Celtic Illumination, part 175, Mad dogs and Englishmen.

Thankfully I’m not a gambler, although if I were I believe my chances of getting good odds on my claim that dear old Noel Coward was referring to 92 Squadron when he wrote,  ♫ Mad Dogs and Englishmen ♫   would be high.  I’ll have to check the archive and see if he was an honorary member of the squadron.   Normally on a Saturday morning we would go into Cagliari, this was the capital of Sardinia and a very busy sea port.  We would simply sit at a pavement café and drink coffee or beer and watch the traffic, which I can assure you was madness personified, if you get my drift.  We wouldn’t visit the shops as there was nothing really special on offer.  Everything we wanted was provided for us in a small gift shop on Decci.

The gift shop was run by a group of wives and sold two items, Capodemonti porcelain figurines and Scalextric racing sets.  There was always a good range of figurines but only the largest available Scalextric set.  Both items were ridiculously cheap and the shop would be sold out within half an hour of it opening.  There was nothing that would require me to enlarge my security package for the return journey.  There was one game which we played in Cagliari which I am a little reluctant to tell you about; however, as it happened, I feel that I should explain what we got up to, despite the embarrassment.

As I have already said Cagliari was a very busy sea port and therefore teeming with sailors of every nationality and hue.  After our coffee or beer we would then dream up the most depraved sexual act we could think of, that was theoretically achievable, and go off in teams of two or three to find a magazine that would show such an act.  We would arrange to meet back at the café at a set time and we would all have put some money into a pot which the winning team would collect.  As you may imagine this treasure hunt would take us into and around the more ‘colourful’ part of the city, however it was always a bit of a laugh and I feel sad to admit that someone always won the challenge. I don’t feel ashamed that we played such a game but I do feel ashamed that people could be so depraved to engage in such practices.

Sardinia has a very long and rich history and I understand that there are quite a few places of interest to visit.  We never bothered with the cultural side but concentrated more on the beaches.  Groups of the lads would hire minibuses and set off for the coast.  A favourite target would be one of the German hotels with private beach.  Whether we would blag our way through the hotel onto the beach or find a gap in the fence, that surrounded the area, we would always plonk ourselves on the beach, with beer and simply lie back and enjoy the sunshine.  In the evening we would fire up a barbeque and more than often crash on the beach as making your way back to the minibus, or tent, was far too much of an effort.

The Germans didn’t really mind us lying about on their beach as long as we behaved ourselves.  It was the Italians the Germans couldn’t stand.  One evening Graham Moss and myself went for a few scoops with some German guys.  We were in the German club, which had Italian staff.  We noticed that they had Apfelkorn on ice and as this was a favourite schnapps for us, in Germany, we ordered round after round.  The staff must have been new or very poorly trained, for rather than serve it to us in small shot glasses they served it to us in half pint mugs.  We were swilling the stuff down as if it were going out of fashion.

The Germans then told us that in Germany they had a character in a children’s book that every German child would read in primary school.  The character was a monkey and was called Tricky.  They then explained that they thought all Italians looked like monkeys so called them Tricky.  So from then on Graham and myself started calling the staff Tricky.  The Germans left leaving just Graham and myself in the club and this is where you begin to understand clichés such as ‘a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing.’  What the Germans had omitted to tell us was that the Italians knew why they were called Tricky and understandably didn’t like it too much.

As we came out of the club a car came hurtling towards us bristling with Italians who wanted to show us exactly how much they didn’t like being called Tricky.  Graham and I were giving a good account of ourselves, against about nine Italians, when two passing Americans saw the commotion and joined in, thankfully on our side.  The Italians withdrew with much gesturing and names being thrown about, while we staggered off to our pits.  I was sitting on the edge of my bed trying to find my feet so that I could remove my shoes, when a gang of Americans came bursting in wanting to know where the Brits were who had been attacked, as they wanted to go and find the Italians and start world war three.  We told them to forget about it and go to bed.

The American’s were always ready for a good fight as were we.  One day the squadron runner came to me and told me that I was to report to operations immediately.  I went directly to operations to find the detachment commander and the senior engineering officer, the SENGO, waiting for me.  I was presented with a signal which was stamped all over with the words ‘NATO Top Secret,’ in red.  Everyone’s favourite Mad Mullah, Colonel Muammar Muhammad Abu Minyar al-Gaddafi, was pissed off with someone or something and had threatened to dump a thermo nuclear warhead on top of Decci.  I had to dig out my little files from the safe and open the appropriate orders for such a situation.  The engineers prepared the aircraft and the aircrew were similarly prepared.

I have never seen so many aircraft take off in such a short amount of time.  It was clear that the other nations had been informed of Gaddafi’s threat and they too had opened their secret files and got their instructions.  The Germans went home, as did every other nation, even the fecking Italians, leaving just ourselves and the Americans.  As we were almost on a war footing our aircraft were dispersed all over the airfield as did the Americans, the Italians had left theirs in a nice neat row on the flight line.  It was quite an interesting time, with reflection, as we could do nothing more than sit back and wait.  There were certainly some curious thoughts going through the old head.

After a while we stood down and went to the bar.  The Americans were going mental and had even issued personal weapons and had all their people in full camouflage gear.  Our quick beer turned into a full on squadron session with barbeque and I can remember a gang of us sitting on the veranda watching the day pass us by.  It’s a wonder we didn’t have a lottery gong on what time the first missile would arrive.  Although in the quieter moments I’m sure many of us glanced up at the sky to see if there were any largish objects hurtling toward us.

The most popular, and common, form of transport on Decci were small three wheeled vans that zipped about the place.  One American actually pulled up in front of us and got out shouting.  “Hey you guys!  Don’t you know we’re at war?  Gaddafi’s going to attack us.” None of us could match his enthusiasm, as we were slightly weary until the SENGO spoke.  Pointing at the little three wheeler, as it zipped off down the road, he said.  “If anyone can get one of them back to the squadron for me there’ll be a crate of beer in it for them.”  Strangely enough Gaddafi was forgotten about as many of us started plastering our faces with camouflage paint so that we wouldn’t stand out among the Americans.

Celtic Illumination, part 174, Name, rank and number.

For some reason our behaviour at Decci was quite ridiculous and often veered towards the extremely dangerous.  I of course would never participate in the shenanigans but would casually observe.  I’m not sure why this alcohol fuelled madness occurred but it seemed to be standard behaviour for Decci.  I do remember one detachment when Squadron Leader Keith Mac Burney was in charge.  We had quite an evening in the German club enjoying schnapps and beer.  Decci could be a dangerous place so we tended to move around in groups, when we remembered.  Most of the squadron set off for the accommodation block.

Unlike RAF stations with their manicured grassed areas, it appeared that the Italians couldn’t care less what their units looked like, which is why Decci probably resembled a scrapyard, on a good day.  Many of the lowest ranks in the Italian forces would have been conscripts so would be given mostly guard duties or simple manual tasks.  The building behind our accommodation housed a bank, which was guarded, permanently, by two armed conscripts.  The unit was criss-crossed with a series of bondoo ditches.  These were about three foot deep and three foot wide and were to clear the area of heavy rain during storms; they were also our biggest obstacle in getting back to your pit.  The grass, weeds, bushes and occasional piles of rubbish were a good three feet high.

Quite often chaps would appear with cuts and bruises having fallen in to a bondoo ditch the previous evening on their way back from some club.  Sometimes the guys would spend the night there.  Part of the fun was to actually get into a bondoo ditch, sneak up on the bank guards and shout at them or throw things at them.  These guys were so nervous that they would more than often fire a couple of warning shots.  So with about twenty of us in a bondoo ditch, we were popping up like targets at a fun fair, while the guards showed how inaccurate their marksmanship could be.

It was quite a giggle and when we arrived back at our accommodation block we noticed that the RAF police had left their mini outside the block.  As most squadrons were boisterous, some bright spark thought that if they positioned the RAF police office in the RAF accommodation block, it might calm the troops down.  Dave Magee was master of ceremonies that evening.  The mini was lifted and set into an alcove so that on three sides there were only inches to spare.  If anyone wanted to get it out they would have needed a fork lift truck or twenty drunken squadron members.

As you may imagine our spirits were quite high, and I'm not talking schnapps here, we all fell into one room, these were four, or six, man rooms, someone produced half a dozen crates of beer.  I remember I was sitting on a window sill watching.  I was probably holding a bottle of beer, pretending that I was drinking, for appearances you understand.  Dave Magee was holding court.  He was sitting on a sink, which decided to come off the wall.  I’m not saying that Dave was a big fellow, well; he was, but as he is a dear friend I would have to say the accident was probably because of poor Italian craftsmanship.  I can remember Dave turning and looking at the two streams of water that were now gushing freely into the room.

What we were not aware of was that the Italian military police had reacted to the shooting and had, eventually, come out to investigate.  I think their ‘modus operandi’ was to give it five minutes, think about it, give it another few minutes and then react, probably hoping that whoever was being shot at had gone.  These guys gave the area a thorough search, which means they probably looked about a bit, in the dark, and then hearing the commotion at our block wandered over.

They probably thought that wearing a police uniform gave them some authority, so noticing the mini parked as it was, came on it to investigate the commotion.  Dave was next to the main door of the room which swung open and showed us the two Italian policemen.  They saw us and the room which was filling up quite nicely I have to say. Perhaps sensing that they were on a sticky wicket, they reacted very cleverly, or as Italian military policemen do.  They drew their weapons.  Now none of us lacked bravery but we knew that Italian military policemen were rather casual with how they dispensed justice, or their version of it.  Dave was handcuffed and led away.

I managed to get the troops to believe that their best course of action was to block the broken pipes, stop the water flow and clear up a bit, I would get Dave out of the guardroom.  I went over to the officer’s mess and luckily found Squadron Leader Mac Burney outside, by the swimming pool.  I could see that some of the aircrew had been a tish boisterous as an irate Italian, presumably from the golf club, was wanting to know why one of his golf buggies was in the swimming pool, imitating a submarine.  It was quite common when on the rip in the golf club to take a golf buggy for a spin rather than attempt to walk back to your accommodation, I mean look at the dangers of walking.

Keith told me to get the squadron warrant officer, Slim, and come back with both of us in uniform, as he hoped the golf buggy incident would be sorted by then.  I got my uniform on and met up with Slim.  Keith had sorted out the golf buggy, well told the aircrew to get it out of the swimming pool and was dressed in his uniform so the three of us set of for the guardroom.  Like most military units the guard room was by the main gate.  It was somewhere we all knew well, not because we were always getting locked up in the cells but because one of the things you simply had to witness, when at Decci, was the lowering of the flags in the evening.

All units at Decci would have their national flag hoisted at the main gate.  In the evening the Italian guard would lower each flag while that nation’s national anthem would be played.  This was Decci so please don’t expect a military band.  In the guardroom was a record player.  They played each national anthem on well-worn records, sometimes getting the wrong tune, and sending it out over the PA system, scratches and all.  There was no sharp pomp and ceremony but in their own very lackadaisical way they tried.

As we approached the guardroom we wondered how to present ourselves.  Should Keith march Slim and myself, or should Slim march me and Keith could…..  Sod it, we thought, it was dark.  We ploughed in to the guardroom and as the Italian officer in charge seemed now to be saluting everything that moved we reciprocated, giving the event a sort of Monty Python feel.  I could see that all three of us were a bit squiffy and wondered how Keith was going to handle this.  I had explained to Keith what had happened, well; I lied my arse off and had explained that poor little Dave Magee was completely innocent of whatever charges the pesky Italians would make up against him.

I couldn’t believe it when Keith smiled at the Italian officer, pulled out a bottle of Scotch and asked if he could have his man back, please.  Dave was immediately released and we make a hasty retreat.  We walked, as quickly as we could, away from the guard room into the darkness and eventually, when we felt far enough away to be safe, began to laugh about it.   Slim wanted to know if they would come around the following day looking for Dave.  Keith didn’t think so, but Dave said it didn’t matter if they did, for he had given them the wrong name anyway, he said his name was Pat Magroin.  Dave had been wearing a fake name patch, which we all did on most detachments. 

Celtic Illumination, part 173, Dancing the night away.

I would hope that by now you would all be feeling very sorry for us.  It was quite an endurance test having to live tax free in Germany, just so most of you could sleep safely in your beds, but to have to endure further hardships such as up to six weeks every summer in Cyprus was asking a bit much of us.  Unfortunately the Ministry of Defence had faith in us and our capabilities so would send us to Sardinia for a couple of weeks, again, during the summer as we needed good weather to make the most of our time there.  And that is something I can assure you that we did.

Decimomannu was a huge NATO(ish) base on the beautiful island of Sardinia.  We referred to it as ‘Decci’ and went there for ACMI (Air Combat Manoeuvring Instrumentation).  Basically fighter pilots had to engage in dog fights to improve their skills.  Debriefing was often viewed as slightly unfair as the stronger argument may win the dogfight, rather than what actually happened in the air.  The phantom aircraft was equipped with a camera so that when the weapons trigger was pressed the camera was engaged and the manoeuvre could be more accurately dissected during the de-brief.  However some crews were still not happy with this method as the stronger argument, or higher rank, could often win the dog fight.

Decci put an end to all this.  A computer pod would be attached to the aircraft, on one of the missile slots, and this would feed back all relevant information to a ground control unit.  The information was fed into a huge computer, housed in what looked like four huge metal containers you would see on the back of a lorry.  The result was displayed on an enormous screen and as every parameter that could affect the engagement would be taken into consideration; there was no arguing with a computer.  I remember watching my first engagements on the huge screen and if you were killed, or the computer determined you were not the winner, a small coffin flashed around the aircraft, which you then had to request leave the area for a short period of time before coming back in and re-engaging.

The flight line at Decci was about two miles long and for anyone interested in military aircraft it would have been heaven.  If you can imagine first thing in the morning climbing up the air traffic control tower and looking down along a two mile long line of military aircraft.  There would be French squadrons, Italian, German, Turkish, Spanish, even Israeli, American and of course 92 Squadron.  It was a lovely sight, even for someone like me, and yes some of the aircraft weren’t there, so cameras were restricted.  As you can imagine on your arrival briefing an Italian officer would be informing us that there was a  ‘No cameras pleeze,’ security policy, which would be interpreted by us as challenge number one.  We would then be advised not to go near the mountains of Sardinia as bandits still operated there, capturing and robbing tourists.  Thankfully we never got drunk enough to follow up the suggestion, often made after a few scoops, that we go up into the mountains and capture a couple of bandits for ourselves.

The first thing I saw when I entered operations at Decci was a statement on the ops room wall saying, ‘Decimomannu, not quite the end of the world, but you can see it from here.’  My first duty was to load up with cartons of two hundred Benson and Hedges cigarettes and go visit the fuel bowser drivers.  They had to be bribed, on a regular basis, to perform their duty and refuel our aircraft.  To ensure that we were always ready to fly this was quite an important task to stay on top of.  We couldn’t afford to hang around as we never knew when they would open or close the range.  All we could do was wander about shouting, in the most comical Italian accent we could muster, “The range, she’s a close-ed.”  Next most important duty was to make sure that there was plenty of, clean and hygienic, fluid for the guys to drink.  This wasn’t because of the heat but because of the social life which I can assure you was hectic.

Each nation had its own club or mess at Decci and I can assure you the NAAFI was normally empty as it was your basic warm beer, metal ash trays and formica tables.  We felt more at home in the German club or the Italian mess.  Decci was the sort of place where you made a lot of friends who couldn’t speak your language.  It was quite common to sit down for breakfast with four or five buddies and not be able to effectively communicate with them as they would be French or German, Spanish, Turkish or even Israeli.  The other nations had their own version of squadron songs which they would launch into but Decci is where I learned the squadron dance.  Now with legs like mine, and my penchant for jiving, you would think I would be in good standing for the squadron dance, but no.  It had undertones of the rugby club and was in two parts.

The first part was known as The Dance of The Zulu Warrior.  One person would volunteer or be nominated by the squadron and would then have no choice but to perform the ritual.  You might be sitting there enjoying a beer, or flaming Sambuca, when thirty guys point at you and start chanting, I shall not say ‘sing’ in case I offend anyone with vocal ability, they would start chanting. ‘Aye igga zumba zumba zumba, aye igga zumba zumba eh’  This would be repeated once or twice, it all depended on who was master of ceremonies, and then the line, ‘Get em down, you Zulu warrior, get em down you Zulu chief, chief, chief.’ would be added.  The squadron members would now continue repeating the first line a couple of times and then punch in with the chorus again.  Not exactly Mendelssohn.  As this was going on you were expected to stand on the table, minding the bottles and glasses, or clearing the lot with a sweep of your feet, and strip off all your clothes.

Some would simply strip off in order to get the ordeal over and done with as quickly as possible whereas some, and I think the differentiation hovered on the amount of drink that had been taken, some would try to give the event a certain level of entertainment value.  Once naked, although socks would be permitted to remain, the Zulu Warrior would now move on to the more dangerous and final part of the squadron dance which was The Dance of The Flaming Arseholes.  This is where the now naked Zulu Warrior would clamp a rolled up newspaper between the cheeks of his arse and the newspaper would be set alight.

Sometimes the chaps would have laced the newspaper with Sambuca which would produce a more vibrant although entertaining flame.  This now became a test of bravery as the Zulu Warrior had to continue prancing about while the squadron would continue to chant.  When the guys decided that the flame had drawn close enough to the skin, to indicate a certain level of braveness, the flame would be extinguished, in much the same way as the flaming engine during the Shackleton song, with the guys hoofing their beer over the Zulu Warrior and his blistering derriere.  I wouldn’t advise any of you to try this, as even after all those years I still have flashbacks of that very long table and that newspaper being prepared.

Celtic Illumination, part 172, Rugby, like war, but without the killing.

It was quite strange living and working next to the army.  It seemed bizarre that the people I used to throw stones at back home were now living next door to me.  And a married soldier actually did live next door to me with his family.  We didn’t meet often; in fact we hardly ever met.  The flats were so well designed and constructed that normally you wouldn’t hear anything from those above, below or beside you.  However one night, fast asleep in bed, I woke with a start.  I thought I had heard a knock at our front door.  I waited and listened.   There certainly was someone at our front door and they were not knocking it, they were kicking it. I leapt out of bed, pulled on a pair of trousers and as I walked into our hallway saw the front door come in off its hinges and land at my feet.

Standing there was a pongo in his underpants.   Remember, anywhere the army goes, the pong goes.  The opposite door opened and a couple of soldiers came out and retrieved the drunk squaddie.  A moment or two later the occupant of the flat, my neighbour, came out, inspected the damage, apologised and assured me that it would be repaired first thing in the morning.  The drunk squaddie was bursting for a pee and as the bathroom, in the flat with the party, was engaged had gone outside to relieve himself.  He chose the wrong door on his return and thought his fellow revellers were playing a joke on him by locking him out.

In fact I felt sorry for some of the pongos, the engineers in particular.  I remember driving to work, it was midsummer, wonderfully hot and as I drove around the perimeter track, from the domestic site to our squadron dispersal, I came across a company of engineers who were on exercise.  These guys were dressed from top to toe in NBC gear, gas masks and guns.  They were also completing a runway repair exercise.  If you ever come across a serious military airfield, not a training airfield, you might see piles of stones and rolls of metal matting lying alongside the runway.  Should a runway be attacked and find itself covered with bomb craters these guys were responsible for repairing the runway and allowing the aircraft to continue operating from that base.

Like ourselves they had time limits and strict routines to adhere to.  I actually felt sorry for them as they beavered away in the raging sunshine while racing their massive earth moving vehicles around trying to hit their specified targets.  Basically they would scrape out a crater, fill it with aggregate, compact and level it and then cover with these huge metal mats that were firmly secured to the ground.  They estimated that a medium size crater, of about twenty odd meters width could be repaired within two hours.

In fact I wasn’t the only person who had noticed the engineers beavering away that day.  Slim, the squadron warrant officer had seen them too, but he had had an idea, that’s why he was the warrant officer.  I can remember much later in the day having a coffee in the crew room and seeing two huge earth moving vehicles trundling along our taxiway.  I wasn’t worried in the least that the pongos were invading our dispersal as Slim was hanging off the front vehicles pointing to the rear of one of our HAS’s.

The two vehicles disappeared behind the HAS and we had a rough idea as to what was happening as trees were disappearing.  Twenty minutes later the two vehicles drove away and Slim came in to inform us all that he had just cleared an area, behind a HAS, that could now be used for squadron barbeques.  I understand a couple of crates of beer were involved in that exchange.  They were good sports.  And like us sport was a big part of army life.  There were two brothers, the Pococks.  Dereck played both rugby and football while his brother only played football.  The pair of them actually played for the army and were very good sportsmen.  Derek was completely mental too.

We had just endured a game of rugby and were already celebrating in the changing rooms; by the way, celebrating does not necessarily mean that we had been victorious.  I remember Derek slipped and reached out to catch a sink to steady himself.  The sink came off the wall and Derek sliced his arm open.  He wanted to finish his beer before being taken to the medics despite the fact that there was a healthy amount of blood squirting from his arm.  He came straight back to the club house after being stitched up and continued to drink himself into a stupor.

We always had a half a dozen rugby games against army teams in Germany and I never liked playing against them.  I don’t know why but they always seemed to wear black and for some reason I was quite apprehensive about that colour.  It may have had something to do with the thuggish priests who kicked me from pillar to post claiming it to be  a traditional education, I don’t know, it may have been.  There was always the joke that the army bods retained their rank on the playing field whereas for us there was no rank on the sports pitch.

During a game against an army side you would see someone shout,  “Me sir!  Pass me the ball sir!” and fifteen RAF lads would now know who to clobber.  We were lucky that most chinless, and probably spineless, officers were in air traffic control; but the army was riddled with chinless wonders all commissioned because of their school, or their father.  Given the opportunity an identified army officer would have been given an extra dig or two and although we may not have left them with their very own duelling scar we certainly tried to leave them with less teeth than they had arrived with.

One fine day we were playing away at Bracht.  Bracht were the Rhine army rugby champions and fielded one hell of a side.  There would be no officer bashing that day as every effort would be needed to hold them to a draw.  They were dressed in black and I was so thankful that I had been nominated as a substitute for that day’s game.  I don’t know why I was a sub that day but I was glad that I wasn’t on the pitch as it was a blistering game and very, very, physical.

A scrum occurred just in front of us and we could almost feel the effort the chaps were putting in to it when the referee stopped the scrum.  He thought he had seen some foul play and as the players stood we could now see that he was correct, foul play had indeed occurred.  John Roe, an animal of a man, was playing at the number eight position, leading the pack of forwards.  His nose was, well; a mess.  It’s hard to describe what had happened to it or what it looked like, but it looked as if it had exploded.

“Get Paddy Morris on here now!” shouted John Roe, as he realised he was leaving the match.  “He’ll sort these army bastards out!”  Now pongos may not be the brightest of sparks, but they certainly are not deaf, so I gingerly stepped on to the field of play, hoping none of the army players would notice me, and took my place as the new number eight.  It was a difficult match and I cannot remember who won.  Given the statistic’s I think it would probably be fair to say that the Bracht chaps won, but the following week I was reading a write up about that match and read that after the John Roe incident, it appeared that fifteen army chaps spent the remainder of the match trying to catch and kill some fellow called Paddy Morris while fourteen RAF chaps tried to score a try.  

Celtic Illumination, part 171, Fair exchange no robbery.

Chidge and his wife Gail headed back to Watton and I settled myself back into learning my job on the squadron.  We were constantly being trained and tested and not just by our own side.  One of our roles was to provide air defence cover for the East - West border.  To this end that was always a fully armed aircraft, with aircrew and ground crew, sitting at the end of the runway.  Well, there was a HAS, on 19 squadron’s dispersal, close to the runway and we called it the ‘Q shed’ or ‘Battle flight’.   It was QRA, a Quick Reaction Alert, and had to be airborne within a certain amount of time.

There were various states of readiness but all within the ultimate launch time of four or five minutes.  The air defence radar guys would be watching the border monitoring activity in the East.  We knew what bases they would operate from if attacking us and they knew from which bases we would respond.  If something got airborne and aimed toward the border they would call our battle flight to readiness.  Of course over in the East they were watching us and would be timing our response.  Once the air defence controllers felt that an enemy aircraft was belting toward the border, our battle flight would be scrambled.

It was a hell of a sight and the noise was glorious as the aircraft would hammer off into the blue, crackling the sky as it went.  It did cause one or two organisational problems as the aircraft would still have to undergo routine maintenance, the crews would have to be changed and of course be current with all their flying activities.  Our Q ship would thunder off towards the border and suspected intruder but on reaching the border both aircraft would turn and fly along parallel.  There was a dog-leg turn in the border and occasionally the enemy would not be paying attention and fly into our airspace but this was normally laughed at, and of course we would never make a mistake.

Sometimes we would be launched north as the large Russian Bear’s, the NATO code name for the Tupolev TU-95 aircraft, would be dropping submarine monitoring equipment.  Our guys would come alongside and as well as record any visual information about the aircraft would wind the Russians up as well.  In the tail of the Bear is a large bubble window, on either side, where a Russian observer would sit with a huge cumbersome camera.  The camera would be on rails so could be used from either side of the Bear.  Our guys would watch the fellow set it all up, in preparation to take their photograph, and then swing under the Bear so that the observer would have to pull the camera across the rails and set it up again.

They would also mess with us.  One navigator, Barry Mayner, told me that they timed the sonar devices being dropped into the ocean and realised that they were coming out at set intervals.  With the next buoy dropped they came under the Bear and began to take photographs of the inside of the bomb bay pulling out before the next buoy was due to be dropped.  The Russians were no fools and quickly clocked on to what our chaps were up to, so on the third attempt, dropped a sonar buoy early which I am reliably informed would have taken out the phantom if they had connected successfully.

 The crew who would be on battle flight had to endure twenty four hours of sitting and waiting and although those pesky Russian’s were our enemy, so was boredom.  So one day we were on exercise.  We had to get, I think, seventy per cent of our aircraft fully armed within six hours so everyone was maxed out.  The Q ship was fully armed and sitting at the end of the runway, as normal, but I think  it was due to come back onto the squadron for servicing so as most of the aircraft were being fully armed anyway, it was decided to swop two aircraft over.

The crew were brought to cockpit readiness and when the replacement was trundling its way down the taxiway to the battle flight shed the Q bird was launched.  Roy Lawrence was the pilot and Alistair Inverarity was the navigator, two lovely fellows.  Off they went into the big blue yonder and as we were on exercise, went hunting for the enemy.  Our normal practice enemy would be Jaguars.  We would set up what was known as a CAP, a combat air patrol.  Basically the aircraft would fly in a race track pattern and normally there would be two Phantoms, one would search the sky above their CAP for targets and the other below for really low level.

Our guys found a pair of Jaguars and attacked.  Most of what happened next is still being argued about today, apart from the one unarguable point, which is that one of the Jaguars was shot down.  Thankfully the Jaguar pilot escaped unhurt, but our guys weren’t so lucky.  Both were court martialled and had a very severe wrist slapping for the mistake.  Once the dust had settled and it was accepted that this had actually happened, we were all called into the crew room and briefed about what had happened and then told not to talk about the incident.  This of course would be difficult as the nose wheel door of the Jaguar was already hanging in the ground crew crew room as a trophy. There was always good natured banter between squadrons and a favourite would have been to lay saucers full of milk in front of a row of Jaguars to wind them up.

A Jaguar squadron from the UK moved in to the dispersal next door to us and the fun and games began.  One of our guys had been on to the domestic site with the SENGO’s minivan and was filling it with crates of beer for a beer call that Friday afternoon.  The Jaguar guys had spotted this and had captured him, the van and the beer, and were demanding the beer as a ransom for the release of our fellow and the minivan.  We were aware of the situation in operations so I came up with a solution.  Two Jaguars were still flying so I told air traffic that the taxiway past our dispersal was closed as it was covered with some form of spillage.  When the Jaguars landed they should be taxied into our dispersal where they could park until the taxiway was cleared.

Our ground crew loved the idea of hijacking two Jaguars so got the troops prepared.  The two Jaguars landed and were parked up, on our dispersal, and had their wheels chocked.  What we didn’t know was that the lead pilot was the commanding officer of the Jaguar squadron, an experienced fellow who tried to jump his Jaguar over the chocks as when he saw our guys milling around his aircraft, like an incoming plague of cinematic zombies, knew something was wrong.  We were then able to offer in exchange for our beer the two Jaguars and crew and as a bonus they threw in our chap and the minivan.

Celtic Illumination, part 170, Wake me up before you go go.

It’s touching that so many of you are asking how I felt when leaving Venice.  Well; I felt as if I was in the film, The Blues Brothers.  That scene towards the end of the movie where Jake and Elwood get into their car, Elwood says.   “It's 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark... and we're wearing sunglasses.”  Well it is seven hundred miles from Venice to Wildenrath, a distance that was well known on 92 Squadron as on a number of occasions the troops would race to Venice for afternoon tea and back again for last orders in the rugby club.  Why, I hear you ask.  Well; as a mountaineer would say, ‘Because it’s there.’

I aimed the little Beetle for Innsbruck via the Brenner Pass and set off.  I pulled in to a motorway service station around Verona and filled the tank.  We pooled all of our money and saw that we had enough for a decent meal each, but accommodation would be perhaps a bit too much of a stretch.  I did have some Lire, which I was embarrassed about, but only about eighty or ninety pence worth.   What I was unaware of was that when you were given your change at a restaurant the waiter would include some small tender notes.  The value of these would be one hundred Lire.  As it was fifteen hundred lire to the pound each one hundred lire note was worth only five or six pence. 

I was really taken with these notes of small tender and decided to collect them and perhaps frame them when I got back, for each was a little work of art.  What I wasn’t aware of is that each county, or district, in Italy had their own version of small tender notes, that were only valid in that area,  and these should have been returned to the waiting staff as a form of tip.  I was now aware that perhaps they had not been wishing us well as we would have left their premises.  We were suitably refreshed and had got back in to the Beetle when we were approached by some men.

On arrival we had been pestered by some young boys who wanted to wash the car.  Thinking it was them again I was about to shooo them away when I saw some swarthy looking types approach me.  I rolled down the window and one of them produced some gold bracelets.  “How much dollar you give me for these?” he asked. “Give me fifty dollars each.”  I explained that I didn’t have any dollars.  It was then established that we were not American but British forces. “Give me pounds sterling.”  Living in Germany.  “Okay, okay, you give me Deutschemark.”

I explained that we had no dollars or pounds sterling or even deutschmark for that matter.  I started the car and was about to drive away when the fellow reached in.  He threw two gold bracelets onto my lap and stated.  “Okay all the money in your top pocket for these.” with which he stabbed his fingers into the breast pocket on my jacket and removed my collection of small denomination Italian notes.    “Done!”  I said, and he had been.  I accelerated away as hard as I could and prayed that the little Beetle would reach optimum cruising speed in double quick time.  For a good number of miles we kept an eye on the traffic behind us fearing that mafia flavoured limousines would be zooming up behind, us but thankfully we were not to sleep with the fishes that night.  Although there was a sort of nautical theme as I have to say I was feeling like a pirate with my load of gold and silver.

Austria was stunning and I had hoped to spend some time there as I was desperate to meet a Prussian prince.  I had always been intrigued with the literary and film version of the German, or Austrian, aristocrat.  The clicking heels, the monocle and the duelling scar.  I had read a lot about the duelling scar, and would love to have met someone with a duelling scar as I wasn’t sure if they were very brave or very stupid.  I had often imagined two brave young men duelling away with swords, on a lawn, at dawn, but on delving deeper into the subject discovered that this was far from the truth.

A duelling scar is a mark of honour and is very much an aristocratic badge. But it is a sign of courage in being able to take a blow.  In fact it’s the loser who wins.  I know very strange indeed.  The two combatants would face each other both encased from their chest to the top of their head in thick leather and chain mail.  They would have goggles to protect their eyes and the only area of bare skin would be the left cheek.  I know I’m sorry, I’ve just ruined any German film you may watch in the future.    Duelling scars only appear on the left cheek.  I was watching the original German version of Das Boot some time ago and was really enjoying it till one fellow pops up with a duelling scar on his right cheek.  Sort of ruins the show for you, well; it did for me.

Anyhow, the two combatants would slice and parry at each other with their swords until one, if not both, sported scars.  The wound would be packed with horse hair, or sand, so that the scar would become more pronounced.  During the Second World War many Jews had their left cheek surgically cut in the hope that they might pass themselves off as German.  The practise still continues today and if part of the grand tour was to meet and establish connections with European aristocracy I couldn’t see why I shouldn’t try to meet them.

Unfortunately with both time and money running out we could do no more that have a wander about Innsbruck.  We decided that we should aim for home as we couldn’t really afford a decent hotel room that evening.  We decided that I would drive as far as I could into the night, have a brief kip in a car park and use our remaining money for a slap up breakfast in the morning.  I floored the little Beetle and was zipping along, enjoying the Bavarian scenery flash past.  I suppose I should have kept my wits about me for I didn’t notice the motorcycle cop creeping up behind me.  He pulled me over and fined me thirty Deutschmarks for speeding.

I don’t think he realised that he had just taken away our breakfast in the morning.  It did deflate our mood a little so I pulled into a motorway service area and parked up.  All four of us nodded off and it was quite funny as Irene woke screaming.  It was still dark but a juggernaut, that had parked next to us, had started up and was moving off.  The sensation we got, as we were on a slight hill, was that we were moving backwards.  I of course jammed my feet onto the brakes wondering why we were still moving.  It certainly woke us all up so we fired up the Beetle and headed for Erkelenz, arriving back laden with gold and silver, not a penny in our pockets but a mind full of wonderful memories, and a nagging thought that I should have that knocking from the back wheel looked at.

Celtic Illumination, part 169, Nuns on the rum

As instructed I was washed and dressed and on parade on time.  I had seen some of my family moving about the hotel and it was obvious that apart from a sociable smile and a nod there wouldn’t be much more communication forthcoming.  I felt bad having to leave Irene but at least she had Chidge and Gail to keep her company.  I headed off to Carol’s flat to collect her and take her to the church.  Carol was still in panic mode and eventually managed to claim that she was ready, I could take her to the church and give her away.  I was secretly hoping that the day would pass without incident but as we left her flat I realised that I may be wishing for far too much.

As we stepped out from the flat Carol moved from panic mode to hysterical mode.  Under no circumstances would she be travelling in a bloody yellow Beetle to the church.  This was her wedding, where was her limousine?   I expected that she would once again, as she had done so many years before, tell the parent that I had been swearing at her.  I explained that there was no time for me to arrange for a new car and eased off on the suggestion that it didn’t bloody well matter what she travelled in.  As you can imagine the journey from her flat to the church was expletive laden and with a multilingual flavour too.

The church was heaving.  I walked her down the aisle, presented her to Guido and withdrew.  It was quite a constipated affair.  Guido was a member of two choirs each of which had taken positions in the church and were determined to out-sing each other.  The Italian monk was chattering away in Italian, one uncle priest was thundering along in Gaelic while the pervert priest stuck to Latin.  Despite the seriousness of the situation we four were having a giggle as we had been seated on the front bench and were trying to keep up with the congregation behind us as they stood, sat or knelt.  It's a wonder none of us started singing ♫ do the hokey cokey ♫

Thankfully it ended and we poured outside for the obligatory photographs and handshakes.  I suppose if I had been interested in the affair I would have said it was a lovely day in gorgeous surroundings.  We left for the reception which was in a restaurant that was perched on the side of a lake.  I say perched for the actually building came out over the lake.  It was a beautiful setting and I settled down for a feed.  My resolve at always eating local was tested as the first course, of the seven we had been warned about, was sliced calf’s brain.  I don’t know about you but I can’t stand any fat or gristle in my mouth and this first course would certainly test my resolve.

Champagne was on tap and all the revellers swallowed it down by the gallon.  I never liked the stuff so had replaced the champagne in my glass with grappa.  Quite late in the afternoon my auntie Mary, a nun in America, staggered over and was the first member of the family to actually speak to me.  “Hi Peter,” she called.  I introduced Irene and Peter and Gail.  Mary, as aunties do, began to tell stories about me when I was a toddler, and probably nice.  She then reached forward and took my champagne glass stating.  “Peter doesn’t like champagne,” after which she downed the grappa.  It was quite funny having to look after a pissed up nun.

Of course with Guido being in two choirs there was a lot of singing throughout the afternoon, some good and some not so good.  Chidge and I probably could have given them a good rendition of four and twenty virgins but we held back, my mother on the other hand was not to be outdone.  I don’t know how word got around that she had been a professional opera singer but people began to ask her to sing and after a number of refusals she eventually gave in and took to the floor.  I had often heard her sing as she practised at home but this was something different.  She stood in the centre of the reception and belted out Ave Maria.

It was so perfect that I think everyone in the room, even the staff, were in tears.  Chidge and I found some of Guido’s uncles and cousins who were big rugby fans so we all adjourned to the bar and began throwing beers down our necks.   It was a good day and I behaved myself as well as can be expected.  After the reception we set off in a huge convoy and were taken to see the natural pyramids which were only a few miles away.  There was a sort of car park which was surrounded by a small hedge.  I was bursting for a pee and thinking I was clever, moved in the opposite direction to the crowd and leapt over the hedge hoping to find somewhere I could relieve myself.  I know I should have looked first but no one expects a twenty foot drop next to a hedge.

I was drunk enough to have entered the rubber bone zone and probably bounced as I hit the bottom.  Suitably splattered in mud from head to toe I re-joined the crowd and looked at the pyramids.  I couldn’t see the attraction but climbed back in the car to find I now had an extra passenger, the drunken nun.  We were heading back to Trento and the hotel, but Mary was concerned that there was something wrong with the car.  We pulled over and listened as we tried to hear what she had caught.  I even switched off the radio to see if we could hear the problem at which she declared I had fixed it.

Back in the hotel I produce a couple of bottles of Irish whiskey, one of the tax free benefits of living in Germany, and encouraged all to drink their fill.  The family of course were mortified and slunk off to their rooms leaving me with the Italians.  It was a good party, judging from the hangover the following morning.   Carol and Guido arrived and were chatting away when Alberto came in and presented Irene with a bunch of flowers.  Carol was livid as it took the focus of attention away from her.  She came over to see that Alberto had made one dozen, full sized, silver roses for Irene’s birthday.  They were really lovely. 

Carol then informed me that the whole wedding party were heading to Venice and if I wanted to I could accompany them.  I hadn’t planned to go to Venice but I thought why not, I could show Irene around.  She then informed me that as Alberto was her friend, half of the roses belonged to her.  I wasted no time in informing her what I thought of her claim, especially as I had paid for them, well; contributed towards them as I knew the actual cost far exceeded what Alberto had asked from me.  I still have to thank him properly and will plan a return trip when I hear that he has been released from prison where he is currently serving a fixed term for murder.  A thought which, you may consider, had crossed my mind, more than once.

With the family packed and loaded up in cars a convoy left Trento and headed south for Venice.  Around lunch time we pulled in at a restaurant and like 92 squadron would do in Cyprus, arranged the tables so that there was one huge table where we all sat.  It was a nice relaxed affair, but there was still a fair amount of tension about.  The mother announced that this would be her treat so everyone was to eat and drink what they wished.  Very generous of her as there were about twenty people in our party.

We were finishing our coffees and preparing to leave when my mother called me over.  I should have known that there would be no apology or explanation or even thanks.  “Peter,” she said.  “I’ve left my money in my suitcase in the car.  Would you pay for this please and I'll sort you out later.”  I felt as if I was getting a glimpse of where Carol got her attitude from and paid the bill, which was just over three hundred quid, or half a million Lire. We all jumped back into our respective vehicles and headed for Venice.  We all met up in Saint Mark’s Square and despite the fact that I was in one of my most favourite places I was becoming quite angry with the ridiculous attitude my family had towards me and Irene.

One of the priests, not the pervert one, had taken a shine to Gail so there was plenty of communication there, but I was so disappointed in my family I announced that we were leaving.  I was thanked for coming and wished a safe journey home and despite the fact that I explained that it was Irene’s birthday not one of them wished her a happy birthday.  To make matters worse I grounded the car as we left the car park and bent the twin exhausts. I put the problem to the back of my mind as it was another expense I would have to deal with when I got back to Germany.  Which I then realised was not when I got back to Germany but if I got back to Germany.  My mother hadn’t given me the money for the lunch.  It did make me smile though, for once again I found myself in Venice with no money and perhaps a slight problem with the return journey back home.

Celtic Illumination, part 168, What’s in a name?

Everything happens for a reason.  Normally with me it’s the double top secret cabal who were organising my life so that I would be prepared to become the world’s leading Master Candle Maker, the High Chief of the Clan O Neill and the true King of Ireland.  This time it was the weather that changed events and I’m not sure if my double top secret cabal were influential enough to do that.  We came hurtling out of the Alps, well hurtling as much as a little bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle can.  Italy really did feel a little grubby and very, very, industrial.  My aeronautical map didn’t really give a decent representation of the street layout in Milan so I planned to head for the centre of town, as you do.

As we approached the outskirts of Milan the volume of traffic seemed to quadruple every ten yards until we felt as if we were in a permanent traffic jam with everyone shaking their left hand while honking their horn with their right.  After the space and freedom of Switzerland it was a little too claustrophobic and then the rain came.  I mean rain, beautiful, heavy, constant rain which unfortunately made the whole situation far too confusing.  We left Milan and hit the motorway.  I pointed the car towards Verona, with images of the Capulet’s and Montague’s knocking seven bells out of each other.  Even the motorway was frustrating.  It felt that every time we got the little Beetle up to optimum speed we would come across a toll gate. 

As we neared Verona, well thirty or forty miles away, I began to recognise place names and had an idea.  I turned left and realised that I had happened upon one of the most beautiful drives in Italy, which was to go up along the side of Lake Garda.  Suddenly Verona and William Shakespeare melted from my mind and real memory took over.  I remembered the drive alongside the lake with its arched tunnels and little villages and to top it all, the rain had stopped, and the sun was boiling any of God’s creatures that were daft enough to be out in it.  It was the only time I wished I had a soft top car rather than a sun roof.

I suppose the road alongside Lake Garda would be about thirty miles long and once you’ve got to Riva Del Garda, at the top, you just want to turn around and do it all again.  Well; I did.  In the blistering afternoon sunshine we stretched out at the lake side enjoying a couple of beers.  It was perfect and I’m not one for lying around beaches or the like but surrounded with the mountains it couldn’t have been any better.  But then I had an idea.  It could get better for I knew that about twenty miles north was a very special castle.  This was regarded as perhaps the most romantic castle in Italy.  It sat on a lake and was dripping with legend, including ghosts and fairies and a string of forbidden aristocratic love affairs.  Seemed only right that the future King of Ireland should visit, again, after all, not only did I have the loveliest legs in Ireland, but in the right light, I was dammed handsome.

The castle dated back to the Roman times and this is very evident in the architecture.  It certainly does allow you to take yourself back in time, but I have to say that sitting on the balcony, draped in soft yellow electric light, with flickering candles and a clear evening, enjoying fresh fish from the lake was marvellous.  There was a sort of peacefulness about the place and I wished I had been able to fill myself full of the stories and legends that had grown up around the place.  I settled for the food and wine and I promise you, fresh apple strudel and red wine on a balcony that juts out over a lake is perfection.  It costs an arm and a leg mind you, but delivers the sort of experience you tend to never forget.

Luckily I got away with it; no one had asked me how I knew about this place.  It hadn’t occurred to anyone that it might be a little strange that a good ol boy, like myself, would be aware that such a place existed, so I never mentioned how I had first rolled up to Castel Toblino in a little red, open topped, Lancia Fulvia.   It had been such a perfect day and as the chill of the evening began to roll across the lake I knew the good times would have to come to an end.  We were close enough to Trento that it was time to put my family head on.  I didn’t know what sort of reception I was going to get, so simply aimed the Beetle at Trento and drove.

It was dark when we got to my sisters flat.  She was in panic mode, which I think is how she thought all prospective brides should act.  Her flat was a mess and it was quite obvious that we were not welcome.  She couldn’t get us out of there quickly enough, so telephoned a hotel in the centre of Trento and booked two rooms for us.  I got the sort of feeling that the whole wedding situation was going to be quite an awkward affair so realised that perhaps the most sensible way to get through it would be to engage in some heavy drinking.  It was quite obvious that I was only there because of tradition.

That evening I only had a couple of glasses of wine and retired early as it had been a glorious day, but exhausting.  The following morning refuelled with a hearty breakfast, and the hotel manager telling me not to park my car outside the hotel as the radio would be stolen, I took Irene and gave her my personal tour of Trento.  I took her along to meet a friend of mine, Alberto, who was a silversmith in the town.  Alberto could not speak one word of English but we had always got along very well.

I didn’t really know much about him but enjoyed, on the odd occasion, visiting him in his shop where he sat making silver ornaments.  His speciality was silver roses.  Some would have been two inches high and he would encase them in a block of clear plastic or resin, but he also made stemmed roses that would have been the same size as the real thing.  I introduced Irene and there was a lot of shaking hands.  Alberto explained that he would be attending the wedding and we promised to buy each other a beer.  Irene was taken with the roses and I asked Alberto if he would make me something special as it was Irene’s birthday in a day or two’s time.

He seemed to take this as a great honour and asked me for fifty quid, well eighty thousand Lire, and judging from his shrugging of shoulders and various hand gestures, it was he who was doing me the favour.   We left Alberto and wandered off exploring Trento.  I really enjoyed showing Irene about and hoped that I wouldn’t be bumping in to any other people I may have known as some things are just too difficult to explain.  Irene was getting itchy feet and unlike me didn’t enjoy watching rivers.  She wanted to go back to the hotel and I was dragging my feet as I knew my family were arriving and I have to admit it was something I wasn’t looking forward to.  

Celtic Illumination, part 167, Trains, planes and automobiles.

It was strange enough staying in a hotel that wasn’t a hotel but now I didn’t know if I was up to finding a ferry terminal that wasn’t on the map.  Actually it was no bother at all.  As directed, I drove along the side of the lake and came to a small village that seemed to have evolved around the ferry terminal.  I could see that we had three or four hours to wait for the next ferry so adjourned to the café that sat next to the ferry terminal.  It was one of those picture postcard Swiss buildings, with the wide sloping roof, balconies and another notch on my something I had always wanted to do or visit list.

It was a strange building, seemed as if it were some sort of civic centre, but by following signs we ended up in a small bar.  Again I was in my element as it was full of carved wood and stuffed animal heads, which to me said Alpine.  We settled in and scoured the menu.  As usual I was adamant that I was eating local while the other three opted for the safer omelette and chips and sausage and chips.  I ordered a local veal dish and began to prepare myself by drinking some of the local beer. 

My three compadres were served their meal first and I scavenged chip after chip from them as I was quite hungry.  Eventually the waitress came to our table pushing a serving trolley with a massive metal dome.  She opened the dome and served me a huge lump of veal in the most luxurious creamy mushroom sauce.  Everyone tasted it and agreed it was superb and I can honestly say it was fantastic.  Had I been at home I would have cleaned the plate with a slice of bread.  Satisfied and full to the gunnels we sat up as the waitress approached our table for what we thought would be the settling of the bill.  Instead she opened up the large metal domed server and produced a similar meal stating, “Here is the other half sir.”

Everyone was full but we soldiered on and made sure that we cleaned the plate.  It was a grand way to pass the time and we rumbled off to the Beetle to prepare for the ferry.  It was one of those open jobs, held about ten or twelve vehicles and very, very, pleasant, I only wish I had a better camera because sailing across a lake in Switzerland watching the mountains glide past is magical.  Back on the other side we set off still heading south for Lugano and then Milan.  I came across a hotel, the Hotel Des Alpes.  As my map was not very useful for showing villages, or even roads for that matter, we decided that it looked a safe option.

We managed to book two double rooms one with a bath and one with a shower.  The girls decided to make good use of the bath while Chidge and myself repaired to the bar.  There was some sort of football match on so Chidge and I sat at the bar and ordered two beers.  The barman produced two small bottles of beer with glasses and we enquired if he didn’t have any man sized beers.  There was a little language barrier but nothing we couldn’t get around.  He explained that he did have big bottles of beer but they were very, very, strong, most people could not drink any more than two.

Well; we were able to recognise a challenge, even when one hadn’t been offered.  Chidge and I set about wrecking the myth surrounding these large bottles of beer and, probably through politeness, had to wait until the following morning before asking how many we had actually consumed.  Breakfast was another spread of cooked meats and fresh bread with coffee and I shall not name the person who was asking, ‘Where’s the Alpine?’ (a breakfast cereal in the UK.)  They say ‘You can take the girl out of Liverpool, but you can’t….’

By now we were deep in the mountains and I was loving every moment of it.  I remember we began to climb up the side of a mountain.  The road zig zagged quite tightly, the bends were ridiculous.  There was a sort of tapping noise coming from one of the rear wheels but even after a couple of visual inspections we couldn’t see anything wrong with the wheel, so continued.  It actually was a hair raising experience and I didn’t use the mountain rescue method of travelling along narrow mountain roads, which was foot to the floor, but carefully chugged our way to the top of the mountain.

We were surprised to get to the top and see snow, so we did as any young people do when finding a snow field in June, we had a snowball fight.  Back in the car we trundled along to find a barrier stretched across the road guarded by two armed soldiers.  Strange, we thought, and were then informed that there had been an avalanche further along the road, which was now blocked, and we would have to go back down the mountain.  There had been no turn offs along the way or any other road joining the one we had travelled along so I wondered why they hadn’t put the barrier at the bottom of the mountain and save people the trouble of having to go back.  I thought the Swiss were supposed to be efficient.

With no option we headed back down, with the wheel clunking even more, but as we couldn’t see anything wrong we ignored it.  It really only clunked on the turns.  The soldiers had said something about getting the train at the bottom which was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard.  I mean we were in a car.  However we followed the signs and sure enough came to a train siding where we queued up.  It would have been nice if there had been some information or some person to explain what was about to happen but no.  The queue eventually moved forward, on to the train and we parked up, on open carriages.  I say open but there was a sort of metal frame around them holding a roof.

Next thing you know is that we set off and travelled through the mountain.  By the way, car radios don’t work very well inside mountains so next time you are travelling through a mountain, in a car, on a train, make sure you have a cassette or a cd player.  Look at me, giving out even more advice, where will it all end?  It was a good experience and slightly claustrophobic but once we hit daylight it was obvious that we were on the Italian side of the Alps.  Switzerland was precision perfect while the closer we got to Italy the more dusty, and dirty, and ramshackle the buildings became.  Milan was about eighty miles away; I pointed the car south, stepped on the accelerator and hoped it was ready for me.

Celtic Illumination, part 166, How much is that doggie in the window?

The only drawback with a Volkswagen Beetle, when you are planning a fifteen hundred mile, road trip, for four adults, is the limited amount of luggage space.  We had to be in Trento for a specific date, so the less adventurous among you will now expect me to have planned to cover a certain amount of miles per day, moving from one pre booked hotel to another.  How wrong you are.  We were four young people seeking adventure, so we jumped in the car and set off.  To navigate my way around Europe I chose to use an aeronautical chart.  I think the scale would have been somewhere in the region of fifty miles to the inch, so I’m sure you are impressed at the space saving efficiency I was already employing.

We left Germany and cut through the southern tip of Holland for no other reason than to follow and access the most appropriate motorways.   We crossed Belgium and drove straight into Luxemburg.  Holland was and always will be a favourite country for me to visit.  The people have a certain love of life and a wonderful approach to it.  Belgium was veering toward the boring but Luxemburg really had nothing to offer us.  We parked up in Luxemburg city and wandered about and were suitably under-impressed.  In fact it was so boring, and I could not think of one cultural experience that we should visit in Luxemburg, that we got back in the car and left for France.

I had nothing planned for France and decided that Paris was a little too far away for us to visit.  My plan was to cross France and to enter Switzerland at Basel.  I had hoped Basel would be interesting as it sat on the border of three countries, Germany, France and Switzerland.  We came across a lovely little French village somewhere between Metz and Nancy.  I can’t remember the name of it but for me it matched the image I had in my head of what a typical, small, French village should look like.  There was a hotel on the main street so we booked two rooms and settled down for the evening. 

I noticed from my bedroom window that the police station was almost directly opposite and hoped that we didn’t get too drunk that evening.  I wasn’t worried about getting arrested, but I was quite aware that all one had to do was walk in to any police station in France and declare that you wanted to join the French Foreign Legion.  Within twenty four hours you would have a new identity and life.  It was the sort of thing I knew we would probably do, as they say back home, just for the craic.  I didn’t even tell the others because I knew that, after a few scoops, it could turn into a dare.  We came downstairs to the main lounge area of the hotel and went to the bar.  There was a handful of French locals enjoying a drink and I asked if they served food.

“What do you think this is,”  said the manager.  “A hotel?”  Well; what he actually said was “Que pensez-vous de cette c'est un hôtel?”  but then you already knew that.  I didn’t give him the reply you might think automatically popped into my head, see, I was becoming more diplomatic, so asked for directions to a nearby restaurant.    It was a typical, small, family run restaurant and we found a corner table and settled in for the night.  Not only was I a literature lunatic but I was also a cultural sponge.  I always believed that if you were in another country you should respect that country by eating whatever the locals ate, or drink what they were drinking, I thought it was only good manners.

I had explained this to my wife and friends who scoffed at me for settling, like them, for the steak and chips option, although I was the only one to attempt the snails as a starter.  I hadn’t the heart to tell them that it was horse steak, but as they say, what you don’t know won’t hurt you.  After the nosh we remained, probably for far too long, at the table tasting bottle after bottle of local French wine.   It was a fantastic evening and when we left, with my three compadres, trying to speak French with an Irish accent, we staggered off to a fast food van for hamburger and chips before returning to our hotel, that wasn’t a hotel, and crashing for the night.

The girls were frightened of the hotel as it was quite small and basic. With one bathroom serving half a dozen rooms so they were quite keen to leave the following morning, and as it wasn’t a hotel there was no breakfast.  We drove off and I glanced at the police station breathing a sigh of relief that I hadn’t signed my life away, again.  A transport café provided breakfast and it was thoroughly enjoyable, sliced spiced meats, tomatoes, fresh bread rolls and strong coffee and all in the comfort of a bright yellow Beetle.  I absolutely love driving through France.  It’s so relaxing and the sights that continually pop up keep one interested and amazed.

Basel didn’t disappoint either.  I didn’t really know much about Basel.  It was somewhere that I was aware of but not really much more.  With no real insight into its history or culture we satisfied ourselves with dandering around the city centre, lunching on the pavement, at a restaurant, and just enjoying life.  Unfortunately we had a sort of schedule to follow so set off again.  My only plan for Switzerland was to aim for Lugano, where I could cross into Italy by Lake Como and then drop down to Milan.  But I also wanted to get as close to the Eiger as possible while in Switzerland, which was going to be impossible so my only other ambition was to visit Zurich, which we did.  Zurich was lovely and very Germanic.  We had a laugh and watched a man engrave brandy glasses, bought some chocolate and left, as for me Switzerland was about mountains, not chocolate.

I don’t normally give advice, well; I suppose if I tell you something that I did, you would probably know that the correct thing to do is the opposite, so that’s a sort of advice.  So I would usually never knowingly give advice but on this occasion I feel qualified and confident enough to do so.  Using an aeronautical chart to drive with is space saving, however it’s not very good at marking out roads, as it’s mainly concerned with airways, mountains, airfields and major cities.  We were bombing along and came to a Lake. 

I checked my map and saw that we could take the low road or, yes very good, we could take the other road, the high road.  We opted to take the road that ran down the left hand side of the lake and set off.  It was a brand new motorway and didn’t have very much traffic on it so a very enjoyable run through the Swiss countryside, until the road ran out.  Well; when I say ran out I mean stopped, it was no more, hadn’t been constructed yet, although it existed on the map.  I left the motorway, not that I had much choice and drove down to the lake side.  There was a small village.  I stopped outside a hotel and went in to ask for directions.

In Belfast, as a child, I had a bulldog try to take my left knee cap off for its lunch one day, so I never liked or trusted dogs after that.  I breezed in to this small hotel to see two Alsatians sitting staring at me and can safely say my exit would have put Usain Bolt to shame.  The dogs alerted their owner that a total coward had left the building.  The owner came out and explained that we should travel another ten or so miles along the side of the lake where we would come to a ferry terminal and be able to cross the lake and continue our journey.  Strangle enough the ferry wasnt marked on my map.