WEEKEND BREAK (9)

WHAT SIGHTS AT THIS DENTAL PRACTICE!

 

I long ago lost my fear of the dentist. Oh how I hated, as a boy, my visits to Captain Norman Black, in Falmouth’s Greenbank, waiting for me with his antique drill that was so noisy and juddering compared with today’s smoothies. 

 

Loads of people still have that fear, though – nearly 50 per cent of adults, apparently – and many and varied are the attempts to make it easier when the moment arrives and they settle down for their treatment.

 

Among those ways, I now learn, is hypnosis, no less.  At least one dental hygienist – Linda Bromage, https://www.hypnotherapy-directory.org.uk/hypnotherapists/linda-bromage - makes a speciality of it.

 

But one way I had not heard of until recently was to be transported around the world while you’re being “done.”

 

As in, staring up at a giant video screen in the ceiling directly above you, with stunning footage of the world’s most spectacular sights and cities.

 

For me, that comes courtesy of Falmouth’s Observatory Dental Practice, which is now my dental “home” after biting the bullet and quitting the NHS.

 

As Josh Whelan got to work on me with my first treatment there, I flew around Grand Canyon, hovered over Niagara Falls, walked the windy  streets of Chicago, buzzed the Statue of Liberty and Empire State Building and crossed San Francisco Bay on the Golden Gate Bridge.

 

I marvelled at all these spectacular sights and barely heard or felt Josh’s oh-so-gentle high speed drill. 

 

It was all part of the Observatory experience, which oozes professionalism, friendliness and efficiency; there is an unmistakably good vibe about the place.

 

The only pain comes at the end of the treatment, when there is the little matter of the price for it all, and I admit I’m still struggling to come to terms with that.  

 

Perhaps a bit of hypnotherapy might help?

 

CAN’T WIN

 

My Tisserand pulse point roller ball continues to work wonders for my sleep - but there’s just one not-so-little snag.

 

It’s so effective – my quality of sleep is now so good – that it seems I stay in pretty much the same position for the whole night.  No more tossing and turning.

 

But then, when I get up next morning, the base of my back is awfully stiff, with any number of painful twinges in the first few minutes of walking around the house.

 

So what on earth is the answer?  Should I give up going to bed . . . ? 

 

WHAT A WASTE

 

Memo to the weather gods: it’s no use having day after day of sunshine if it’s accompanied by strong easterly winds. (Mind you, it was still absolutely freezing with my last sea swim on Monday.)

 

Great spectacle, but too rough for swimming!

    

FINAL WORD (FOR NOW) . . ,

 

. . . on the new refuse collection arrangements, and those winds got me thinking when I put my load of rubbish out for collection this week.

 

Imagine a full-strength gale, or even a Force 9 or 10 . . . in the middle of winter, say. I’m guessing the food caddies, once emptied, are light enough to end up being blown around all over the place.

 

That should be fun, shouldn’t it – perhaps in the pouring rain as well – with everyone walking up and down the road searching for their own numbered caddy!

BUFFETS IN THE PUMP ROOM

 

As well as being Mayor of Falmouth a staggering 12 times (blog March 21), Geoffrey Evans will be remembered in countless ways beyond the basics of civic duty.   

 

For many years, his “day job” was the operation of the pumps for the three dry docks at Falmouth shiprepair yard, flooding or emptying as required.

 

Among the many who were invited to “see my pumps” was former West Briton reporter Helen Dale.

 

She recalls: “He had even laid on a little buffet in that pump room, which was very typical of him.  He went hand in hand with hospitality and he was always ready with the grand gesture.

 

“Over the years, a lot of people were similarly invited into his pumproom; he was very proud of these ‘inner workings.’”

 

Among his numerous external appointments, Geoffrey was a governor of Falmouth’s Marlborough School.

 

Serving alongside him there was Alec Evans (no relation), who tells me:  “He gave new meaning to the work ethic and was so much more than a guy who just turned up for meetings.

 

“He performed his role with a genuine passion and always had the energy to follow up issues with determination and conviction.

 

“I always remember that while serving on the Marlborough board he also became a governor of another Falmouth school, over at Beacon, and he had been under no obligation to do that.

 

“With Geoffrey, it was always ‘Falmouth first’ – and hats off to him for that.” 

 

WOTTALOTTA WORDS FROM HACKETT OF THE PACKET!

 

Creating an effective CV in pursuit of a new job or to kick-start a career has never been so vitally important or sophisticated.  

 

Nowadays the exercise can be a bit of a minefield, with companies using software to screen applications.  It’s quite possible that you will need to navigate your way past an AI robot just to make it onto a long list of candidates.

 

In the earlier stages of my own advancement, i.e. over half a century ago now, it was about little more than being businesslike and brief, with key details set out in bullet point fashion and, for instance, studious avoidance of too many “I’s” and “me’s.”

 

Wind the clock back even further – to my late teens – and it is clear that I had my very own ideas of how it should be done.  

 

Looking back, as I have been after a bout of de-cluttering, I see I still possess a masterpiece of an apology for a CV that would indeed have served better as a How Not To guide.

 

The CV – more of a letter, actually (or an essay, even?) – ran to a hopelessly long and verbose 600 words.

 

It began with a scintillating opening line guaranteed (not) to stand out and attract the immediate attention of an overworked employer, in amongst perhaps hundreds of other applications:

 

About two years ago, I decided to write this letter.  Since then, and on an ever-increasing scale over the last ten months or so, my thoughts have been geared to the idea of landing a job on your newspaper.

 

Clearly prepared, as I was, to move instantly into the heady world of the Manchester Uniteds and Cities, I hoped to land a crushing blow with:--

 

For nearly three years, the Falmouth Packet match reports and inside stories for Falmouth Town have, by my own choice, been my responsibility.

 

Anxious to establish a chatty, essentially personalised style, and convinced the prospective employer would be hanging on my every word, I wrote:

 

So why do I particularly want to join the Manchester Evening News? The explanation is simple enough.  I regard the area as my second home.  I have a considerable number of friends and relations there and regularly spend holidays with my aunt in Cheshire.”

 

And then there was the flattery, delivered in sizzlingly slick style:--

 

It does not take any great degree of perception to realise that your newspaper belongs very much to the red-hot category.

 

And, adopting a slightly more modest tone, my killer final line:--

 

For what my own impressions may be worth, I now feel absolutely convinced that, given the chance, I will make the grade with you.”

 

I told you I was modest – I decided to omit the fact that I was known in Falmouth as “Hackett of the Packet,” referring to legendary Daily Express sports writer Desmond Hackett.  

 

Fortunately, my Dad intercepted my “CV”/letter/essay just in time and put me right with a quiet word or three, and a much improved version eventually went off to the Manchester Evening News.

 

But the original, as I say, has survived to this day, and I’m so glad it has because it has greatly entertained many friends and relatives over the years – and myself whenever I have rediscovered it!

 

(Oh, and I still didn’t get the job!)   

WEEKEND BREAK (8)

BUCKING THE TREND . . . AND RECALLING A POP STAR’S GREAT ESCAPE

 

I had a delightful coffee morning catch-up the other day with Francesca Peterson (nee Hanikova), a trainee reporter under me on the Falmouth Packet in the early 1980s and who, like several others, then left me standing by carving out a stellar career in journalism and PR.

 

We chose the Falmouth Hotel – where word had clearly spread that the hotel is very much BACK, under its new ownership, after too many years of dull stagnation.

 

It’s now just one of four hotels left on the seafront and it was so good to see this grand old lady coming alive again and bucking the closure trend.

 

The lounges were pretty much full well before 11 and the whole place was absolutely buzzing.

 

All we need now is just a little fine-tuning with the background music, which was a tad inconsistent and occasionally just too loud.  

 

Oh, and we were mortified to learn that they didn’t do CAKES with their coffee (which was excellent)! 

 

Overall, though – also based on an earlier lunch I had there plus word of mouth from friends who stayed overnight – it deserves top marks for a great resurrection.

 

Among Francesca’s Packet trainee memories, meanwhile, there was the unscheduled visit to this same hotel by pop superstar Simon Le Bon in 1985.

 

It led to extraordinary scenes – and to Francesca being caught up in it all and mistaken for Le Bon’s “girl.”

 

Le Bon, leader of top group Duran Duran, had ended up at the Falmouth after his £1 million yacht had overturned in the Fastnet Race. Consequently, more than 40 national press and TV folk descended on the hotel – as did scores of excited young fans.

 

Children waving autograph books besieged Francesca when she arrived, shouting: “Are you Simon’s girl?”  And when she laughed and said “yes” sarcastically, the books were thrust into her face for signing. 

 

Le Bon decided he just had to get away from it all  – he was locked up in a private lounge – and so he dramatically leapt out of a window to flee to a more peaceful destination.

 

Waiting cannily outside that very window, though, was Falmouth freelance photographer David Brenchley.  His picture of Le Bon’s “vanishing act” was published in several national newspapers the next day! 

 

BETTER JUST TO STICK YOUR FINGER IN THE AIR!

 

Just as you can go off people (see Clare Balding, Weekend Break No 6), so you can lose faith in things.

 

Such as weather forecasts. 

 

Last Friday teatime, the heavens opened and there was the mother and father of a prolonged thunderstorm over Falmouth and beyond.  

 

As I took shelter and waited for it to pass, I checked the BBC forecast, which until then had offered no hint of this.

 

It had been “updated” all of half an hour earlier, it said, and still there was not so much as a hint of heavy rain, let alone any lightning symbol. 

 

At that point, I lost all faith in the forecast. 

 

(Except that, strangely, I still keep looking at it.  Regularly . . . )

 

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLDER WHEN . . . 

 

. . . you eagerly accept an offer of a blanket over your legs at a cold football ground!

 

There I was, sitting in the new Truro City Stadium last Saturday at the start of the second half, when Wendy Anear, beside me, asked if I would like to share hers.

 

It suddenly seemed like a cracking good idea, but I checked first: “Doesn’t Ian want it?”

 

Hubby didn’t, apparently, so half of it was all mine for the duration.

 

It was (warm) icing on the cake in an afternoon which saw another win for City, keeping them second in their league table and ripe for promotion, and a bumper crowd of 33 short of 2,000.  The club, in fact, is absolutely buzzing.

 

So I’ll be back – especially if I know there’s a cosy blanket on offer!  

 

SAFETY IN NUMBERS

 

Three weeks into the new refuse collection system (see Weekend Break No 6) and not everyone, it seems, has quite yet grasped it.

 

On my way home mid-morning on Wednesday, I noticed a neighbour looking up and down the road and then placing his wheelie bin and food caddy outside his gates.

 

“I always put my stuff out later than everyone else,” he explained, “just so I can see first what they’ve all done; then I can be sure I’ve got it right!” 

 

COULDN’T HAVE PUT IT BETTER MYSELF!

 

Jack Russell, ex-England wicketkeeper (think floppy sun hat) turned artist reflected in a Telegraph interview: “The world disappears when you paint.  (The  canvas) is your world. It’s like going to the moon, which means it is somewhere where there is nobody else. 

 

“It helped me totally switch off, which is not always easy when your career is on the line every ball.” 

 

I can so relate to those sentiments – and, in my case, with never-ending gratitude to my teacher, Jeanni Grant-Nelson https://www.visual-awareness.com/

 

RICK STEIN’S FAIR COP

 

By my reckoning, it’s now 50 years, give or take a few months, since the birth of the Rick Stein empire (make that phenomenon). 

 

Talk about little acorns and mighty oaks.  It all began with the launch of his Seafood Restaurant as a small harbourside bistro in Padstow with his then wife Jill.  

 

The “phenomenon” might never have come to pass, though, but for a brush with the law the year before – as this dip into my archive, for a piece first published here in 2015, shows:--

 

. . . .  In a previous life, I handled PR for Cornwall Association of Tourist Attractions (CATA), which involved working with its popular long-serving secretary Graham Hooper.  

 

Graham told me how, back in 1974, as a police inspector, he led a raid on Rick’s premises, leading to his prosecution for not having the proper liquor licences.  

 

Rick had begun his business life with a mobile quayside nightclub in Padstow, which unfortunately was linked to frequent brawls with local fishermen.

 

In 1997, with his CATA cap on, Graham said in a letter to Rick: “Having watched a number of your programmes, it is as plain as the nose on my face that you are ‘selling’ the county in a way which we, the ‘experts,’ have been striving so hard to do but, in the main, have failed to achieve.  . . . . 

 

“Hearty congratulations from my members and myself.  We will, together with numerous other businesses involved in our industry, benefit from your efforts.”

 

The second reason for writing, Graham explained, was “entirely different and long overdue.”  One of his first tasks as a Bodmin-based police inspector, he recalled, was to lead the police raid on Rick’s premises and to prosecute him in court for not having the proper liquor licences.

 

Graham wrote: “You were, of course, found guilty, and I well recall your comment to the magistrates.  You said something like ‘I’m sorry, but I simply cannot run my business without selling my clients drinks.’  

 

“It was not, of course, what they wanted to hear you say, preferring a forelock-tugging grovel, and I only hope it didn’t increase the penalty they imposed to any extent.  

 

“The matter is now off my chest and I only hope that your businesses, which I have watched go from strength to strength (despite my efforts all those years ago) continue to thrive and, by so doing, continue to show those from elsewhere just how much beauty and mystery, plus quality, Cornwall has to offer.”

 

Rick replied that he was “extremely pleased” to hear from Graham, adding: “I remember you well and remember that extremely low point in my life when we had that dreadful club.  

 

“I used to try and hide the fact that the restaurant began as a rather badly-run disco because it didn’t seem to fit in with the right image for a chef, but I then realised that everybody was so interested in it that I have done very well out of it.

 

“The police did me a lasting favour in taking away the club licences because it forced me to go into cooking and open the restaurant.  Everything has stemmed from that.”  

 

He concluded: “It was so nice of you to write to me.  I always thought you were a very reasonable and decent person and never felt you were doing anything but your job and, as I said, you did me a great favour!” 

WEEKEND BREAK (7)

OUR GEOFFREY: POLITICIAN ‘FOR ALL THE RIGHT REASONS’

 

If ever a fellow deserved the Freedom of Falmouth - recently granted to him - it would surely be Councillor Geoffrey Evans, currently the town’s longest-serving public figure and mayor a record 12 times during his 51 years and counting on the town council.

 

Unless my powers of judgement are seriously questionable, Geoffrey has repeatedly demonstrated that he, more than most, has been in politics “for all the right reasons.”

 

His record of public service, both openly and behind the scenes, has been genuinely outstanding and truly exceptional. Okay, I’ll go a step further and say it:  he is the very antithesis of most people’s idea of a politician. 

 

It was a fact royally recognised with his award of the MBE in 2018 by the late Queen Elizabeth II.

 

He met Her Majesty in Falmouth on several occasions, perhaps most notably during her visit in 1977 as part of her Silver Jubilee.

 

Certainly, that visit left Geoffrey – who represents my own Arwenack ward - with one of his fondest royal memories of them all.

 

It was the day the Queen gave royal approval to our national dish!

 

As she left the Prince of Wales Pier, having come ashore from the Royal Yacht Britannia, she said to Geoffrey: “I wonder what I’m going to receive today.” He replied:  You never know, it might be a Cornish pasty.”

 

He subsequently told me: “As we left the Town Hall, a little girl ran up to her and gave her three pasties. The Queen looked at me as if to say ‘Is this planned?’ – it wasn’t – and we had a really good laugh together.

 

“I later asked if she had liked the pasties.  She said she had cut them up and sampled each one of them – and found them very enjoyable.”

 

 

‘OK, GIMME THE FACTS . . . ER, HUBBY’

 

It would be easy to suspect that BBC news “impartiality” has never been under closer scrutiny.

 

Perceived bias in the corporation is not exactly new, though, having been on the go for just about as long as I can remember.

 

One example of potential bias that was not generally “perceived,” however, used to be on the regional airwaves from time to time back in the 1970s.

 

As well as being regularly grilled by intrepid local reporters, Ian Sutherland, then managing director at Falmouth Docks, was also to be heard on BBC Radio’s Morning Sou’ West programme (i.e. long before Radio Cornwall was born).

 

The interviewer would often be announced as Peta Riley. Initially, I knew nothing of her background and wondered who this fearless, investigative journalist, aiming to lift the lid off the affairs at the troubled yard, could possibly be.

 

It was only a little further down the line that I learnt the cosy “truth.” Peta was, in fact, Ian’s wife, using her maiden name.

 

And in local journalistic circles, it was widely understood that such interviews were conducted – wait for it – on the edge of the sofa in the comfort of the Sutherlands’ lounge!  

 

 

The Monster Tale I WAS Prepared To Believe (I Think)

 

I’ve just caught up with BBC2’s Loch Ness: They Created A Monster, which put the spotlight on the hunters who camped out on the shores of the Scottish loch throughout the 1970s and ‘80s.

 

But still the question lingers: was/is Nessie for real?  Ditto, for that matter, Morgawr the legendary Falmouth sea monster, which also captured worldwide media attention during those decades.

 

I’ve often asked myself that question, as in: “C’mon, son, do you really believe in this stuff?”

 

I was always tempted to conclude “Of course not.”

 

But in amongst the many reported “sightings” of Morgawr – which occupied much of my time as a freelance journalist back in the day – I have always remembered one such that truly stood out.

 

The late Falmouth author Sheila Bird, who researched the subject in depth, claimed to have seen the monster off Portscatho in 1985.

 

She described it as some 20 feet long, with a long neck, small head and a large hump protruding high out of the water, with a long muscular tail visible just below the surface.

 

The sighting was shared, she added, by her brother, Dr Eric Bird, an accomplished scientist.

 

She said they watched the creature for several minutes before it submerged. It did not dive, but “dropped vertically like a stone, without leaving a ripple.”

 

 

I knew Sheila very well, both writing about her in my professional capacity and as a  close neighbour . . . 

 

. . . and I simply cannot imagine that she would have made up such a thing, let alone go public with it unless she was certain of what she had seen.  It just wouldn’t have been Sheila.

 

 

A WEE TALE BEST NOT TOLD?

 

(Readers of a sensitive nature may prefer to skip this item.)

 

My newspaper reading last weekend (always so much to wade through – love it!) included this little gem from best-selling author Matt Haig –

 

“I remember having a wee next to Paul McCartney. I’m a nervous wee-er and I always struggle if I’m right next to someone in a urinal.

 

“When I realised who it was, I ended up having to go into one of the cubicles to finish the wee off, because I couldn‘t go.  How can you urinate next to a Beatle? It’s simply impossible.”

 

I’m very grateful to Matt for that info – because for the last 50 years or so I had feared it was just me with that affliction.

 

It gradually became a non-issue, but it was very much alive during my 20s.  And that was when I had a similar experience not with a Beatle but with George Best, no less.

 

When I realised who was standing next to me in the men’s toilets of the Annabel’s night club in Manchester, I duly dried up.  

 

I went through the motions (couldn’t resist that one) alongside him at the wash basins and then walked out, pretty much together but with him just ahead of me.

 

Then it happened. I suddenly realised that one of the world’s greatest-ever footballers was standing there, perfect gentleman, holding the door open for me.

 

In all of a microsecond or two, I found myself frantically pondering: “Do I call him George, or what?”

 

I figured that would be a bit presumptuous, so chickened out with a simple “thank you” and just an ordinary sort of smile, settling for the this-is-an-everyday-occurrence-and-I’m-not-in-awe-of-you approach.

 

In that fleeting face-to-face, I couldn’t help noticing just how bright-eyed our wonder boy from Belfast was.  He was still not so far short of his peak football performance, after all.

 

A decade or so later, he guested for Penryn Athletic in a memorable friendly match at Falmouth Town’s Bickland Park.  

 

I interviewed him before the match and couldn’t help noticing how foggy-eyed he had become.

 

I also winced, later on, when learning of some of the unsporting, not to say ungentlemanly, things he had said and done on the field of play that night.  Local referee Mike Hodges even had to deliver a stern lecture at one stage. 

 

But no sweat, the big crowd breathed a collective sigh of relief when George was allowed to continue playing!

 

WHAT HOPE FOR THE PLANET?

 

One of the curses – or benefits, depending on how you look at it – of getting older is our apparent need for so much less sleep.

 

So, ever keen to try something new - because I just do not want to settle for four hours or so -  I received a pulse point roller ball sleep aid yesterday.  

 

It, and absolutely nothing else, was delivered in an Amazon cardboard envelope measuring 14 x 10ins. 

 

The product, even in its packaging, came to no more than 4 x 1½ x 1½ins! 

STOP PRESS: The bloomin' thing WORKED! Best night's sleep for absolutely ages.  So if you're in the same boat, go onto Amazon, search Tisserand Pulse Point Roller Ball - and buy without delay! 

OUTWARD BOUND

Just like London buses, you wait for ages and then along come several all at once! Here’s the first of my three winter painting projects now completed. 

 

 The Saga cruiseship Spirit Of Adventure sails out of Falmouth, accompanied by the pilot boat Arrow.  From a photo by Miles Carden. Acrylic, 50 x 40cms. Teacher: Jeanni Grant-Nelson, https://www.visual-awareness.com/

 

WEEKEND BREAK (6)

NO, CLARE, NOT CREAM FIRST

 

You can go off people, yer know.  Especially if it’s Clare Balding telling her TV audience to spread jam and cream on scones the WRONG way!

 

There she is, sitting comfortably on the South Devon steam train, about to tuck into her afternoon tea for her Tales From The Riverbank programme, when she comes to the jam and cream bit.

 

If you can bear to, just listen to her: “Because we’re in Devon and not Cornwall, I need to do this the Devon way, with the cream first, lots of it, and I think that makes sense because otherwise if you don’t do cream first you need to do butter as well. You don’t want to do butter as well as cream.” 

 

Exactly.  Sacrilege.  Put out an all ports alert, I say. Guard the borders . . . ban her from entering Kernow . . . 

 

Or maybe she just needs a little more time to get used to the ways we do and say things – as so many “furriners” do.

 

A case in point was a footballer called Norman Ashe, who was a huge signing for Falmouth Town in 1969 when, at just 25 years old, he came west with a track record that included being the youngest player ever, at just 15, to play for Aston Villa in the old First Division.

 

Over a drink in the clubhouse after one of his early Falmouth matches, he pointed to a fan heartily munching what was presumably his tea.   

 

“That’s a nice-looking pie,” he said.

 

“That,” explained club chairman Warren Newell, “is our national dish, the Cornish pasty.”

 

I’m pretty sure Norman went on to consume any number of pasties in his many subsequent years down here.  He just needed a little time to get used to them . . . he was doing so “dreckly,” as we say!  

 

For Clare Balding, though, I fear there is no hope . . .  

 

(PS: She Who Must Be Obeyed comments: “I never butter the scones anyway for jam and cream!”) 

 

PRACTISING WHAT I PREACH (NOT)

 

I’ll swear the first half dozen or so fellow walkers I saw on Falmouth seafront this morning were all head-down-busy on their mobile phones. 

 

I said as much to my mate on his mobility scooter as our paths crossed above Gyllyngvase Beach.

 

“Yeah, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it,” he agreed.

 

“I don’t know why on earth they can’t leave the blessed things at home and just soak up all this,” I said, with a sweep of my hand taking in the bay and the beaches.

 

We resumed our separate ways, only for me to stop again a few seconds later when, er um, my mobile pinged . . .  

 

LOAD OF RUBBISH?  NO, NOT REALLY!

 

So . . . our all-singing, dancing, whistles and bells, planet-saving new refuse collection arrangements finally became a reality this week.

 

How was it for you?!

 

I checked and double-checked the new collection calendar in the little “Go!” booklet before putting all my stuff out.

 

Yes, very clearly, it was general rubbish and food waste this week, with recycling instead of general next week.

 

Not really that difficult, was it? Not worth all the kerfuffle and negative criticism – controversy, even - that it had attracted in some quarters.

 

Still had fun checking everyone else’s output, though, as I set off on my dawn walk.

 

Most of my neighbours had got it right, but I spotted one with the recycling bags wrongly put out – and another with nothing at all beside the big wheelie bin.

 

Don’t they eat? I wondered.

 

Eventually, back at base, I heard the refuse lorry roaring up my road.

 

When it had gone, I tip-toed furtively out to my front gates, just that tad bit nervous in case I had somehow still managed to get things wrong (bearing in mind that if anyone could, I would).

 

But no, big sigh of relief; all was well.  Mission accomplished! 

 

JUST THREE MORE YEARS NOW . . . 

 

. . . before David Barnicoat, surely, clocks up some sort of record. A quite remarkable landmark is beginning to loom into view for the retired Falmouth master mariner and maritime pilot.

 

As I was reminded by browsing through some old files during a de-clutter, in 2028 he will have been writing the Falmouth Packet’s In Port page for fully 40 years. 

 

When he followed me in that role back in May, 1988, he took it to a whole new, authoritative level.

 

David is that comparatively rare breed, someone who both knows his subject inside out and can also write well (i.e. readably) about it. It’s usually one or the other, but not both.

 

On his Packet debut, i.e. when he was still working as a pilot, he commented: “My hobbies are the sea and ships and everything related to them . . . I am one of those very fortunate people who enjoy every minute of their job.”

 

Those near-four decades of dedicated writing bear ample testimony to his love of the sea.

 

Keep going, David!

 

NEW MOVE REVIVES FOND MEMORIES OF POPULAR PUB

 

How many hearts are freshly broken, I wonder, each time there is a news item about the FORMER Boslowick Inn in Falmouth?

 

The latest headline-winner is a developer’s fresh attempt to build ten homes there.

 

If there are any ghosts on this long-derelict site, some clues to their identity might be found in Nick Castle’s guest chapter for my book Falmouth In The ‘70s. Here are a few of his fond memories:--

 

“As was the case in many pubs, some customers had personal tankards kept behind the bar and one or two had laid claim to a certain bar stool, and woe betide anybody who trespassed.  One chap used to bring his dog, which would lie at the foot of the stool, savouring packets of crisps while its master lingered over his beer and newspaper.

 

“The ambience on non-entertainment nights was like being a guest at a private country manor house, as indeed the building had been.  Stylish wood panelling and solid staircase in the bar and the ornately plastered ceiling and cornices together with the Axminster carpet in the lounge made it a comfortable refuge.  

 

“But, for the unwary, the wood décor held a secret, as one panel was actually the door to the under-stairs cupboard.  I saw, on a couple of occasions, a drinker casually tilting their chair back against the wall until, with a loud click, the wall panel would give way and swallow the surprised and embarrassed punter, who, with all eyes watching, would sheepishly pick up the chair to sit on properly.  

 

“Another place for a potential accident was the entrance door that had a step and low lintel with a sign warning the unwary to ‘Duck or Grouse.’

 

“On summer evenings, holidaymakers packed in with locals at The Bozzie, when the low-ceilinged lounge would be crammed for the live entertainment.  Local musicians, Two’s Company or The Ferry Boaters, played cover versions of a variety of pop and folk songs.  On other nights, one-man-band Mad Mitch kept crowds entertained with easy chorus sing-along songs like ‘Lamorna,’ ‘My Brother Sylvest’ and the ‘Mevagissey Lobster Song,’ interspersed with bawdy jokes that wouldn’t be acceptable in the PC world of today.

 

“It’s not just the acts that remind us of different times.  In the 1970s, most people smoked cigarettes and on evenings like these the filled rooms quickly became a thick fog of blue smoke where barely a few seconds passed without the flicker of a match or lighter followed by the glowing of another fag tip.

 

“ . . . we went out to enjoy a drink or two and sometimes we had enough to get drunk, unlike more recent times where young people ‘pre-load’ on cheap supermarket spirits before going out, with the sole intention of getting smashed.  

 

“Another difference back then was that landlords and barmen took some responsibility, by telling someone they’d had enough, or one more and that’s all.  Opening hours were regulated, too, and the approach of closing time would be rung on a bell.  ‘Last orders,’ then ‘time, gentlemen, please.’”

 

Sadly, time ran out for the Boslowick when it closed in October, 2021.