A ball at the back of the line!

A meeting with a couple of old rugby buddies started me reminiscing of past glories on the field. There’s an old saying the older I get the better I was. So a little story from my past.

I played rugby league U18 for Cumbria and received international honours for Norway at rugby union. I played most of my rugby for Guy’s Hospital RFC who were just losing their status as a first class cub when I joined. That said we still had half the fixture list from the golden days, when one Saturday the club’s first team walked out onto the pitch with 15 internationals with the two sub’s on the bench both current international for England.

I remember playing Cambridge University at Grange Road against the likes of Hastings, Smith, Bailey, to name but a few. Marcus Rose the resident English full back was aliened against us. Not that he saw the end of the game. Docs, all nine stone tackled him as he came thumping through the centres. The stretcher came on and off he went, not a bad claim to fame Richard Docker.

My claim is I took a ball off Mick “The Munch” Skinner at the back of the lineout. He is known as one of the hard men of English rugby. The blind side flanker received legendry status during the 1991 world cup finals for his tackle on Marc Cecillon of France. Truly one of the great back row forwards!

On a murky Tuesday evening in south east London we were playing Blackheath – The Club, the oldest fixture between two rugby club’s in the world. For reason’s I don’t recall I was asked to be the third jumper at the back of the lineout. Don’t worry I was assured “We wont throw the ball there.”

The first lineout was a while in coming, when it did I tried to look all of my 5ft 113/4in. as I walked up to the line. I took a look at my opposition and my heart sank. He was 6ft 5ins, although known for his flowing locks; this evening he had a skin head hair cut, muscles bulging through his rugby shirt and was speaking with a Geordie ascent. Mick “The Munch” Skinner. I was in for a pleasant evening.



As planned the ball was thrown straight over the heads of the number two (2) and four (4) jumpers. A quick decision, do I try to contest? Of course not, this was the cream of England, the red rose, he flew into the air as I watched, took the ball cleanly in two hands, perfect. As he returned to terra firma my arm shoot through taking his legs away. He landed on his coccyx, presenting the ball perfectly, but that had to hurt.

Smiling I was off, chasing down the fly half.

The next line out came and I stood against the England hero. To plan once again the ball sailed over the number two (2) and number four (4) jumpers as Mick rose, a splendid sight. I turned, and was hit, I was sailing through the air and then I hit the ground. That hurt! I was lying 10yds from the line out. The Blackheath blind side had come through and knocked me for six. He never said a word as he stood over me, but I got the message, if I tried it again I wouldn’t see the end of the game.

I took the warning. I like to think I am fairly tough, but I have no death wish and I am certainly not suicidal. These boys meant business and had the strength and character to follow it through. No more illegal movement in the air.

Still one has to compete!

Mick took another couple of line outs, with only little opposition. The flank forwards once again became laxest. Mid way though the second half, up he went leaping like a salmon, taking the ball in two hands. As he was returning to earth I jumped. I managed to get my arm though under his armpit and ripped the ball out. I turned and passed it to Docs who was waiting. Mick came down, no ball in sight wondering what had happened. Not robbed more pick pocketed. He went wild; thankfully not with me but with his flankers. I can still here his Geordie curses if I close my eyes.

We came second that evening to Blackheath, not by a huge score, but well beaten. However it is one I will always remember. The night I stole a ball off Mick “The Munch” Skinner!

San Fermin Festival

San Fermin Festival

I switched on the television earlier this week to find the San Ferna festival being shown. A more familiar name is the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona made famous for the English by Hemmingway.

The format is simple, each morning the bulls are run from the outskirts of Pamplona through the streets to the Bull Ring in the centre of the town in preparation for the bull fights in the evening. I assume the organisers thought it best to bring them through the streets early in the morning when most self respecting Spaniards would be tucked up in bed after the festivities of the previous night.

However the Spaniards like to come out late and party to the early hours of the morning. It being no surprise therefore that when the bulls were first run through the streets there were numerous inebriated young men showing off to the fair young ladies. So a tradition began.

Years later and there are hundreds of inebriated young men who race through the streets showing off to their young ladies. There have been deaths a plenty a couple of years earlier to my participation, someone had fallen in the tunnel entering the bull ring, seven (7) people died. It is just as dangerous as it sounds.



Amongst the small group of twenty some things that set out upon the quest were Docs, the Mighty Finn and I. We travelled down in a coach full of antipodeans who had the beer flowing before we left Earls Court and were determined to prove that Pohms couldn’t drink. We were young and it seemed like a good challenge.

36hrs later saw us drinking in Pamplona square looking forward to the following morning. Another full night of drinking and the sun rose, we bleary eyed revellers were ready and waiting as the canon announced the bull were lose. The adrenaline in my body kicked in, I was no longer drunk but alert and running. Where were the bulls? I jogged slowly letting other runners team pass me. The crowds safely on the other side of the fences were roaring, but still no bulls.

Then I saw it ‘the tunnel.’ A double helping of adrenaline, and I ran if my life depended on it, which with the crowd roaring in my ears, I believed it did. Into the tunnel, no stopping now, every man for himself! I ran, Lyford Christy would have chassed my dust. Into the day light and the centre of the ring with hundreds of others, cheering with relief we had made it and were grateful to be alive.

When eventually the bulls arrived a good ten (10) minuets later, the roar from the stadium was deafening. A young man had been speared by a horn from a bull and was been dragged into the arena. A shake of his mighty head and the body of the young man was thrown clear like a doll thrown from a pram. The boy was picked up by the surrounding crowd and taken off to hospital. The bulls carried on straight through the ring and disappeared through a gate at the far side.

My blood was really pumping, I felt I had let the side down, I had not even seen a bull until they arrived in the ring.
The crowd inside the ring were moving towards the gate, I joined them. A chant began Torro, Torro, Torro, I joined in Torro, Torro, Torro. We were standing in front of the gate the bulls had disappeared into and were chanting.

The strangest thing you could ever imagine happened, the crowd sat down!

In front of the gates the bulls had disappeared into the crowd sat. Not wanting to look scared I too sat in front of those gates and chanted. Yelling for the bulls to come out!

Then they did! The gate was opened a bull charged into the seated crowd. Its horns were ploughing through the sand nose in the dirt of the bull ring and charging straight at me.

In the tunnel my imagination gave me tempo. But here in the ring, this was the real thing. That bull charging towards me gave me more adrenaline than I have ever had before or since kicking into my body. I rolled to my right and the bull continued, people behind me were thrown from its path as it charged through. On my feet I watched as the bull decimated the crowd behind me.

Then I was hit. I was somersaulting. I was in the air, I landed, the air knocked from my lungs. I was lying on the sand in a bull ring in Pamplona, at my feet were two big black eyes, two flaring nostrils, snorting and staring at me was an enormous bull. A second bull had been let into the ring!

I learnt later you should lie still and wait, the bull seeing you as no threat would leave you alone. As I said I learnt later. I did what any righteous Barrow boy would do. I kicked it as hard as I could in its big black face! In return it promptly gouged my legs. If the Spanish boys had not grabbed its tail and distracted that animal I would not be walking today. They drew its attention away from me, but not before I took some savage mauling my legs. Bloody was seeping everywhere fortunately they were just flesh wounds.

After thanking the boys I intended to get somewhere the imminent possibility of death was not so high on the agenda. I was hobbling to the edge of the ring with blood running down my legs when I spotted a youth in denims, ripped t-shirt and long hair looking seriously out of place.

The dress code for bull running is white trousers, white dress shirt with a red sash around your waist and a red neckerchief around your neck. With the odd accessory 95% of the crowd adhere to it. I watched this young man wonder around the ring’ looking with intent, until he caught the bull’s eye. The bull charged and man stood.

20yrds, 10yrds, 5yrds and still the youth in jeans the ripped t-shirt and the long hair stood. With the bull only 1yrd from him he jumped. With each hand he grabbed a horn of the bull and he balanced himself over the bulls head as the bull charged through the ring.

The bull was confused! The crowd were confused! I was confused!

After travelling the length of the bull ring balancing on the head of the bull he jumped off to the side. The silence was deafening. Had we all witnessed what we saw?

As one the crowd went into raptures, they cheered the boy. He waved, smiled and left.

Unbelievable! Yes I too had watched in amazement and wonder at what the boy had just completed. I had however failed to watch the bull which was still in the ring charging up behind me. Run? I had just seen a performance on how to handle a bull! I took one look at the bull and for the third time that day I ran as if my life depended on it, and the bull chased. The fence around the ring must be 8ft tall. I got to the top in a single bound and rolled into the arms of the crowd. I was shaking with fear but now I was safe.

That evening as I was having my cuts attended to, I watched myself somersaulting on Spanish national television. No sign of the long haired boy with the ripped t-shirt. I have no idea who he was but he has balls.

The festival lasts for seven (7) days so we returned the following day and the day after but never saw the youth again. When the week was over, awaiting the coach at Calais Docs, Finny and I were having a quite beer, at 8.30am. A couple of the antipodeans walked past looking dejected drinking coffee shaking their heads. We were young and had proven ourselves foolish but there’s nothing like a good challenge.

Andes Horse Ride

With the Andes on my door step it seems foolish not to get into the great out doors after a week being bound to the office. I found a website with the promise of a days riding in the mountains, so Saturday at 8am found me looking for the metro to take me to the stables.

Santiago’s metro is a modern affair, clean and safe. The trains run on rubber tires like the Paris metro, all very efficient, and ticket cost 50p to anywhere you want to go. I had one change then I took line four (4) to the penultimate stop. It took an hour and was all very pleasant and at 50p excellent value. The next part of my journey was to catch a “collectable” hand over the written address of the stable and pay another £2.

A collectable, is a taxi which the passengers share, along a predetermined route. You just request the driver to stop and out you jump. If there are more passengers along the route he will stop and let them on board. Many interesting people can be met during this form of transport.

40 minuets later I was deposited out side the stable, not bad for a couple of quid ready to meet my mount.




The horse was a rodeo trained horse which at the slightest touch short of in one direction or another. It took a couple of minuets to get used to, much the amusement of the stable staff and guide.

Off we went up the mountain, to some of the most beautiful views of the Andes. These horses walked along paths I wouldn’t have dreamed of walking on foot. We went along a ledge not a foot wide with a near vertical drop of in excess of 100ft. Not for the faint hearted.

We carried on through gorges and up mountains for a couple of hours only once meeting another guide and riders. We stopped for lunch by a small beck, watered the horses and my guide even produced a can of beer. Idyllic.

Well, yes the scenery definitely. But I had come to ride horses not walk them through though leafy glen and up dale. As we returned to the stable after a four hour walk I was bored. It reminded me of taking my girls pony trekking in Wales four (4) years ago. Charlie was just learning to ride, while George looked very good on a horse. But after three days of walking horses around the Gower every body was bored. Just goes to show it doesn’t matter what the view is without the excitement of a gallop it is just another walk with a horse!

Odile: The Black Swan

As I look out from my hotel room I stare straight at the magnificent Andes mountains. They truly are magnificent, and this from a man who was born in the Rocky Mountains of Canada, raised in the English Lake District and owns an apartment in the French Alps. I know mountains and these are magnificent.

I am in Santiago the capital of Chile, to climb the highest mountain in the Andes? No for business, but that doesn’t take away the view.

I walked through a local park and came face to face with a lama, which is unsurprising when in the Andes. But it reminded me of my mother coming face to face with a lama when in the Sussex country side.

My eldest daughter Georgina and my mother were collecting daffodils in the woods behind my parent’s house in Sussex. George was 4yrs old, and my mother was trying to entertain her. They were off to see the sheep and the donkeys, however once in the wood my daughter wanted to see the lamas. My mother dismissal was absolute. But you know the way little girls have of getting there own way, especially George or is that only with me? So off they scampered through the wood to a field containing four (4) lamas.

Georgina continued to surprise and entertain my mother; witness both their delight watching a television programme below, priceless.



The last time I saw my mother conscious we were attending a school production of Swan Lake. Georgina now 15yrs old was playing Odile the black swan and as the script describes “she is radiant and proceeds to dance with the prince ...” which as her father I can confirm she looked gorgeous and very talented.

Not known for giving compliments easy my mother was beside her self with her talented grand daughter “Just think that beautiful, wonderful person came from me” if I remember her words correctly.

A week later I was awoken by the police asking me to ring the Royal Sussex hospital as my mother had been admitted. My mother never regained consciousness and died 48hrs later as I held her hand.

It’s strange how memories are interlinked, and what comes to mind as you walk through a park in the Andes. As to Aconcagua the highest mountain in South America we’ll see how the work goes!

Penguin Plunge

Back on my beloved Whale Coast after an absence of what seems like a year. It is ten (10) months, all but a short trip during the Easter period. Also arriving back after their summer break were the Southern Right Whales. On my first day back I saw one breach in front of the restaurant I was having breakfast in. Were they welcoming me back, I like to think so.

Also welcoming is the village of Stanford where the locals are raising money with a Penguin Plunge this Saturday in aid of local disadvantaged children. As 8 month pregnant Jami Yeats-Kastner is leading from the front, literally. It seems a bit churlish not accept their gracious invitation to join them. It has been gales rain and more storms than I have ever seen in the Cape of Storms this week, well it is middle of winter.

Still should be nothing to the adventurer who as part of a relay team swam the English Channel in September 2008. The water temperature should be about the same as when five of us set off from Dover docks at 4am on a blustery dark morning. The training had gone well and we had all been immersing ourselves in the cold water of Tooting Beck Lido at 7am each Sunday morning so we thought we were acclimatized for our little swim to France.

The rules of relay swimming the channel are simple. No wet suits and each relay member must swim for an hour before he is replaced by the next. Once the order has been set there can be no change. There are to be a maximum six (6) member in each team. We only had five (5) as were unable to find another lunatic who would join us. Pete swam first and I was straight after so I had no briefing. In I jumped with my racing trunks, goggles and a light glow, one in my suit and the other behind my head. It was still dark so I didn’t see the water coming up to meet me. The next thing I recall was the cold, the utter mind blowing freezing temperature, the belt across my chest as I struggled to breath, the darkness of the water all round me. The boat I had jumped off had stopped to pick up Pete and would catch me up as I swam off. If I though the other four ex rugby buddies of mine would have let me back on that boat I would have gone back. Knowing that was not an option I started to swim. One arm over the next. One stroke at a time. No need to think where you are or how long you had to endure the cold.

Dawn in the English Channel, 8th September 2008

The hour past and I lived. My finger had gone blue and I had lost the feeling to my hands, but I had made it. Back on board shaking and shivering, quickly stripped off towelled and clothed. I was beginning to get warm when the nausea hit me.

Swimming along side a diesel engine boat for an hour, a swimmer swallows or breaths in a substantial amount of fumes. The result was me hanging over the side of the boat bring up breakfast. Each of my friends did the same as soon as they got back on board. Nobody could hold down any nourishment.

It took an hour plus to get warm. The next two hour I tried to feel normal, enjoy the dolphins, the porpoises, the raw sewerage that floated by. The last hour was the worst. My body was screaming at me not to go in the water again. I would not let my friends down. One more into the deep, in this case quite literally.

The hour went smoothly, after getting the initial shock of the water, I actually started to enjoy myself. I was hearing clicking noises in the water – the porpoises had come to play, the sun albeit briefly was also out. When I came out my fingers weren’t blue and I could feel my hands. This swimming lark wasn’t so bad after all.

Then the nausea hit me again. I was hanging over the rail unable to pull my pants up bring up gods know what. Why did I have to come back on board, I was happier in the water. Again no nourishment could be consumed, the retching had taken its toll, once I was warmed sufficiently I lay on the engine cover and fell into a deep sleep. I slept for a full three hours. I was awoken by Pete who was next in. The captain was for turning round as we were going to fail in our bid to swim the channel. Pete had told the captain that I was fine, he had seen me in a lot worse states. He asked me if I would be returning to the sea for another hour. I answered I’d rather be in the sea than on the boat.

When my turn came we were within four (4) miles of the French coast. But the tied was on the turn we had possibly three (3) hours before we would be swept out to sea and would be out there for another 12 hours. I was told not only did I have to swim for my hour but I also had to make a good two mile distance. I used all my will power to jump back into the sea and swam. It was not the easy swimming of the second hour, my body had started eating itself. I required nourishment but was unable to take it on board. Each stroke was an effort. I was back to putting one arm in front of the other, but this time I had to do it quickly.

The hour passed, as I got back on board the usual happened and I eventually got warm. Billy had taken us to within a few hundred yards of the coast. Nick swam the last seven (7) minuets to the beach to greeted by three young ladies who smothered him with kisses. The beer was cracked open backs were slapped as we headed back to Blighty and the white cliffs of Dover.

Am I looking forward to driving into a freezing cold river this coming Saturday? Of course not I’d be a bloody fool. Will I be joining the others, you bet, its all in a good cause, did I mention me and the Guy’s Buoys raised £11,000 for prostate cancer.

Mongolian Derby Second Time?

Its Friday and my favourite afternoon past time is sitting in Hermanus on the West Coast of South Africa. I eat oysters, drinking white wine and watch the Southern Right whales feeding their calf’s in Walker Bay. Add the company and it’s idyllic.

Unfortunately ‘the adventurer’ is not in South Africa but Horsham, West Sussex, England, staying with my father. Not that visiting ones father is unfortunate. However after being here for two weeks I am pulling at the bit to get away for the weekend.

Off to London and the bright lights this afternoon, meeting my good friend Nick. Those regular readers will remember that the last time I met Nick and his friends in the city a £500 wager was placed and duly won by yours truly. This evening event is only a prelude to the real reason for going to the city, although who knows what will materialise from this evening shenanigans.



On Saturday morning I shall be going horse riding. I have entered a competition, the prize, the entrance fee to the 3rd Mongolian Derby a not unsubstantial $10,000. To win, I need to make a video being interviewed sitting on a horse.

Why? You are asking would I want to enter the same race I came third in two years ago. Where I had four unofficial dismounts and took six stitches. Where I lost feeling in three toes due to hyperthermia. Where I lost so much weight I looked like this at the finish line



The Mongolian people are one of the most generous races of people in the world. They are fun, and they laugh easily. Their hospitality shows no bounds. I entered a camp one evening, using only sign language. I asked if I could stay the night. I was shown to a tent, where they showed me a bed. I was then shown to another tent where a wedding party was in full progress. I was given food, strong drink and a seat next to the bride. Two aunties, who had also taken strong drink, proceeded to teach me naughty words in Mongolian, much to the amusement of all present.

It was amazing, songs, speeches, and laughter. In my old age I intend to tell the tail to my grandchildren, of the day I attended a Mongolian wedding.

Is this my reason to enter the longest and toughest horse race in the world? Not a chance.

Third place is only the second of those who came last. As you know ‘the adventurer’ is nothing if not competitive.

I want to enter the race TO WIN.

New Years Skiing

New Year was spent in Le Grande Terche, a ski village south of Morzine in the French Alps where this Adventurer happens to be lucky enough to own an apartment.
It is part of the Porte Du Solaire one of the most expansive ski regions in the world. However Le Grande Terche is a small family resort consisting of one black, three reds and three blue ski runs. In the village it has three bars and three restaurants. A friend Gavin and his girlfriend came to visit for the New Years festivities.

The evening started badly, I had roasted a chicken for dinner prior to tearing up the village at midnight. Even Gavin a kick boxing coach could not beat the toughest bird any of us had ever encountered. Not to be deterred Champagne was opened and the EFS (French ski school) set off the evening with a touch lit descent followed by an early fireworks display. The fireworks were set off early due to health and safety reasons, i.e. nobody could be trusted to be sober enough at midnight to light the fireworks. Now that is the kind of health and safety I agree with.

The last time I was out with Gavin he had worn a ‘Morph’ outfit to the public house we were visiting, much to the amusement of all patrons. It was no surprise therefore that after the Champagne he produced face paints explaining he could not get the Captain America outfit into his luggage. Once suitable attired we went off to paint if not the town, then the New Year revellers red, green, yellow and blue.

At 4am after a night of partying where at one time we had a cue of revellers waiting to have their face painted we decided to call it a day and slopped off to bed.

For the next few days paint was found on sheets, table clothes, towels etc. people we met that night came up to us shaking our hands wishing us Happy New Year, or shaking their heads and running in the opposite direction. What a couple of pounds spent on face paint can do is truly remarkable.

New Years day, a little jaded we approach the pieste for the real excitement of the holiday. Gavin and I set off to teach the debutant girls how to snow plough on the green slope before lunch. To our great delight both girls seemed to pick up the basics quickly leaving us to try a little more difficult slope in the afternoon.

Now I am quite a reasonable skier as one would expect of the Adventurer who owns an apartment in the French Alps. I was taught by my cousins who were in the Canadian ski team. So I had a quick look at Gavin’s style told me he was an intermediate skier with lots of fitness and upper body strength to get him out of trouble. I took him straight off pieste and watched him slip down the mountain on his back side.

Tough chicken? If there is one thing that annoys me, its people who criticize my cooking!