YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLDER WHEN . . . .

. . . you discover in the nick of time, thanks to an observant shop assistant, that you were about to buy a Valentine’s Day card for your three-year-old grandson instead of a birthday card. (Didn’t even know they did such things for grandchildren!)

 

BACK IN THE ICY BRINY

 

It was only a fortnight since my last "wild water" dip, but it seemed so much longer when I returned to Falmouth’s Gyllyngvase Beach this morning to make the most of the lovely weather and get myself back into that sea.

 

And boy, was I glad I did.

 

I know I do harp on about it, but there’s really nothing quite like it to start the day and get yourself feeling like a million dollars. The coffee (and bickies) afterwards always tastes so much better, too.

 

For any of you yet to savour such a treat, I say: “Go on, try it - it's not too late!”

 

If not right now, well, it will soon be spring.  Rejoice, I say – let there be light (at the end of the winter tunnel)!

 

MEL THE MARVEL

 

Bumped into my old pal Melville Benney in town this morning, he of my next football book after Andy Street and the Rappo sequel.

 

Mel is currently manager of Constantine and is within just a year or two of justifying my provisional title for that book:  SIXTY YEARS A SOCCER BOSS

 

Actually, he pointed out, he’s already there if you count the way he began it all – by founding Falmouth’s Kimberley Park Rangers boys' team for friendly fixtures when he was barely into teenagehood. 

 

VERY well done, Mate!

 

FROM THE ARCHIVE, first published 2018(ish)

 

MY PASTY PASSION

 

Skipper, the columnist in the Falmouth Packet weekly newspaper, was spot on last week with his reaction to news that a Pool woman has launched the first-ever “pasty drive-thru” because, she says, people don’t want to get out of their cars. 

 

Skipper was mainly concerned with the aspects of exercise (or lack of it) and the obesity epidemic, but he also got me thinking when he said:  “With pasties, surely going into a Cornish pasty shop, buying your pasty and walking down to some glorious harbour to enjoy the view is all part of the experience.”

 

How true.  Among a handful of other delights right up there at the top of my Things-I-Love-To-Do list is the exquisite pleasure of unwrapping a still warm Cornish pasty and tucking into it with relish in the open air, at a favourite Cornish location.

 

Think Penzance promenade, the mouth of the Helford River, St Anthony Head, innumerable locations along the north coast, or, much closer to home, Custom House Quay, with Falmouth’s harbour and all its ships and boats spread out before me.  To name but a few.   

 

Oh, and there was always Land’s End, whose PR I handled for the ten happiest years of my working life.  A monthly briefing meeting with managing director Cairns Boston, an interview or two with various people on site, and then a stroll along the cliffs east or west, to park myself on a rock, away from it all, to unwrap that pasty and, with the vast panorama of the Atlantic all around me, enjoy 20 minutes or so of pure Heaven!

 

The pasty always seems to taste even better, somehow, when consumed in that fashion – in the open air – rather than at the table indoors.

 

For years – make that decades – the all-time World Champion Greatest Pasty Maker was my dear Mum.  

 

Sadly, she is no longer with us.  When she departed this life, I took to training my wife Janet, to take over her mantle.   This was not easy, especially as Janet (whisper it) is a northerner.

 

But after some three years, she was “there.”  She got it right, and so for another decade or so I continued to enjoy the world’s best, courtesy of Janet.

 

But time takes its toll of all of us, and it became apparent that The Old Girl was feeling the strain a bit and was no longer quite so enthusiastic about devoting an afternoon to the messy business of making a dozen or more tiddy oggies all at once, as was her wont.

 

So, being the decent sort that I am, I “stood her down” and progressed to shop pasties.  That took a bit of getting used to, but I know the best ones now and they’re fine. 

 

Mind you, I only ever have the traditional “proper” pasty – none of all these fancy alternative fillings and flavours.  

 

And there are SO MANY pasty shops now, aren’t there, all over the place.  I was in Bath recently and must have seen a good half-dozen of them.

 

One place that definitely has no shortage of them is St Ives, which is just possibly my tip-top No. 1 Favourite of them all, regarding outdoor consumption locations.  

 

It has so many options – the beaches, the clifftops, the harbour frontage, the rocks-edge jobs reached via enticing little alleyways and footpaths.

 

I like nothing more than to “switch off” for the day, let the train take the strain, as they say, and head that way via the delightful branch line from St Erth.  (Can there be a more beautiful rail trip, with so much spectacular scenery unfolding, over such a short stretch, anywhere on God’s earth?) 

 

Then, after a morning coffee (Americano, large) and Danish pastry or similar, it’s time just to wander freely and leisurely through and around the town – “restful ambling,” as my cartoonist pal Brian Thomas calls it.

 

And finally, that “Condor moment” (remember those adverts?) . . . to sit down wherever my wandering has taken me, and to reach for that unique Cornish culinary delight. 

 

I treated myself to just such a day out all of three months ago now.  In fact, I think it’s time I headed that way again . . . 

 

FROM THE ARCHIVE

Somewhat to my surprise, but no less welcome for that, I note that my blog, which I closed down (“sort of”) with my post on December 31, is continuing to attract a fair number of visits.

 

It’s a safe bet, I reckon, that most of you were not aware of my blog in its formative years or have long since forgotten its earlier posts anyway.

 

So I figure if the BBC can get away with repeats, then so can I!

 

Here, then, with spring hopefully not too far off now, is the first in an occasional series providing a fresh airing for some of my own old favourites. 

 

A DAY IN A MILLION IN CORNISH SPRINGTIME, originally published April 2017

 

Just a few hours’ flight away, there continue to be unspeakable horrors - pure hell on earth, no less, for the poor, wretched souls unfortunate enough to live there.  Here, in our beloved Cornwall, we have just been blessed with yet another glorious morning that could have come straight from Heaven itself.

 

I chose a change of direction for my walk.  Instead of my “standard” Pendennis-Point-and-Falmouth-seafront route, I headed out west, to Swanpool and Pennance Point.

 

Sunglasses abounded and spirits were as bright as the sun rising over the sparkling bay.  The “good morning” count from total strangers was well above average and even some of the runners looked that little bit less grim and strained than usual.

 

At Gyllyngvase Beach, dogs joined (wetsuited) people swimming in the sea, while a convoy of half a dozen stand-up paddle boarders created quite a spectacle as they powered across, 20 or so yards offshore.

 

Some spectators were busy photographing this spectacle; others simply stood still and gazed out to sea, their hands to their foreheads, marvelling at the beautiful stillness of the flat-calm bay, with its sprinkling of ships at anchor.

 

Along the Pennance headland, I paused to look down on the shimmering waters of my all-time favourite swimming spot at Sunny Cove.  Once upon a time I would have been in those waters today – and so many more days throughout the year.  (These heated indoor pools have so much to answer for!)

 

Up through the woods and then turn right, towards Maenporth, with a whole new vista unfolding in the direction of Maenporth and the mouth of the Helford River.

 

Time for a little pause.  I sit down beneath a granite monument, on which I read:--

 

FOR FREEDOM

 

This seat and the path leading thereto have been provided as a memorial to the men of Number (Illegible, possibly 1.1) Falmouth Company of the Home Guard who during 1940, 41, 42, 43, 44, after their day’s work, nightly patrolled this coast, armed and vigilant against German landings.  Thus they watched 1,000 dawns appear across these great waters which form our country’s moat.

 

Since those dark days of the Second World War, the trees and hedges have long since grown to obscure much of the view those Home Guarders would have had, but there are still tantalising glimpses of the glistening bay to be had from this seat.  

 

The birds are singing, overhead and in amongst those trees – oh, such beautiful, beautiful birdsong – and it is indeed a time for reflection, for counting our blessings.

 

As we did during the weekend, when I was chatting with a neighbour who is now recovering well from a heart attack and is joyously celebrating every day, especially days like these.

 

And as we did yesterday in the Merchants Manor Hotel’s jetpool (very much a place for putting everything to rights!), when one of my fellow indoor-swimmers came up with the line: “Ah well, never mind, it could all be over within a few weeks now anyway.”

 

“Yes,” I said, “World War III is shaping up nicely, isn’t it.”

 

“I don’t know,” said another.  “I’m sorry, but I just try and avoid all the bad news; there’s nothing I can do about it.”

 

I nodded in agreement with her, adding: “One day at a time, eh?” 

 

And what a day – again.  In the spring, with a burst of beautiful weather here in our magical Cornwall, is there a better time of year, or a finer place to be? 

FROM ONE LEGEND TO ANOTHER – HOW DENIS LAW HELPED FALMOUTH TOWN BOSS

RIP Denis Law, one of the greatest footballers of all time and a lasting reminder of a more sane and quaint sports world.

I read of his death alongside the other big football story of yesterday – Erling Harland’s stratospheric new Manchester City deal that is understood to include a basic salary of around £26 million a year.

 

That’s right - £26 MILLION. I wonder what Denis would have made of such a prospect when he was at the height of his career with Manchester United in the 1960s, earning just a tiny fraction of that dizzy sum.

 

He was still playing for the Reds when I joined the Liverpool Daily Post & Echo newspapers in 1972.

 

A vignette from those days says a little – and yet so much – about how the fields of sport and communications have been transformed since then.

 

I was living across the Mersey in Oxton, a suburb of Birkenhead, and observing from long distance how my beloved Falmouth Town were continuing to sweep all before them in Cornish football.

 

So much so that that the club had decided to organise a testimonial match for its record-breaking manager, Richard Gray.

 

I got involved, to the extent that I found myself persuading a soccer superstar to sign for me – on a souvenir football shirt to be raffled on Richard’s big night.

 

Through Chris James, my colleague then covering the Shankly-led Liverpool team, I got hold of Denis Law’s home phone number. 

 

So off I toddled, one dark winter’s evening, the 300 yards or so from my flat to the nearest public phone box.

 

Cute, eh!  Not only did mobiles belong way, way into the future, but we didn’t even have a land line of our own at home - which was nothing unusual then.

 

I had taken a pocketful of coins with me and I duly began dialling the great man’s home number, in my intrepid bid to land a living legend.

 

All totally “cold” – no advance warning or introduction of any kind, with my identity completely unknown to him, ditto the nature of my call. And it was not even for charity.

 

“Hello, is that Denis Law?”  “Yes, it is.”  “Oh, my name is Mike Truscott, you don’t know me, but . . . blahblah blahblah blahblah . . . and I was just wondering if you might like to sign that shirt.”

 

With no hesitation: “YES, OF COURSE, MIKE; I’D BE DELIGHTED.”

 

Full contact details were exchanged.  I thanked him profusely, he repeated his pleasure to be involved, I exited the call box and shot back home (with a big smile on my face).

 

Now fast-forward 50-odd years and can you imagine any of that happening, in that fashion, today?

 

Leaving aside the quaint notion of the call-box and phone/mobile-free household, what would be the chances of getting straight through so quickly and easily, to one of today’s famous and fabulously wealthy top football stars?

 

Would I – a total stranger seeking a favour – have any chance of getting through at all? There would surely be a veritable phalanx of agents and security types to penetrate first.

 

Then, even if I did conquer all those layers of protection and exploitation, would today’s Mr Superstar agree – never mind so readily – to such a request?

 

And even if he did, he’d probably demand a fee for his scribble, wouldn’t he?! You know, just to top up that £400,000 a week, standard.

Snow, Snow, Please, Please, NO!!!

As I walked along a pitch black Falmouth seafront this morning – long, long before dawn, to beat the incoming bad weather – I saw not another soul. (Oh all right then, just two dog walkers and one runner.)

 

So, all but alone with my thoughts, I indulged in an enhanced spot of blessings-counting.

 

To the accompaniment of the gentle swish of the sea as the little waves, their white crests clearly visible, rolled in, I remarked once again just how lucky I am to live in such a lovely place, no matter the “depths of winter.”

 

Especially now, in fact, with the latest alarmist yellow weather warning still ringing in my ears. It includes the risk of snow and ice today for a large area of the south, “stretching to Cornwall.”

 

Thing is, at this end of the county at least, we hardly ever see the white stuff, and you can bet your mortgage that there’ll be no such thing as a single flake in sight down here today.

 

How our attitudes change. As a boy, I so wanted that white world. When there was any chance of it, I’d listen to every word of the forecast . . . which, so frustratingly, would nearly always end with “except in the extreme south west,” i.e. my Falmouth, where it would be possibly sleet, at best.

 

I wanted my snow so much, in fact, that I would even pray for the stuff. Honestly. 

 

Now, six decades or so later, I’d be more inclined to pray for it NOT to make an appearance!

 

Fortunately, I can guarantee that, whatever much of the rest of the country may be about to suffer today, we will once again escape snow-free.

 

(But if I look out of my window later today and find it’s all turning white, rest assured I will take down this blog post faster than you can say “don’t tempt providence!”)

 

BLOG POSTSCRIPTS

(Haha. Incurable, see!)

 

Cap’n Truscott?  It Could Have Been!

 

My SICK WORLD swipe below at CornwallLive - and pretty much the whole online “news” scene these days – set me thinking once again: if that was the scene back in the mid-1960s, would I still have wanted a career in journalism.

 

The answer – of course - is a resounding NO.  I’d much prefer the old-school journalism real thing, thank you very much.

 

But what would I have done instead? Well, I guess I would have pursued  my earlier ambition as a Merchant Navy deck officer (and, who knows, maybe the sort of life David Barnicoat now regularly recalls with such passion).  

 

But first I would have had to secure the necessary qualifications.

 

And these would have included a GCE O Level pass at Mathematics.

 

Which would have meant re-taking that exam again and again and again . . . and again . . . and then again . . .  

 

Cosy Gylly Glow

 

Enjoyed one of my occasional freezing-cold swims at Falmouth’s Gyllyngvase Beach the other day, just to keep my winter oar in, so to speak. (Roll on the spring, when that becomes the default setting at dawn once more). 

 

Couldn’t help noticing a new feature – a roaring fire at the heart of a  group of Gylly swimmers who congregate on that beach every day for their dip, all year round.

 

It was probably illegal (NO FIRES, NO THIS, NO THAT, NO ANYTHING ELSE, as the sign greets, or used to greet, all users of the beach).

 

But hey, who cares? I’m sure these swimmers are a responsible lot, and it didn’t half give off a cosy glow on a grey, damp December morning.

 

It also reminded me of another delight I’m looking forward to. A birthday treat from/with my daughter Lisa – as her guest for the recently established sauna facility at Gylly.

 

You know the thing – burn yourself to a crisp inside that black hut and then dash down to the sea (yipes, tide could be right out!) and plunge into the icy briny.

 

Again and again and again . . . and again . . . and then again . . .