nearby, Loch Morlich, was frozen over and the beach was covered in two feet of fresh snow. The snow-shoes still sank in, bringing the snow almost up to my knees, but try and walk through this landscape without them and very quickly you would be telling the rest of the party to leave you there to die, struggle as you would to make any progress.

Today though, I was alone, and fortunate that I knew the area very well. Every path and recognisable feature was invisible under the white blanket with not a single track breaking the surface.

At one point I stopped and held my breath.

Not a sound. Perfectly still.

A few deer were surprised by my approach and pranced off, leaping through the snow like dolphins breaking the surface waters. Snow flakes started to float gently to the ground and the suns rays, breaking through the snow covered branches of giant Scots Pine trees, caught the flakes as they fell, illuminating them like millions of little light bulbs.

By early afternoon the landscape was at it’s most glorious and I stopped to eat my lunch on a snowy log pile. I was alone and by now far from the main road, deep in Rothiemurcus forest, tucking into my cheese and ham filled baguette. A puffed up robin came to say hello and we shared a bit of mature cheddar cheese.

By 4pm the last of the suns light was fading as I emerged from the forest, back onto the main road near Coylumbridge, then made my way down to the Ord Ban café for thick, frothy hot chocolate and mulled wine. Bliss.

Tuesday and Wednesday I traded in my snow-shoes for cross-country skis and pottered around the same forest, retracing my snow-shoe tracks from Monday. They were still the first lines through the snow and it felt very much like this was my forest, at least for the day. At times I felt I could have be hundreds of miles into a wild mountainous country, all alone except for the deer and birds. Nearby a stream was battling to keep its course open as the falling temperatures crystallised the clear waters. As the stream tumbled over rocks, water vapour rose and instantly froze into a thin fog, picking up the suns rays like smoke from a fire.

My final day was spent skiing downhill on the nearby mountains. This was such a contrast to the peace and sincerity of the forest far below. Here was noise and fierce commercial enterprise, with the focus on squeezing every last buck out of you. I felt very disappointed and ripped off, the centre charging high season full price for equipment and lift passes, with only a third of the area open. The runs were glorious though, I have to admit, with perfect conditions and the sun illuminating every run. Three thousand feet below the valley was filled with low cloud and looking down on the clouds at that point made me feel I was at far higher altitudes.

On reflection, though the downhill skiing was a slightly disappointing experience, it put everything into perspective. For the first time I found myself longing to be back on cross country skis or snow shoes, exploring my way through virgin powder snow. This from someone who would thrive on the thrill of the red and black downhill runs of smoothly pisted mountain sides.

I will still enjoy those moments but nothing will ever beat the thrill of using my own power to glide through pristine wilderness on cross country skis, or trudging through on snow shoes, with only the forest and its permanent residents for company.

That headline? Country Paralised! Sub heading - "Graham has wilderness to himself".

More pictures on my Flickr site

A short video of the adventure is now viewable on YouTube