Fathers and Sons

I’ve grown to appreciate the vital role fathers play in their son’s lives.   Fathers who are present, who role model good values and guide their sons to emulate good behaviours bring them to the threshold of having fulfilling and rewarding lives and to make a positive contribution to their own offspring and society.  Many sons who have gone 'off the rails' in some way or another, in some continent or another and from one socio-economic class or another have missed out on having a fine father.

I was lucky.  Mine was very fine.  He was debonair and a sparkling raconteur.  He was also humorous, kind and blessed with a pitch-perfect baritone voice.  Above all, he was a present and loving husband and father to his wife and three children, of whom I was the middle one.  My only misfortune is that he died forty years ago today, at the very minute of posting this blip.

Winston Churchill illustrated the strength of the father-son bond perfectly when he declined the honour of being buried in Westminster Abbey, offered in recognition of his service to his country.   Instead, he chose to rest beside his dad in their local village cemetery.   

I’ve written about my dad in blip before - see The Alexander Quartet (https://www.blipfoto.com/entry/4235747).  I’ve also written a new piece for today to illustrate, in my own way, that unique love which sons feel for their fathers.  I hope you enjoy Arran as much as I enjoyed writing it and being with him again so intensely.   All sons should have their own such story to tell. 

I’ve also posted a short three-minute video on youtube.com (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Zpa4elDTdk&feature=youtu.be) which I prepared a few years ago as a lead-in to The Diary story of the Alexander Quartet.   It also has scenes that illustrate The Travelling Shop as well as shots of me and Dad together which relate to Arran, published here today.

Thanks, Dad, for all you did with me and for me and the legacy of love you left to me. 

Forever your loving son,
Alan.

Cairo, 3.30 pm BST 16th April 2017 
 

Arran

My childhood holidays on the island of Arran in Scotland are amongst the happiest times of my life. We rented a cottage at Mid-Mayish Farm in Brodick for the whole month of August. On 31st July every year, the excitement mounted as we packed everything but the kitchen sink into our Vauxhall Victor estate car – registration number GXS 374 with a lemon body and bottle-green roof – and stacked our bicycles high on the roof rack. I’ve no idea how the car with all that luggage and all five of us on board managed to get up and down the hills that lay between Paisley and the harbour at Ardrossan. There was a particularly steep ascent out of Dalry that I feared would defeat us every year. Somehow, we always managed to crest it and then sweep down towards the sparkling sea and the waiting MV Glen Sannox. Setting sail in her with seagulls screeching overhead, my hair swept back from my forehead and the sun forming diamonds in my eyes as I looked towards the distant mountain range on the island was like crossing to another world. 

We coincided always with another family who were like cousins to us, the Hunters, also from Paisley. I was the middle child of my family and between the ages of their kids so spent a lot of time on my own. I would set off on my bicycle – a red and gold Raleigh Clipper with a beautifully curved crossbar – and head to the sawmill at Cladach before standing on my pedals to navigate the steep and rocky track up to the farmhouse which sold goat’s milk milkshakes, still udder-warm. At other times, I’d head up Glen Rosa towards The Saddle, just below the island's highest peak of Goatfell, and dump my bike where the track ran out. I'd scamper further up the glen on foot to swim in deep rock pools full of clear water that felt like liquid silk.

I also loved cycling along the flat coast road to Corrie, six miles north of Brodick. The road was composed of a series of sweeping S’s, sometimes with a direct drop into the sea, sometimes separated from it by flat beds of red sandstone highlighted by glistening rock pools and broad swatches of green and yellow seaweed and sometimes passing under sun-dappled arches of trees where the road's designers had decided to cut off a corner of the coast.  

The most daunting section involved running the gauntlet past the so-called tinkers’ encampment where rabid dogs prowled, filthy kids took pot-shots with their catapults at my wheel-spokes and unshaven hulks of men leaned against tree trunks with empty sacks over their arms ready to pounce and fill them with stray city-kids for deportation to God knows where. I had to put my head down over the handlebars and pedal like the wind to get past safely.

Once when I had just begun the return leg from Corrie, I realized I had got my timings all wrong. Dad, after taking us all to Arran at the start of the holiday, would travel up and down from Paisley on the boat-train and ferry as his work allowed. That morning he was coming for an unbroken two-week stretch and I was desperate to be on the pier when he arrived. It was the time of year when he and I would get up early every morning, share toast and marmalade for breakfast and then head off through the village to the golf club. I was the only son present among the many men waiting their turn to tee-off. Dad insisted on taking me and never batted an eyelid when I started my round with a wayward boy-drive. At the end, after many adventures which included the challenge of shots out and back across the broad Rosa Burn, we'd sit on the bench outside the 19th hole, me with a Schweppes Caribbean Lemon and Dad with a pint of beer, watching other groups come up the 18th fairway.  Then, we’d head to the beach to join the family for a swim followed by bacon rolls and tomato soup from a thermos flask.

That morning, as I looked out to sea from Corrie, it was clear that the Glen Sannox’s silhouette loomed much larger on the horizon than it should've done at that stage of my trip. I’d thought I could easily cycle to Corrie and back with plenty of time to spare and be on the pier when Dad’s boat came in. Not then!
 
I put my head down and pedaled so hard I thought my heart would burst. Never had I passed the tinkers at such un-kidnap-able speed, never had I raced so dangerously along the two-feet wide footpath that formed a shortcut through fields beside the golf course and saved a half-mile from the journey and never had so many people, out for a quiet walk, shouted at me so angrily as they jumped out of my way. 

I rounded the corner of the road beside the golf clubhouse that led into Brodick and sped towards the village. The final decision point lay just ahead at the junction where the post office stood. I could either go straight along the sea front to the pier or attempt the steep double-hill ascent to Mid-Mayish, dump my bike at the cottage and run down to the boat. The prize for the latter course of action was to be bike-free at the pier and able to slip into the front bench-seat of the car beside Dad as we all came up from the pier together.

I reached the junction, filled every cubic inch of my lungs with air and veered off to the right to begin the ascent to the cottage. I reached the crest of the first hill as if lifted on the breath of the gods but then all divine intervention deserted me. My legs were leaden as I began the second ascent which was much steeper. Twenty yards from its top, I had to reach into my soul like a weightlifter attempting a record-breaking lift. I stood out of the saddle and strained every sinew as I nearly pulled the front wheel off the road, screaming ‘Come on!’.  I managed it – just  – and as I hit the flat surface of the final run-in to the farm courtyard, I slumped onto the saddle with legs like jelly. I rounded the final bend, wobbled to a halt in front of the cottage and flung my bike against its red-sandstone walls.

Narrow-lane short cuts and forbidden hop-skip-and-jumps through back-gardens took me down to the sea front. My Clarks’ sandals slapped on the hot pavement as I raced to the pier and my lungs burned like furnaces. Ahead, the Glen Sannox had cut its steam turbine engines for its final glide towards the pier and I could see crewmen in position on the prow, heaving lines in hand, ready to throw them to the men on the pier so that they could pull across the thicker ropes to make the ship fast.   

I don’t know how but I managed to arrive at the foot of the gangway just as Dad started to come down it, golf bag over his shoulder and a crescent-moon smile on his face. ‘Hello, son!’ he said as he cupped my face in both of his big butcher’s hands and kissed me. A few minutes later, as we sat in the car, his left elbow poked me in the chest as he pulled the column-mounted gear lever of the Victor forward and down to engage first for the trip up the hill. I smiled . . . like a crescent moon.
 

Copyright in this and linked to material is asserted by the physical person who owns the Blipfoto.com journal 'Around the Block' with username 'Barrioboy'.