A Birth And A Bludgeoned Raisin

Why do we have this almost insatiable urge to discover what famous events happened on the day of our birth? Having just celebrated my 60th birthday I was tempted to send off to one of these companies which promises a "genuine facsimile" of a newspaper published on the day of your birth, but being a tight-fisted old bugger, I decided to search on-line instead. As I discovered, there are a number of problems with this approach.

In the first place, in order to discover what happened on the day of your birth you need a newspaper published the day after your birthday. None of the companies specialising in novelty birthday gifts have managed to face up to this paradox and one can only imagine the disappointment of their customers who have shelled out good money only to read about things which happened before they were born.

The second problem relates to the still largely Americo-centric nature of the Internet. I managed without too much difficulty to locate newspapers from 18th June 1948 (and therefore reporting events on the 17th June) but the list of available titles was composed of papers such as "The Fresno Bee" and "The Mansfield News-Journal" (not the Mansfield in North Nottinghamshire I might add). I am therefore in a position to tell you what happened in California and Ohio on the day of my birth and, for the moment at least, that is what you will have to put up with.

The most notable event was the crash of a DC6 passenger plane in Pennsylvania will killed all 43 people on board. The discovery that your arrival in the world coincided with a burning plane ploughing into a 60,000 volt power cable is not guaranteed to fill you full of birthday joy. Moving quickly on, I also discover that as I entered the world with a cry and a scream, Lucile Williams left the world with a cry and a scream as she was being bludgeoned to death by her husband in Everett, Washington. Continuing the good news run, as I was taking my first breath, John W Reeves of Fresno was taking $2 worth of petrol from a filling station without payment. When the Filling Station owner tried to stop him, Reeves shot the man dead.

Searching for happier news from the overseas sections of the papers, I discovered that to mark my birth (well that's how it feels) an earthquake killed 10,000 in China, a mine explosion killed 52 in Japan, a new and more bloody phase of the Greek Civil War was launched, and 50,000 workers went on strike in France. And, in a gesture which I am still unable to quite understand, to celebrate my birth, the field price of raisins jumped by an unprecedented $5 a ton.

You have to admit, that star in the east had nothing on that lot.

The Temptations Facing An Elderly Criminal

Well, nearly there now. Less than 24 hours to go and I will be sixty. So much has been happening these last few days I have been just too exhausted to sit at my desk and compose blog postings (you try carrying home 28 bottles of malt from your birthday party and you will see what I mean). But as I now relax in the afterglow of Saturday's momentous party, I will attempt to catch up with the news. I will get around to the party and the second of my "things to do before I'm fifty" wish-list shortly, but first of all I feel the need to confess.

To the best of my knowledge, I have only ever broken the law once in my life. It was a sad story which I don't particularly want to go into in detail now, but it happened when I was a wild teenager back in the swinging sixties and involved a non-functioning rear light on a bicycle. Back in those days, as my friend Harry will tell you, policing was a more flexible occupation without the need to fill in endless paperwork, so the constable involved let me go with a telling off and the promise - on my part - to get a new bulb first thing in the morning.

Other than that my record is clear. Now you might think that an almost clean criminal record by the time you reach 60 is quite an achievement, but I must confess I find it just a trifle disappointing. Am I going to pass this great milestone in life without ever having experienced the illicit thrill of having stepped over - however briefly - the great dotted line that separates legality from illegality, right from wrong, the mundane from the felonious? Until this morning I thought I was, and then through the postbox fell my elderly persons' free bus pass. A day early!

Some people shun old age knowing that it is the handmaiden of infirmity and decline. Others look forward to being able to give up work and spend more time with their begonias. For me, the attraction has always been the prospect of a free bus pass. The introduction earlier this year of a government scheme by which such bus passes provide free travel throughout the UK has simply made me relish the onset of decrepitude with even more eager anticipation. Couple this longing with the fact that the pass has been delivered a day early and you will understand the troubled nature of my soul. Should I nip out and catch the bus down to Brighouse and hope that the driver doesn't notice the expiry date and that he or she isn't blessed with a mathematical mind? Should I play Russian Roulette with the law at this late stage? Or should I stay at home and alphabetically file my malt whisky bottles? Who knows? Beelzebub and Jehovah are still locked in a battle for my soul. I will let you know the outcome.

The Top Of The Scree Slope

"This must be the top of the scree slope and therefore that ..." Mark used his copy of Wainwright's "Central Fells" as a pointer ... "must be Stickle Tarn". As far as I could make out my friend, companion and guide for the day was pointing into the hazy distance. Any possibility of seeing the promised tarn was excised by the slightly inconvenient fact that there was a rather large mountain in the way.

We had been walking for an hour, although "walking" seems a rather tame description for the lung-sapping, muscle-straining, joint-breaking process of climbing wave upon wave of granite stones which seemed to have been dumped down the side of the mountain with an abandon that should have landed the Lake District National Park authorities in an endless loop of litigation. "An health and safety inspector would have a field day with this", I gasped to myself as yet another stone gave way under my booted feet, causing me to collapse to the ground and the poor fellow about half a mile further down the mountain to dive for cover.

We turned a corner and saw another scree slope and no sight of the promised tarn. Mark adopted a good humoured resignation: "Ah well, it can't be much further now", and with a burst of commendable energy he shot ahead, taking up his position about 50 yards ahead of me. From such a position he tested out the route ahead of me and regularly shouted back instructions. "Take the right-hand path, it's easier", "watch out for the rocks here, they are very loose", and on one memorable occasion "take the top path but look out for the dead sheep stuck in the crevice". Every so often I would see him heave his considerable rucksack to the ground and consult his Wainwright, and I might be able to grab a few minutes rest.

What the rucksack contained I did not know, but judging by its size and the complexity of pockets, tubes and straps it was a serious piece of kit. I had a suspicion that it might contain a defibrillator for I had noted many a whispered telephone conversation between my wife and Mark in the days leading up to our mountain adventure. She was fairly certain I was going to die during our attempt to conquer Harrison Stickle (2,403 ft) and had consequently got me to point out where all the important household papers were kept in my filing cabinet before I set out. Not that I blame her, a sturdy background of practicality is essential to the breed specifications of any half-decent Yorkshire lass. And this was a big bloody mountain. And I was still on the wrong side of the obese/overweight border. And we had not yet reached the top of the scree slope.

What was really annoying was that every time we rounded a spur and caught a brief view of the mountain stretching further up towards heaven, at the very limit of my vision I am sure I kept seeing an elderly lady in a wheelchair. But surely this couldn't be. This was serious walking country. Even the sheep were having difficulty keeping upright. But dammit, there she was again. I mentioned it to Mark and he shook his head with the kind of sad expression that only experienced GP's can muster. He went back to consulting his pocketbook, but whether it was Wainwright or "Common Psychological Symptoms In General Practice" I am not sure. He probably had half a library in that rucksack.

As he cross-referenced hallucinations with breathlessness, I gazed back down the mountain. It was a glorious day, the kind of day you are not supposed to get in the English Lake District. The scenery was spectacular and to view in from up here made you realise why gods have such a superiority complex. The expedition was part of my 60th birthday present and I felt rather proud that I had got this far. And - on the assumption that I lived - the rest of the present included dinner in a fine Lakeland Inn, as much real ale as I could drink, and a night in a First Class Hotel. The breathlessness seemed to pass. The vision of the wheelchair-bound old lady acted as a lure rather than a jibe. I forced myself to my feet again, rounded the next bend and, instead of the scree-slope, saw Stickle Tarn ahead of us. Mark quickly consulted AW again, beamed and said "That's it, that's Stickle Tarn. According to Wainwright that means we are halfway up".

AFTERWORD

Of course we made it and eventually reached the top of Harrison Stickle (2,403 long, bloody ft). As we rested on the summit I discovered the secret of Mark's oversized rucksack : a bottle of champagne and an equally welcome bar of chocolate. The descent was even more exhausting than the ascent, but it was followed by a most delightful evening sampling good beer and rare malts. As we returned to Yorkshire the next day I could reflect on the fact that I had achieved at least one of my birthday ambitions.