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!