With the weather forecast quite promising for the next wee while, the lure of Northumberland proved irresistible, so here I am at Embleton sharing a crowded caravan site and a limited number of toilets with a rare selection of the population known in some circles as the 'grey panthers' – active retired folk who are living life to the full.
I suppose I have gradually eased myself into that bracket now, although to some of my companions I am just a boy, not ready yet for endless stravaiging around castles and ornamental gardens, inflicting endless accounts of my illnesses and family deat
hs on anyone daft enough to get trapped into conversation. It will no doubt come in time, but for now I feel I am serving something of an apprenticeship for old age, hoping to become something akin to a geriatric journeyman.
My current surroundings suggest there is little to fear from this situation, everyone here is having a ball. It will all change for the worse in a week or so when the English schools break up and the place is infested with children and bicycles.
On my first day here it was hot, too hot to stay in the house, a very promising truck even with all the windows and vents open, so The Grey Hooligan and I decamped to a nearby bench under a large shady tree where a waft of breeze made life more comfortable.
I was soon joined by an old bloke. I mean a really old bloke – this guy looked older than God’s dog and stood out, as like me, he had elected not to don the standard caravan park uniform of baggy shorts and T-shirts printed with silly designs that look as if they were done by a chimp learning to paint.
As a gesture to political correctness, he was smoking a substantial briar pipe that appeared to be fuelled by the sweepings from the floor of a pigeon loft. Conversation was inevitable, so I put down my book and after a bit of small chat spent the next hour and a bit getting a substantial portion of the old chap’s life story.
And what a tale it was! I never got his name, but my new pal spoke with an accent suggesting he hailed from Tyneside, something he soon confirmed.
His story covered a life starting when he left school at 12 (or was it 14?), going straight into the shipyards, first as a message boy of sorts, then apprenticed to a shipfitter engaged in all aspects of woodworking that goes into turning a basic hull into a seagoing vessel.
By the time he was 25, my informant could turn his hand to all aspects of his trade and for a number of years was in demand in his neighbourhood as a maker of coffins, pigeon lofts and garden sheds.
He told his story simply and without any self-praise, making light of hardships caused by short-time working, strikes, accidents and, of course, once being bombed by associates of a Mr A. Hitler.
Listening to someone who has complete grasp of his subject is something I do quite well – I learn much that way.
Typically though, much of what I heard has drifted away a bit, leaving me with a thought that instead of wasting millions of taxpayers’ cash preserving derelict buildings, some of that money should be devoted to hiring storytakers who ferret out people who have led interesting lives.
As an example, I’m willing to bet there are at least 20 Selkirk citizens who have life experiences well worthy of record.
