What a Royal To-Do

It's been fun and games on the Isle this week. This fluffy li'l kitten is our endorsed mascot for the Youth Commonwealth Games (speaks volumes about us, don't ya' think?)

We're currently hosting the tournament over here, and out of sixty-five countries, there are only two absent.  Zimbabwe's President, Robert Mugabe declined, on account of us not talking to him right now, (ha, yeah, like as if we were about to invite him over, anyways, huh?  We've plenty enough on our plate as it is thanks, what with that Gadaffi bloke and his recent shenanigans) and it seems that Fiji is also kinda' indisposed, due to them having suffered a rather questionable coup over there recently (yup, t'was news to me, too).

Naturally, this sporting event is a huge big deal for us, why, with a population of less than 75,000 - I mean, it's sorta' like our equivalent to England hosting the 2012 Olympic Games, and it's exciting, y'know?  Well, so I'm told.  That's if you're into all these athletics and sports and such-like, which in truth, I'm not. 

Well, not really.   

(Unless Yoga counts?)

But Mr. Shrinky is well made up about it.  A few months back the call went up for volunteers, and Mr. Shrinky, being of a more altruistic nature (and far sportier) than I, was first in line to sign up and book himself a week out from his day job.  'Course he had no idea what the required tasks might be, anything from manning the ticket gates, to looking after visiting teams, who knew?. 

In due course he was called in for an interview.  A week later someone phoned to ask if he was up for the one-on-one babysitting of a VIP for the duration.   

So sure, I told him fine and go ahead, just so long as we're not expected to be putting them up over the week, I mean, who wants visiting VIP's examining the fluff under the bed, or to be counting our dead bugs on the sill?

He called them back and was assured they'd already booked him for The Sefton (our poshest hotel on the Isle).  At that top dollar, we figured it surely must be one of their finest, super-star athletes, one of their elite they had in mind for him to hand-hold, eh?

It wasn't until last week they eventually had him in for the sit down and debrief, and finally announced the identity of this mystery Geezer.

And blimey.

 

Well, bloomin' heck, even I'm impressed. I don't always cut Mr. Shrinky enough credit - seems (contrary to me) he truly is a pretty well-respected citizen around these parts.  Maybe it's all that recent work he's been doing for the Government (he's been a wee bit in the news as of late) that's raised his profile?

Must be.

Now, I am aware there are a few Doubting Thomas' around these parts, those of you who may be casting a dollop of doubt over the truth and veracity of my recent postings.. and yes, much though it pains me, I do accept I may just occasionally be a wee bit prone to exaggeration, but I want it to be known right here and now, every single thing in this particular post is nothing but the total, unabridged and gospel truth. 

Pin your ears back.

See that man below?  (No, not the one dressed up like a pumpkin, that's Mr. Shrinky, I'm talking about the one standing next to him,  His Royal Highness, Prince Tunku Imran of Malaysia, second in line to the throne, and the President of the Commonwealth Youth Games, himself.)

Yes, granted, he may not be dressed quite as Presidential or as Prince-like as you might be expecting of someone of his standing, but hey, be fair, this was taken on his day off.  The games hadn't started yet.

You don't believe me?  Go Google!  Just don't forget to come back and apologise.  Well, what you waiting for?  Go on, scoot!

(Foot tapping..)

Right, you happy now?  Sheesh, some of you really do have trust issues, don't you?  Aye, and you can stuff your apology 'til the next time, I'm off my stride now.. where were we?

Oh yeah. 

I'm so glad we traded the old Tardis up, you can hardly go collecting royalty driving that old clunker, certainly not on the first introduction.  Impressions count, they do.

I told Mr. Shrinky, I said, "No, now you can't go meeting him, holding up that bit of cardboard with his name scrawled across it, I mean, he's used to being recognised, isn't he?  I imagine he normally comes with servants and chauffeurs and such, you just can't go showing up for him looking like some sort of odd-job, clueless cabbie!"

So he took himself away on-line to bone up a bit better, and later on he took a trip down to the library for a book or two on Malaysia, and any of their customs we ought to be knowing about.  (I love my dog, and I'd heard they eat them over there.)

As it turns out, Mr. Shrinky needn't have worried, he stood out like a beacon at the arrivals gate, sporting that near fluorescent, cheap and nasty orange and black volunteer uniform they'd supplied him with.  And the plastic name-tag around his neck served him well.

Plus there were only six folk on the flight.

Well, so far Mr. Shrinky is having a blast.  Him and His Nibs are on first name terms now, and pure inseparable they are.  Seriously, what a genuinely nice bloke this guy is, and he carries no airs or graces about him at all.

For the first two days, hubby served as his chauffeur/tour guide, driving him all over and about the place.  He had to stop off now and then for the odd lunch and dinner with folk, but when he did, he always invited Mr. Shrinky along with him, too.  Yes, Mr. Shrinky's been rubbing shoulders with the high and mighty all week, he has, and he's utterly chuffed to bits to be sitting in in the VIP box, watching all the games as he is. 

You wouldn't catch any of our Royals popping over here without their full entourage of body guards in tow, I told hubby to be careful, you never know if he's likely to be kidnapped or not, do you?  Mind, with him being Muslim an' all, I guess that does narrow the field down a bit, eh?

It's been quite a full week, all told.  His charge has to give out the odd medal, and to make an ocassional speech or two here or there, but in between all that and the watching of the games, they've still  found free time enough to go out sight-seeing, shopping, or to stop off for a small libation at an out of the way Pub. 

Though I did cringe when he took him visiting there out to a junk shop, I ask you, is that really the sort of place for a Prince to be seen hanging about at?

Mind, that said, he did buy a set of six egg-cups from in there (egg cups are hard to come by in Malaysia).

Our friend is scheduled to have dinner this evening at a formal do with, amongst others,The Governor, and Prince Edward (UK Queen's youngest son), but I've reluctantly advised Mr. Shrinky to be leaving his tux at home for the occasion, I fear it rather doubtful he'll be receiving any free pass into there this evening (though, being ever hopeful, he's stuck it in the boot, just in case).

All things considered, there's a lot to be said for volunteering.  I wish, I wish, I wish I could tell you more, especially of all the salacious, juicy tit-bit's I've had passed my way this week, but (sigh) as I'm under strict threat of divorce should I divulge any gossip in here, I'm having to bite my tongue hard, and to sadly take a pass on (what for me are) the bestest and most entertaining bits.

His Highness is due to jet away on Tuesday, but with the tail end of Hurricane Katrina hitting us today, all flights and ferries are closed from the Isle.  I sure hope The Sefton can extend his stay on from tomorrow, should the need arise. 

If not, push comes to shove, I s'pose I could make up a spare bed for the night.

(Running off to find my fluffy duster..)

Coming Home

The sea is in my veins. 

The flat sands of  the beaches of Aberdeen were my playground, scouring the rock pools for crab, or crouching between the boulders to collect a bucket-load of buckies, those little whelk-like crustaceans which we harvested home to then boil, and pull out to spear and eat straight from the shell with a pin. 

My friends and I scoured the coast to collect only the finest of pearlised seashells, and we sifted through the shingle strewn farthermost corners of the beach, to cherry-pick out the brightest marbled gems from the thousands of multi-coloured, glistening pebbles at our feet.  Often searching the shoreline  for smooth, sculpted driftwood, we’d gather up the finest of what the waves washed up, marking it for later transformation into a twisted sailing ship, a gnarly-faced dragon, a lop-sided lighthouse or whatever other creation the particular timber whispered into our ear.  

Coves and caves furnished a perfect backdrop to our many adventures with pirates, smugglers, mermaids, and those pesky huge, killer monster squids. Soft powdery sand was easily landscaped to furnish an ample moat protection around our dunes/castles, and we repelled many Evil English, countless one-eyed giants, and any other number of loathsome invaders who were either intent upon striking us down dead, ransacking our lands, or kidnapping our treasures.

I learned how to use seaweed as a weather barometer, how to recognise and name numerous species’ of seabird, and to spot (through dire experience) where and when the tides were most likely to cut us off and away from the shore.

Da was a trawler-man, hauling the cod all the way from Iceland and back, and by day Ma and all the other fish-wives filleted the fish down by the quay-side, exchanging banter and trading gossip, as they deftly and continuously sliced the freezing, wet flesh from the bone.

Ma’s knuckles were permanently raw and chafed, her ankles swollen.  Da was often gone on the boats for weeks at a time. Fishing being the only real mainstay of the town, this way of life was little different from those of our neighbours, they who were housed in the self same tenement buildings we called home.

Despite the necessity for most of our mothers to hold down a full time job, tending house and raising children still firmly remained  “women’s work”.  This is 1960’s working-class Scotland.  No decent woman would ever be seen entering a pub, the men drank and any (good) woman stayed home of a night.

If a man chose to beat his wife, what went on behind closed doors was nobody’s business but his own, there was no call to interfere.  Divorce being a scandal solely reserved for the gentry, once wed, you stayed wed.

Not that you had to necessarily stay living together, mind.  But, hell or high water, most did.  It took a man’s wage to raise a family, and few women could replace that on their own.  The days of equal pay lay decades ahead, and once the children arrived, my mother’s  generation couldn’t afford the luxury of walking out on a marriage, just cause or not.

Though Ma eventually did. 

We left the sea, the Country even.  Land-locked in England with all the funny accents, I missed my open playgrounds and hated the soot-blackened, crowded city with no sign of trees or a blade of grass.

Da eventually found us, but instead of taking us home as I'd hoped, he elected to stay where we’d moved, swapping the trawler boats for a steel factory.  A job he hated.

Years and years and years passed.  I grew up and left home, seeking my fame and fortune in London.  More years passed, and I found it.  Several more years down the line, I met my husband and we made a family all of our own.

But the sea is, always has been, in my veins, and still it called to me.

Until one day, almost ten years ago, I knew I could ignore it no more.  My family DID NOT want to move to this sleepy little island, but they came all the same.

It’s a happy ending.  

The beach became my children's own playground, they fought in coves and caves against pirates, and pesky giant monster squids, learned to forecast the weather from seaweed on the shore, sculpted their own masterpieces out of driftwood, and have built fortresses on the dunes.  They are older now, and have found other uses for the beach -  parties, barbeque's, the odd summer swim.

Where ever they may travel now, the sea is firmly in their veins, too.

My husband can’t wait to retire and live here on a permanent basis, for out of all of us, I think it is he who loves this place the best.

And as for me?

It is not my birthplace, not even my birth Country, but yes, I’ve finally found my way back home.

The sea is in my veins.

The Good Life

Okay, we don't have a lemon tree (yet), and I freely confess that although we have been known to grow some cobs in the greenhouse, these I had to buy from the supermarket - but see that fish? It was caught in the river running through our garden. Both the spuds and the spinach are also home grown.

Raised a City girl, I had hardly eaten much organic produce before. not until we moved over here. The difference in taste between mass produced fruit and veg as opposed to the home grown variety is amazing - everything is so much sweeter, and of course, much more fresh.

I also find farmed fish doesn't have anywhere near the same flavour as those that are caught in the wild. (No, I didn't catch this one, I leave that to those who enjoy the sport, I am simply happy to serve up the end result!)

We ate this fish last night, poached in a wine stock, and served up with a cucumber and dill sauce.

Yum!

My big sis' and her grandson are over from England for the week, so we are out and about, having a fine old time. We are setting off for the Comedy Club tonight.. I'll have much to post and report back soon!

Making Hay

I finally got around to taking the tour yesterday. It gets kinda' crowded in season, best to wait for the right atmosphere to enjoy something like this.

Yesterday being a dull and damp, mid-week, and off-season day, with hubby having booked a few days out from work, and with the kids (who refuse to be seen out dead with their parents, thesedays) off at school, it seemed the perfect time to take a stroll around there.


The village is not a reconstruction, it is the real thing, restored and fully functional, with costumed guides working at the various crafts which helped to support life back then, in this traditional early 20th century Manx crofting village.
It's a living museum, everything in it is fully functional, and as we were lucky enough to be virtually the only two visitors there at the time, we had one-on-one guides to talk us through everything, as we roasted ourselves next to the open peat fireplaces. I liked they were far from intrusive, we were left to wander where we pleased, only meeting with anyone if we decided to pop our heads round their door. When we did, they seemed genuinely glad for our company, and proved a veritable treasure trove of fascinating details about the place.
Here is one of the permanent residents we encountered, she spends most of her days in her favourite cottage, lying on the freshly woven pile of garments that her friend produces. Manx cats have only a little nub for a tail, it's a genetic flaw inherited by centuries of in-breeding (I'll step away here from cracking any cheap jokes at the locals expense, seeing as how I don't fancy being run out of town).
The museum employs a skilled blacksmith, carpenter, several farm-hands, plus various spinners and weavers to demonstrate their crafts.
This lady admitted to cheating a little, using Alpaca wool imported from Sheffield to wind on her spindle, in place of the traditional sheep fleece the actual crofters would have used. She is also using a more up-dated version to work it on, than from the original spinning wheel you see behind.
The church is still well attended and holds regular services throughout the week. These windows are relatively new as, sadly, the original windows were destroyed when a tragedy befell the area. A massive explosion, which also damaged every roof in the village, showered debris down from over a mile away, out at sea. At the turn of the century when a ship hit distress, the men of the village were amongst the first to rescue nine out of the twelve members on board. The following day when they went back to salvage what they could from the vessel, it erupted with it's cargo of dynamite, killing the entire salvage crew of twenty-four, which comprised virtually all of the men folk who lived in the village. This may explain why the village eventually expired, leaving it to be taken over for posterity, as it was.
On our way home, we called off for a brief visit along The Sound to pay our respects.

Once home, we decided to light the living room fire, and spread out a simple feast of crusty french bread and cheese. This we shared over a bottle of wine, as we polished off the remainder of the afternoon by watching a two part, pre-recorded drama of Wuthering Heights.

It's not often we take time-out like this.

Just as the first of our Cherubs was due to return, I, wisely methinks, left hubby to deal with the scrummage, sloping off upstairs for a much needed and very well appreciated snooze.

Wonder where our feet will take us to tomorrow?

In Search Of Silence

This is where three of my kids attend school, it is perched on a cliff overlooking the sea, at Castletown.

Coincidentally, my other son also goes to school in Castletown, so I find myself coming down here quite a lot, but it's usually only for a school run, not to linger.



It's a pretty little Town, steeped in history.

Last week, on impulse, despite the drizzling rain, I decided to take my camera out for a stroll around there. Truth was, I wanted to escape the builder and electrician camped out at home.

What began as a simple re-vamp of the top floor to give Beccy's bedroom a quick make-over, has kind of grown into a major project now, involving laying new floorboards and an almost completly new re-wire job (sigh).

Anyway, more about that another time, I mention it only because that was my reason to up and flee for a couple of hours.




On impulse, I decided to visit Castle Rushen for the first time, and to take the tour. It was mid-week and a school day, so I expected it to be fairly quiet.



Just my luck to turf up behind a coach load of pensioners!

Um, there's nothing much wrong with pensioners, I'll be one myself soon enough, but gathered en-mass they can prove to be quite a liability.

Well, they like to talk, don't they?

Bit like the builder and the electrician.

And like the builder and the electrician, they also take to following you about from room to room, asking all these daft questions.



Took the best part of half an hour to convince them I wasn't a tour guide.



Every time I took the camera out, some clever soul would grin and pose for me. Drove me demented.



Probably was a bit mean to lead them up all those steps to the tower.. but at least it shook them off.


What?

Oh, quit your fretting, I helped them back down again on my way out. (Giggle.)

Summer Gifts (A Simile of Life)

Mother Nature can play this island a merry tune, and she can be quite heartless when she tries. However, these past few weeks her mood swings have lifted, and she has seen fit to favour us with her dazzling smile, granting the welcome kiss of summer to our shore. My two eldest arrive hastily back from school to pack up their swim suits and towels, I mean, after all, who can resist the allure of an impromptu beach party or BBQ?

It is amazing when the sun waves her wand.

The greenhouse and the garden are burgeoning with produce, It's necessary to harvest the cherries, peas, tomatoes and lettuce daily now. Those peas never make it to the stove - we try, we really do, but they are simply too good to deny being eaten as shelled, raw, sweet and fresh.

I am delighted with the cherry crop this year, it seems since transplanting it to the greenhouse, it's us, as opposed to the birds, who get to it first. Our little pear tree is still in it's infancy, but I have hopes it still may bear fruit before the summer is out.

It's too early for the raspberries and blackberries yet, but the redcurrants will soon be ready to turn into sauce.

And, despite all four children picking a bowl at breakfast each morn, we can't keep up with the strawberries - I must turn some over to jam this coming week.

Our corn is also growing nicely, it will only be a few weeks 'til we can (weather permitting) toss them on to our own BBQ soon.

But try as I might, I find the only thing the gooseberries are good for is to mix them in with either rhubarb or apples, or maybe some other berry or two, to bake them up in to a pie or tart. I don't suppose any of you out there might have any other (polite) suggestions as to what else I might do with them?

The peaches, one of my favourite fruits, are almost always eaten fresh from the tree.

We also have several varieties of apple trees, some good for eating, some only for cooking - they shall ripen soon - the yield is always far too heavy to consume by ourselves, and much as we try we never quite mange to give away the surplus. I try to keep up by making sauce and jam with part of the over spill.

We are blessed with two varieties of plum, but because they only bear fruit bi-annually this works out quite well (I am happy to report both types are equally as succulent and delicious). Exceedingly versatile, they can be eaten fresh, turned into jam or chutney, or even served baked with a blend of other fruits to turn out whatever current recipe is the order of the day.

Our crop of new potatoes are the sweetest yet this year - there is nothing so tasty as plucking them fresh from the earth to drop straight in the pot. All needed is a knob of butter for instant heaven!

I keep threatening to turn the grapes to wine, perhaps this year I might get around to it - we'll see. They are edible enough, but seeded, and so therefore less popular with the children. Supermarkets have a lot to answer for (it took me years to convince my brood apples don't necessarily need to be perfectly round for eating).

We now have cauliflower, broccoli, cabbage and asparagus shooting up, not to mention all the wonderful lush herbs by the bay leaf tree, that are ripe for the picking. It's my herb garden that gives me the most pleasure, I love the scents and the flavours they bring. Come the winter, I move them in their pots to the conservatory, ensuring a year round supply.

Even down by the glen, the salmon and trout are happily jumping in the river (though I prefer to leave the lone grey heron to harvest those) Were we threatened by famine, and were I less squeamish, our glen is now rampant in grouse and pheasant for the taking, not to mention all those rabbits that come out to dance at dusk (it's a joy to watch them).

This scene underfoot here will soon transform from it's present green to a bright orange carpet of display. Thousands of wildflowers (of which the actual name of escapes me for the moment) will light up the glen and fill the wood in their resplendent colour.

Most of the bluebells have given up their blossoms now, but the glen is often alight with whatever the changing season brings; come the Winter there will be snowdrops just about everywhere, and ample red berries will grace the holly, armloads of which will deck out our house come Christmastime.

(There are also endless collections of mushrooms and toadstools down here, but as I can't tell a poisonous from a magic (of which I am told there are many), to an edible one, I leave it to the wiser trespasser to hunt out which is what.)

But it is right now, right here at the height of summer, when the grounds preen at their glorious best, and our flower beds, bushes and trees are all dressed in their finest splendour, when the birds are singing long and loud to the background hum of those gorging, gathering bumble bees, yes it is here, right in this moment that for me all is (be it ever so briefly) so perfectly right and good in my world.

Those coming days when the north wind howls and the icy storms twist deep down to the bone, it's this moment I shall unbottle, recall the sun, the rich, earthy smell of our spent summer crops, and find soothing comfort in the promise that everything has it's recurrent season. Much as I may mourn the passing of the hot, long summer days, by nature of it's cycle, winter too, however harsh, draws to a close.

Good times, bad times - none last forever.

Regardless of how far ahead she may be hiding, isn't it wonderful to know there always lies Summer, just waiting in the wings?

Shedding toenails, blisters and Beer

Apologies folks, feel free to avert your eyes, 'tis not a sight for the squeamish.

Of course, the toenails will soon drop off, they always do. Uck. Why, what possible reason can anyone have to engage in such a feat of masochism? Every year I ask this, every year I have yet to receive a satisfactory reply.

I awoke to receive the shock of my life yesterday morning, there appeared to be a naked man masturbating at the foot of my bed. There he was, a pot of Vaseline in one hand, his tackle in the other. He claimed it wasn't what it seemed (yeah, tell that one to the judge, eh?). Apparently, he was merely following advice and greasing up his man-boobs, thighs and nether regions in a hopeful attempt to prevent any severe chafing during the mammoth walk ahead.

He didn't do too badly on the Annual Parish Walk, over forty miles in just over nine hours. Of course, he's a wimp compared to those few nutters who actually complete the full 85 mile circuit. 85 MILES, CONTINUOUSLY. All mostly uphill, over mountain, and on hard unrelenting, concrete paving.

You think that's mad? One crazy woman completed the course twice last year (though I hear tell she took to hallucinating by the end of it). Our island is known for it's quirky events, but this one simply takes the biscuit. Mind you, for all that, it is highly organised, with each competitor registered, micro-chipped, and well monitored. Believe it or not, hundreds of these hopefuls turn out on the day.

Residents line the route armed with banana's and bottled water, thrusting them onto those deemed the most likely to drop. (Alan was the grateful recipient of nine bananas, three Mars bars and several packets of nuts.) Local radio, and even the BBC tag along to document the progress.

As I drove my eldest daughter to a rounders match, we were unexpectedly made late, getting caught up in the traffic as flocks and flocks of police-escorted walkers were crossed over the road. After five minutes, the leading five cars were allowed to pass through, leaving us to endure the whole process all over again. Searching vainly, I scanned for Alan's face in the crowd, hoping to throw out a snarl.

I don't pretend to understand it myself, but I did at least take some pity (my heart is not entirely made of stone) - finally scraping hubby up from the pavement, I eventually drove him back home for a hot soak in the bath. Later, clutching a hard earned beer, he proudly, blow by blow, relayed all his finest moments of glory to me (over the climax of my favourite TV programme).

Bless, eh?

Now it's the morning after, and Father's Day. A lucky roll, if you ask me. He is limping about and milking it to the hilt.. it would appear a family walk is strictly off the menu.

After a Bucks Fizz breakfast over the grand present opening, he has happily managed to snuggle himself back up in bed again, and is doubtlessly snoozing the sleep of the just as I type.

Let's hope when he wakes, (this time) he finds the decent courtesy to remove his shed toenails from our bed.

(Shudder.)

Time Out

It's half term over here, and the sun is up. Don't you just love water-gun's? (Evil grin.)

Aw, c'mon - all work and no play is no fun for anyone, is it? Yeah, yeah, yeah, I've got my head down, I'm grafting away (honest). But when Abby wanted us to ambush Bec, well.. who was I to resist?

I have to say though, our little Ms. Abby was proper mortified to find this one also turned on her.. teehee. (I've stashed it somewhere safe now, for fear of revenge attacks..)

Okay, enough of this frivolity, it's back to the grind-stone for me.

Sigh.

A Stroll Round Craggy Isle

(All Photo's Copy right: Shrinky)


Set upon the hills near the village Laxey rests a giant. Lady Isabella (named after former Lieutenant Governor Hope's wife) is also known as the Laxey Wheel. It was built in 1854, and is the largest working waterwheel in the world. It was used to pump 250 gallons of water a minute from the Laxey mines, which produced zinc, lead, silver and copper. Up until it's closure in 1929, the mines employed over 600 people. I've yet to take the tour (being slightly claustrophobic, I am suspicious of being dragged underground), but perhaps I might - er, one day.

I love the history to this place. 2,500 years ago the Vikings invaded, settled and left their mark here. The Romans by-passed the isle, and the Celtic culture and language was allowed to flourish. To this day Manx is still spoken and taught in all the local schools. There is even a nursery school (a pre-school kindergarten to our American friends) which the Government sponsors, where the children only converse in Manx. Although it is commendable to preserve this heritage, with a population of under 75,000, I can't help but to question the benefits this might ultimately bring, but it does add to the quaintness of this place.
.
There is still a strong fishing community, passed from father to son, and generations of families have, and still do, trawl their living from the sea. We are quite famed for our Manx Queenies, crab, and smoked kippers.
I was quickly robbed of a crab bap I bought from the shop in here, I only managed one bite before an unapologetic thug (in the guise of a gull) swooped down to pluck it straight from my hand. When I went back to buy another one, the guy behind the counter said she stalked the place and he was now at a loss as to how to lose her. An orphan, he'd taken pity and semi-adopted her. She's called Megan, and this year he noted she had brought her fledgling along.

Flour is still milled in much the same way as it was in 1860. Sure, certain technological tweaks have been added, machinery installed, but the tradition and methods remain the same. See the flue from the upper window feeding the flour to the tanker?
Having opened this post with the largest working water wheel in the world, perhaps it's only fitting to close with what may well be the smallest transport museum in the world. (Cute, isn't it?)

Fancy a Dip?

The New Years Day North Sea plunge is not so much for the faint hearted, rather more than for the insane. Would you just look at those little Lemmings lining up?



It's an annual event come wind, hail or snow, and there never seems to be any shortage of takers. Held in Castletown, the quest is to swim 20 yards from land to the harbour wall and back again.



Personally, I rather fail to see the point myself, but I guess aside from raising money for charity, it, um, well..



Does have a cetain allure as a spectator sport (Eeeeeeeeek)!!

Tin Baths and Hot Cops

(Digitally muck around with? Moi? As if! Sigh. Alright, I confess. It's over-cooked.)

Christmas is a-fast approaching, and if I don't get my act together soon, it may well wind up passing the Cassa-Shrinky household by altogether this year. Sadly, being on Santa's naughty list, he's turning a deaf ear on my pleas to put everything forward by a month. Sooooooooooo. I'm outta' here (nah, just joking), but I'm gonna' have to be far less in here for a wee bit. Still I've come up with a crafty plan to distract you from the coming neglectful desert of my callous abandonment (well okay, for some of you then. Not so much so for my long-standing, faithful long-suffering friends, but well, tough. You are friends right? Get over it.)

The beauty of having put my old blog out to graze, is I now have the lazy option of filching the odd old post or two to strut out and claim as new again. What? Oh, c'mon, it's hardly plagiarism, after all I did once write these bloomin' things y'know.

So apologies to all the old crew - feel free to skip the comments section if you please, I'm a toughie, I can take it. Anyone else, plough on and forget all of the above, this is a new post, crafted only today, okay? (Wink, wink).


_____________________________________________________________________________________


We have an alternative to the Cambridge v Oxford boat race over here, it was held yesterday in Castletown, which is about about a 15 min drive from our house. It's called the Tin-Bath Race, and is held in the harbour. I thought I'd take the camera in tow with me, so I could let you join in with us this year.


As you can see, we have beautifully wide, open roads.. it's really great for two-way traffic. Now, let me make it perfectly clear from the outset, I'm a pretty lousy guide as tour guides go, but if you follow me around for a bit and try not to nag, I'll give it my best.

Let me introduce you to a member of our our state-of-the-art police force. As you can probably see, he's regularly put through rigorous exercise regimes in order to ensure this peak of fitness. (Sorry Goddess, I think this one's already taken). The station behind is a veritable fortress. Oh, wait a minute, it really is one. It's situated in part of the original castle.

There are many smugglers coves around the island, and we are a regular stop-off point between Ireland and the the mainland of Britain. During the troubles, the island was a favourite route for smuggling explosives and guns through to the IRA. These days, drugs seem to be the main cargo, smuggled through to the thousands of caves which dot along our coastline, eventually ending up either dispatched or confiscated.

It's a pity it was so dull and overcast on Saturday, the rain didn't do much to enhance my photographic efforts, but I'm sure you can still get the gist of it. This is the nautical museum, but as I haven't been in there yet, I can't tell you much about it. There are many, many museums on this island, and I have yet to work my way around to all of them. Yeah, I know, a bit of a let down, but face it, as I am all you've got, you might as well quit sniping.

Moving swiftly on, the town clock still works fine, so there's no need for any upgrade yet. It sits on the wall of Castle Rushen (which is why the town is called "Castle" town). The Tin Bath World Championship Race (yes, your read right, it is a WORLD championship race) kicks off at 3pm, which in order to get us all in the right mood, first begins with a little spot of child abuse.

This involves hurling little kids from the top of a bridge, down in to the freezing waters below. Being Manx kids, wet suits are unnecessary, as we all know most of them were already born with ice-cubes up their bum. .. Some of these little darlings could win an Oscar for the amount of reluctance they fake, but luckily we had a sturdy adult posted by to stop them wasting our time.

We then slowly progress on to the Snake Race, where teams of nuns, amongst others, cling on to some rubber tubing, and try to reach a cluster of balloons in advance of any rivals. I did think it a tad un-nun-like for the bearded nun to slash the young boy scouts tubing with her crucifix, but then, to be charitable, she probably doesn't get out that much. Eventually, time moves ever so snail-like round to the much awaited main event itself, the Tin Bath Race.

As you will note, our athletes are every bit as finely toned and ruggedly muscular as any of our Putney oarsmen from across the water. They endure strenuous training involving lots of Manx kippers and a steady supply of Okells ale. Their sports kit adheres to the strictest of Manx safety standards, and have all been tested on various animals several times over.

Sadly, all these precautions still didn't prevent this poor chappie from swallowing half of the Irish Sea when his tub overturned. It was rather unfortunate that the life-boat crew had only called their tea-break a couple of minutes before hand, and as everyone knows you can't interrupt a working lads tea-break, he was kept bobbing around for a bit until they were finally able to rescue him. Still, a fine time was had by almost all, and this year the casualty rate was disappointingly low, all things considered.

We decided to quit whilst we were ahead, and forewent the family three-legged swim. There's always next year, eh?