VE Day

My father spent VE Day, 8 May 1945, in Brussels. He had walked there, alongside thousands of refugees, after being liberated from his POW camp in the Black Forest by the US Third Army. He remembered General Patton standing on a jeep, with two ivory-handled revolvers at his waist, giving the prisoners a speech. Afterwards they were given plenty of food by the Americans. Many of the prisoners were sick after wolfing it down. They had been living on thin soup and scraps of bread for many months. My father had been a POW since 1942. He’d been captured at the battle of El Alamein in North Africa and had then been incarcerated at other camps in Italy and Germany. After liberation, he set off for home with only an old blanket for a coat. He lived like a refugee, sleeping under trees at the roadside, until he reached Brussels. He described VE day as completely wild. The city centre was crammed with people celebrating madly. To cross the street he had to walk over the bonnets of cars. After Brussels he got some army transport back to England. My father was the third eldest of nine children. His father had been badly wounded in the First World War and could only do light work. He became a village milkman, delivering milk from a horse and cart. Customers brought their pail and this was filled with milk from one of the churns that were carried on the cart. Like the other children, my father left school at 14 to earn money to support the family. He got a job as a draper’s assistant, delivering orders to customers by bicycle. He hated it and ran away to join the army when he was 15. He told them he was 16, the minimum age to enlist, but he always sent his army pay home to his mother. After basic training on horses, my father was posted to Cairo. There he joined a unit that patrolled the Western Sahara in armoured cars and made maps. In the late 1930’s there was a clear sense that the world was building up to a war.

With the rise of neo-fascism and dictatorships, many commentators are drawing parallels between the late 1930’s and the present day. The similarities are indeed too great to ignore. But let us hope against hope that wisdom prevails and we do not again descend into those dark days of widespread war. Like many brave men and women who fought in the Second World War, my father would be turning in his grave at the thought of it. 

The Nutshell

The house where I was born was featured on Countryfile (BBC1) yesterday. The programme was concerned with the restoration of the Stroudwater Canal that runs beside the house. The Nutshell was built in 1778, at the same time as the canal. It was originally a warehouse for the cloth mill at the bottom of the lane. When my parents first saw it, the house was for sale cheaply because it was so run down. My newly-married parents snapped it up, for it was all they could afford. I loved its many rooms and winding stairs. The top floor had bare floorboards and sash windows without curtains, it was only used for storage. Attached to the house was a large orchard with apple and plum trees. The disused canal next door was the marvellous territory of wild plants, water birds and fish. Just down the towpath was an estate of pre-fabs that were later demolished. I lived there until I was nine and have many happy memories. Indeed I’m still in touch with one of my childhood friends from those days, who now lives in Orkney. Exhausted from all the work they had to do on the house and from raising three small children, my parents moved to smaller house on an estate some 25 miles away. But I never liked it there and always pined for the wild environs of The Nutshell.

Do any of us ever forget the house where we were raised? Our early environment shapes us, for good or for ill. Those days have been a significant influence on my writing. I'll leave you with an old poem which features some of my early (mis)adventures with my younger brother Robert, who passed away in 2010. 

Swimming Lessons

Horse, Dog, Donkey, Cat.

I'm chanting animals that swim.

Cats can't swim, howls Rob.

We squabble.

To settle the matter, I nab our Pinky

and stride up the lane to the bridge.

Claws scrape the parapet,

she tumbles then twists

to hit the canal paws first.

She’s under.
The ripples spread.
Hell, could he be right?
A bedraggled head bobs
and she starts to paddle.
Triumphant, I turn to Rob
but he's already trotting to tell.
 
Tired of chucking sticks,
we perch on the canal bank

dipping our wellies into the dark water.

Rob splashes me, then me him.

Soon we're kicking up a mighty froth. 

At the height of the fun
he begins to dance on the water.
I clap and shriek, but his wellies fill.
I fling out my arm – he can't reach.
Struggling, he slides under.

I bash the kitchen window, yelling.

Mam leaps in and hauls him to the surface.

We lay his quiet body on the towpath.

Rob coughs, then howls.

Waiting for the Doctor

Cycling easily along the canal towpath, I got a strange reading on my heart monitor. My pulse suddenly jumped up by 20 beats a minute. I stopped for a little while and my heart rate went back to normal. But why on earth did this jump happen? I was going along the flat towpath, not up a steep hill. There had to be something wrong with the equipment. I changed the chest strap and tried again. The strange elevations in my heart rate continued, seemingly at random. Oh drat, it must be an intermittent fault in the sensor or the cycle computer. But this equipment was expensive and made in Germany. So I tested my heart with a finger sensor while one of the elevations was happening. Christ, my heart was actually going at 20 beats above normal. I went to the GP and he referred me to cardiology. The next week, my phone rang: it was the local hospital. When I got over the shock, I was delighted by how quickly they’d responded. They asked me a series of questions. Did I have any pain when my heart rate went up? Not really, I said. They pressed me further. Well, sometimes I did get a bit of tightness on the right-hand side of my chest. Very interesting, they said. The call continued for almost an hour, they seemed to be working their way through a questionnaire. At the end they said I might have a cardiac problem, but they’d only know for sure after I’d done a couple of tests. Good, I said, eager to get some answers. There is a waiting list, they said. Oh, how long? Nine months for the first test, they said, and about two years for the second. Hell, I knew that Northern Ireland had the worst waiting lists in the UK. But I never expected it to be that bad for a possible heart problem. What could I do?

I went to see the GP again. He referred me to see a cardiologist privately. Several weeks later I walked through the shiny portals of a brand new private hospital in Belfast. It was very busy, of course. The cardiologist took my history and asked for my symptoms. He said that my heart rate elevation wasn’t in itself serious, but it could indicate that there might be an underlying problem. He explained that I needed three cardiac tests. I’d be called in for them in a couple of weeks, and I’d see him in a month or so to get the results. I offered heartfelt thanks to my dearest T, who had the presence of mind to enrol us in Benenden health insurance. For a small monthly fee you are able to access private healthcare for diagnostic tests. It’s a valuable scheme because it helps you with something that the NHS has become increasingly slow to carry out. Understandably, Benenden has become very popular. Recently they put up the length of time you have to be a member before you can claim. When we joined it was six months. Now it’s two years.

The Downside of Sunshine

I’ve had some troublesome red patches of skin on my face for a while. At first I thought these were related to the psoriasis I have on my scalp, inherited from my father. I stopped shaving and began to use aloe vera. Some of the patches improved a little. Then I tried pine tar soap, as recommended by the American Psoriasis Association. This helped the red patches under my beard, but didn’t seem to make much difference to the patches on the rest of my face. I went to the GP. She looked at my array of red patches and gave me steroid cream. It didn’t help, so I went back to see her. She gave me a much stronger steroid cream. But that didn’t help either. There was one large red patch on my forehead, about a centimeter across, that I was particularly worried about. I began to look at websites with photos of skin cancers. My large red patch did look suspicious. Then a friend told me about a new skin clinic that had opened near Newry. It was run by a GP who had worked in Australia and had since specialized in skin cancer. I booked an appointment. Dr Finbar examined me, checking the red patches on my face with a magnifier. Then came the verdict.

Actinic Keratosis he said, otherwise known as sun damage. Your skin cells have mutated in exposure to UV radiation. But I always wear sunscreen, I told him. Do you wear a hat too, he asked? Only recently, I said, pointing to my thinning hair. He explained that skin damage accumulated with age, and people who spent a lot of time outdoors for work or leisure were more at risk. I reflected on my five decades of mountaineering, running and cycling, and all my trips to tropical destinations. I suppose that had done it.

You have six patches of actinic keratosis on your face, he said. They are pre-cancerous and need to be removed. Do you want me to treat them now? Of course, I said. He picked up a small instrument, about the size of a mini torch, and froze the patches with liquid CO2. It did feel cold, but it wasn’t painful. He gave me a mirror. My red patches had become considerably larger. Then my face began to sting. He explained that the pre-cancerous skin would die off and healthy skin would grow underneath. I had to keep the areas clean and treat them with Vaseline twice a day. So now I have six scabs on my face. But the bad skin should be gone in a couple of weeks. He encouraged me to return in six months for a review. I’d certainly recommend Dr Finbar’s Skin Cinic. He also has a website with useful information about different skin conditions.

A Miracle Cure?

My troublesome guts have improved enormously. I no longer have to take Omeprazole or Gaviscon and I can eat a wide range of foods again. Several months ago I began working with a nutritionist based at Framar Health in Belfast. My first session with Sarah Trimble focused on allergy and food sensitivity testing. She confirmed my gluten intolerance and explained that I was sensitive to foods which are high in histamine (e.g. nuts, citrus fruits, tomatoes, chocolate, pickled foods, smoked meats, etc). This was very helpful, but not too surprising. I had been avoiding some of these foods for years, as they were on the High FODMAP list. She also recommended that I take a specific probiotic, to help rebalance my gut flora. The testing also indicated that I had an increased need for Magnesium and B vitamins. Sarah explained which foods I needed to eat to increase these nutrients, and suggested several supplements. I’ve followed all of her advice and it's helped me enormously. But the biggest single improvement in my gut health came from another source.

My dearest T used to have gut problems and she reads articles on gut health to keep informed. One of these explained that the symptoms of too much stomach acid (e.g. heartburn, acid reflux, belching) are much the same as the symptoms of too little stomach acid. There was also a simple test to determine which condition you have. I’d been treated by my GP for too much stomach acid for six years, so I took the test: two teaspoons of apple cider vinegar mixed with a little water before a meal. It was a revelation. The persistent and intractable gut problems that had been dogging me for ages disappeared almost overnight. I had too little stomach acid, not too much. This was probably a legacy of my stomach being in the wrong position for years after one of my cancer operations. Taking apple cider vinegar before every meal is a simple and natural solution. I rarely get heartburn, acid reflux or belching. Previously I had to take Gaviscon three or four times a day. Now it's only about once a month. You are what you eat, goes the old saying. I’ve become a new man.

Influenza

We had an unexpected Christmas present. A dose of the flu. It wasn’t from Santa or his elves. I think I caught it at a café in Belfast where I was meeting a pal. So two days before Christmas I was in bed coughing my lungs up. And there I stayed for most of the festive season. T was most attentive, bringing me plates of Christmas food and hot drinks. I marvelled at her support and her immune system. Then almost a week after I got ill, T went down with the very same dose. It seems to have a long incubation period (5-7 days) during which you could well be infectious. T is now in bed with the terrible cough and streaming nose. And I am attending to her. She says it’s the worst dose she’s ever had in her fifty years. It’s certainly one of the worst I’ve ever had. The first week was particularly threatening. My chest was full of gunge and my nose was blocked, I just couldn’t breathe. I kept waking up every hour or so in the night. I suppose my body was doing this automatically. My blood oxygen levels were low and my pulse was high. I had to keep taking my inhaler to expand my inflamed tubes and get my oxygen levels up. It was a real ordeal. Thankfully I’m now on the mend.

This dose of influenza seems to be everywhere. We know that plenty of family and friends are down with it. Indeed, hospitals across these islands have declared emergencies, unable to cope with all the extra patients that are arriving with serious breathing problems. And the number of excess deaths is rising. So what is behind all of this? There seem to be several reasons.

Firstly, the current flu vaccine doesn’t appear to have included much protection for this strain of flu. I suppose that when the mix of strains of flu were being assembled for the annual vaccine, this particular dose wasn’t thought likely to become a major problem. Secondly, because the take up of the flu vaccination is relatively low in the UK, the levels of flu circulating in the community are increased. Only two thirds of adults over 65 got vaccinated this winter, despite the jab being free. Unfortunately, these are the very people who are ending up seriously ill in hospital. The misinformation of the ant-vaxxers on social media has had deadly consequences. Thirdly, the many years of underinvestment and poor management in the NHS mean that it is hardly able to cope with normal health problems let alone an epidemic of flu. So political decisions have had deadly consequences too.

Midwinter

Today is the Winter Solstice. The longest night of the year has just passed. And from here on, the days become longer. So the world has turned towards the sun. Although with an unnamed storm howling outside, it doesn’t feel much like it. This morning I attached sprays of holly and ivy to our front door and brought our Christmas tree inside. We keep one growing in a pot. It used to be just six inches tall. Now it is about four feet. All of our Christmas decorations are up and the house is filled with light. The larder and fridge are stuffed with goodies. When we have greeted family and friends and offered them good wishes, we shall settle down and feast.

Wishing you and yours a Happy Christmas.