Barnabas Tales Read online

  That night began by making the mistake of scorning mosquito nets and the children quickly got quite badly bitten. Next day we set out to explore the park. We decided to visit the furthest last hot spring on the Sudanese border, and were obliged to take a park ranger with us. He spoke very little English, but brought a huge old rifle. He sat in the front with me cradling this vast weapon. I suggested he should put it in the back, but he refused. We crossed two dry rivers, and went through groves of palm trees along a river bank. Giraffe, elephants, Jackson's Hartebeest, Secretary birds, and various small buck went past. We reached the end where the road stopped and looped around a small pond. I thought the next road in that direction might well be in Abyssinia, and doubted if it was much better.

  The border was about 200 yards away, and a few months previously Sudanese irregulars had killed three park Rangers, who were buried at the park offices. Perhaps the rifle was to deter the Sudanese rather than keep large animals or us in order.

  The hot spring was just beside the track. The water had a sulphurous smell and was hot enough to be uncomfortable. Reeds and boggy marsh flowers grew around. Our children threw stones in the pond, and I photographed them with the guard and his rifle. Then he went behind a bush, and when he came back said “I wonder where the crocodile is.” So then we hunted round the pool, but the crocodile had presumably fled to the bush or was hiding in the mud. Apparently it was about 6 feet long.

  Later in the day we went off on our own to a place called Opotipot, and circled around the western corner of the park. It was slightly eerie driving along tracks which had no tyre marks on them, miles from anywhere. One track took us near to a very large herd of dark elephants. Game here is poached from Sudan and can be restless and uneasy, so I was quite pleased when we passed beyond them. Several times we visited a small dam which was said to have crocodiles, but they were never on view. Bridget did however spot a lion sitting in long grass - our first really “wild” lion as opposed to the ones in the Queen Elizabeth Park and Ngorongoro which are used to visitors.

  Kidepo was very lovely. We spent two nights, and set off early on the Tuesday morning. By then I had found that both of our car spare tyres looked pretty thin, and one had canvas showing through. We topped up with petrol and had an uneventful run back to Moroto, except for denting the back of the car driving too quickly through a drift. We saw a few poachers, a little game, and gave two soldiers a lift, also with their rifles.

  From Moroto we took the mountainous Watershed Road straight back towards Mbale (the road we had decided not to try going the other way. This was a fantastic route. The ground dropped away on both sides, and the views were breathtaking. The watershed ran to a shoulder of Kadam Mountain, and then slithered down a steep corkscrew to run under Kadam and on to Mount Elgon. For perhaps 12 miles in a long straight line the road ran downhill, and here Barnsley smashed his car and killed his wife. As we came closer to Elgon it looked more impressive than ever, with the water of the Sipi Falls coming over in a plume far down the mountainside. Stopping for a snack we received one visit from two very smelly Karamajong from a nearby settlement who asked for money. At Mbale we took half an hour’s break for a drink at the Coffee House and set off for Kampala and home.

  We were stopped for a time at a muddy place where the main road had been dug up. A bus had gone off the road and turned over, and I stopped to see if I could help. The injured had just been taken to Iganga Hospital, and the man under the back of the bus was very dead, so we went on. Thirteen and a half hours after leaving Kidepo, we drove up to our house at 37, Queens Road in Kampala to be welcomed by Paddy. It was our longest single run, and the children had been very good all the way.

  Next day the Holden spluttered and stopped in Kampala due to dirt in the carburettor. When I considered the problems we might have met on this trip, we were indeed very lucky not to break down somewhere really remote.

  What a well-behaved car!

  LETTER ABOUT IRISH SAIL

  Another sailing tale – this time an imaginary letter encouraging a friend to think of a similar holiday.

  Dear Rupert,

  It is splendid news that your treatment is working. Lucky devil - missing examinations last term, even though it was for a serious reason, but awful losing the summer holiday. I hope that you will be back at school before half term.

  We had a terrific trip sailing off southern Ireland. I can now handle a yacht, and I know how to work the heads (bogs to you). There were some fabulous moments, and some scary ones.

  We flew to Dublin, trained to Cork, and took a taxi to Kinsale. This was small and full of restaurants on a winding river. Yacht Trident was ready so we climbed on board and loaded all our stuff, and clothes. We bought food for the trip and especially booze. The boatyard people were very slow and laid back - but after all this is the South of Ireland. The outboard motor would not work whatever we tried. I nearly pulled my arm off hauling on the handle.

  I had a bed in the saloon, Mum and Dad shared a cabin at the stern, Charles had another one, and when Alison joined us she had the thin arrow-shaped front (bow) cabin. There was a dinky cooker, and a table in the main inside area which folded down. Everything was so small that we had to be tidy, even Dad. In the day I had to roll up all my bedding and put it away, and at night I could not lay it out until everyone had gone to bed. Sometimes the wrinklies fell asleep after supper and snored, and sometimes we played spillikins - you have no idea how competitive and ruthless some people become. It was especially tricky when the boat was rocking. The yacht has one mast and front and back sails - fore and main.

  Our first trip was to see if everything worked, round the bends of the Bandon River and out into the Atlantic - well perhaps not the full Atlantic but into the bay sheltered by the Old Head of Kinsale. There was a pretty good wind, we tilted a lot, and I was far from sure how confident Charles and Mum and Dad really were. Anyway we sailed a bit and then took down the sails and motored back up the river. Before we got to Kinsale another yacht hailed us - their motor would not start and they were near the side and drifting. So we motored over. Dad said “Give them our warp from the stern.” - that means a long rope from the back - and they attached it and we began to tow them back up the river to Kinsale. When the boatyard people saw us they raced out in an inflatable and took over the tow. Then I learned why Dad had given them our warp - under the Law of the Sea if they take our warp we can claim salvage, which is a proportion of the value of the yacht! Sometimes I despair of Dad - having set up a salvage he didn’t ask for anything and the boatyard people certainly didn’t mention it.

  Next day the outboard worked, and we set off. By then the navigation system had failed. It should check beacons ashore and tell you where you are. But as we were not expecting to go out of sight of land, we decided to would carry on. We motored for over an hour, and then put up the sails. The big front one got in an awful tangle - it is called a Genoa, and when it wraps round the wrong side there are problems. Anyway the wind was gentle and we motored and sailed for about 30 miles to anchor at a pretty little village called Glandore. On the way Mum tipped the teapot of hot water over herself, so we have tried to improve the balancing system for the cooker. Then we pumped up the dinghy, and rowed to the shore and the pub.

  Next morning, Monday, we walked to a nearby village and in the afternoon sailed to Castle Townsend where Alison was to meet us. It was mostly against the wind which they call beating. Nothing exciting went wrong - I began to hope that the so-called sailors were beginning to remember what to do. The pubs ware dark and smoky and cosy, and there is a Guinness look-alike called Murphys’. It is very peculiar - when the glass is filled with it there are masses of tiny bubbles in the dark brown stuff, and these bubbles move down the inside of the glass instead of floating up. I asked the barman, but all he would talk about was magic and leprechauns. I tasted a little - very odd and it feels as brown as it looks - I don’t know why people drink it.

  On Tuesday mornin
g Alison appeared on the shore having hitched from Cork. Her belongings more than filled the front cabin. We ate on board and sailed round Toe Head. There were masses of spiky rocks and at one point we had to squeeze between a castle and jagged Stag rocks on the other. I was glad we could see well. We found a tiny inlet to Bullock Island and just enough space for three yachts to anchor. By the evening we had a deserted enclosed anchorage all to ourselves. The banks were purple with heather, and thick brambly jungle. Dad came this way 40 years ago and visited a Lough nearby and was very keen to see it again. I must say I liked that anchorage and watching the evening become dark. When it was properly black, we could see lights flashing in the water, especially when the washing up water went overboard.

  Wednesday was brilliant, sunny, bright and still, with lots of slim little fish round the boat. We took the dinghy into a narrow channel. The tide had just begun to run out but we managed to get through into Lough Ine. It is really beautiful, almost square, with an island and an old castle in the middle, and hills all around. We landed on the island and saw the castle, some amazing puddles foaming with mosquito larvae, and several dogfish. Dad kept going on about events 40 years ago! The tide in the Lough is very small because only a limited amount of water can get in and out through the narrow channel to the sea. Inside the Lough with only a small tide and clear water, you can see things very easily things which live below the low tide mark. When we went to a landing place by a road, Alison swam, but with plenty of advice to avoid the sea urchins. They have bodies between a golf ball and a tennis ball in size with masses of bright tapered purple spines all over. If you stand on one the spines go in and break off. Dad showed how when it is sunny they pick up bit of shell or rock to hold over themselves to provide some shade! A couple of horses rode into the Lough to keep Alison company. She didn’t stay in long. The Gulf Stream may come round this coast, but to me the water felt icy.

  When we got back to the entrance to the Lough, the channel had turned into a cataract, with water pouring down a steep slope. My stupid sister was quite upset when she was stopped from riding down the rapids in the rubber dinghy, but if she had capsized we could not have done anything to help her. With much grumbling she helped us to portage round the rapids and then we rowed back to the yacht. We sailed on west into Baltimore Bay. Baltimore is a dump.

  Thursday was cold, wet and windy. There was paralytically slow service in the shops, and the only petrol was a long walk away. Alison retired to cabin with a sniffle - I knew the water was unhealthy the day before. The day got worse and I discovered that nobody properly knew how to reef! We were soon in lifejackets and harnesses, and depending on the engine rather than the wind. At any rate I learned how to take the sails down. We motored into Schull - a lively little town. The dinghy sprang a leak. If it was not one thing, it was another!

  By Friday it was time to fill up the water tank, but there was no handy tap. We snuggled up to a big trawler and eventually fixed a hose to a tap. Then we got ourselves well anchored. After lunch we left Trident and took the ferry to Cape Clear Island. We walked to the cliffs looking towards America. The cliffs are high, sheer and amazing - I felt quite brave crawling on my stomach until my head was over the breakers far below. There were clouds of seabirds everywhere. They have hay stooks there, armfuls of hay leaning together to dry - Dad says he remembers them from the war. The fields were tiny patches of land between stone walls, and we saw the oldest broken-down yet moving cars I have ever seen. There were ancient farmers and ancient mariners like something from an old costume film. In the evening we motored out and to Crookhaven. It was the last shelter before Mizen Head which sticks far out into the Atlantic. The map (chart) showed fierce races off the point.

  Next day for hour after hour we sailed with big zig-zag tacks into a north-west wind. We saw no tide race off Mizen Head and the lighthouse was the only sign of life. Some of us felt a bit sick sailing - modesty prevents me saying who. We plugged on past another head into Bearhaven at the mouth of Bantry Bay. This was a busy fishing town with an Irish naval patrol moored in harbour. Mum was all right sailing but felt a bit unwell afterwards, so the rest of us went out for supper and found a more up-market place than we might have been allowed if she had been there! They say this is the Gourmet Coast.

  On Sunday we went deep into Bantry Bay and we saw some good wrecks. One large ship was just a pair of masts sticking up with a danger buoy nearby. Another was a smaller boat high and dry on a reef. While we were motoring, Mum was still unwell sitting in the cabin. She called us when she heard a Mayday over the radio - which is when there is a life-threatening danger. A fishing vessel engine had broken down, and two fishermen were drifting onto Mizen Head. Bantry Radio controlled the emergency, but the coastguard broadcasting was so slow, ponderous and laid back that I though sometimes he had fallen asleep between words. We followed the events on the radio - the Irish naval patrol vessel in the area was able to rescue the fishermen. We were too far away to be any help. At the end of the day we found a very sheltered anchorage at Glengarriff the top of Bantry Bay.

  Next morning there were seal parents and pups on the rocks near us and swimming around in the water. We visited an ancient oak forest which used to cover lots of Ireland, and in the afternoon motored to Bantry Town past great oyster beds. It was grey, wet and grubby, but we found a tap to replenish the water tank. While supper was cooking, we went to the Anchor pub which advertised “Soup, Drinks, Conversation”. Mum was still not very well.

  On Dad’s birthday we planned a long day’s sail back to Crookhaven. It was quiet and foggy, and soon we could see very little. We had a pathetic fog horn, and our radar reflector looked small and miserable. It is supposed to reflect radar waves to let another boat know where we were. We began to miss the navigation machine which would have told us where we were. The chart suggested that there were no rocks or reefs near the shore so we tried to keep well in to look for the land. Soon everything was the same shade of dense misty grey except that there was a slightly paler line of grey due to waves breaking under the cliffs. It was almost impossible to know just where we were. Anyway we plugged along, and the mist thinned when we reached the tip of Mizen Head. Fortunately we arrived at about the time when the tide turned, so that there was no race disturbing the water around the Head. After that we could see again and it was quite easy going. We got into Crookhaven before dark and had supper in a small restaurant owned by a Swede with a New Zealander as cook!

  By now I felt I could do most of the things on the boat. Next day we started in strong wind with two reefs, but the wind dropped and we had to motor on to Schull where it soon became sunny and hot. For a short time we had sunbathers lounging on the deck. We watched a bright regatta with splendidly colourful small dinghies. But by mid- afternoon it was raining, horrid and blowing hard as we motored (I was steering) into Baltimore Bay. I found a quiet corner with some protection against the wind. It was a foul evening.

  Next day was a routine trip back to Glandore. The final day was the best of all with a strong friendly wind, sun, sparkling sea, and big waves which slowly overtook us. We had a super run back to the bright wasp-like rings of the lighthouse on the Old Head of Kinsale. Then we rounded the Head and motored up the Brandon River back to the boatyard.

  I feel quite an old sea-dog now, and in another year I might make up for the shortcomings of a boat or of the older people. We had a rotating skipper system, so I was in charge for two of the days, but Charles kept a very close eye on me.

  In case you come sailing with us – I’ll add a final bit about heads. Charles says they are designed for deformed dwarves, which is rather generous. The toilet had taps and two pumps, one to empty the bowl and one to bring salt water in from outside to help to flush it. The levers for the pumps were pretty primitive, and they tended to leak and spit water over you, the exact nature of which was best ignored. When the boat tipped a lot, using the loo became even more of an adventure. Then there were the sea-cocks to remember. They seal off th
e holes where the pipes go through the hull - which is important because if you forgot to close the cocks and the boat tipped enough, then water would come in, which is not a good thing. So headsmanship was important - and I almost forgot - the system could cope with a little loo paper, but nothing more than that. There were awful tales of taking the plumbing to bits to try to clear blockages.

  Well, that was one of my best ever holidays - do you think you would like to come with us if we have space next year?

  Jamie

  TIME TO LEAVE SKYE

  Dawn revealed a grey wild scene with low cloud and poor visibility, but the wind had moderated. Spray no longer leapt over the pier which sheltered us, a lone yacht. Three cold and storm-bound September days at anchor had long exhausted any optimism about the probably imaginary fleshpots of Uig, a hamlet on Skye, concealed so thoroughly in the few houses dotted round the bay, the one dark pub, or the prefabricated semi-derelict café which seemed to be closed for the autumn and winter. We held an early council of war. Should we sail and how should we prepare? The yacht must be returned to Ullapool on time.

  Neither Charles nor I was proof against sea-sickness as I had demonstrated only too clearly after working on the foredeck to change the jib while the bow kicked up and down in a short sea. Bridget never felt sick, but one person was not enough to handle the yacht in severe weather if Charles and I were unable to help. Eventually we agreed to go, took our seasickness pills, and optimistically prepared food for later, since work in the galley is difficult or impossible in a rough sea. We rigged and hoisted the reefed main and a small foresail while still held by our two anchors behind the pier.