I’ve just been to Wrexham. Where? It’s a city in Wales which was home to the army regiment The Royal Welch Fusiliers. A few years ago and to the disgust of many ex-comrades, the regiment was amalgamated with another welsh regiment to become to Royal Welsh. For the last few decades, every September without fail, Wrexham hosts the largest military reunion in Europe. Ex Royal Welchmen of all ages don their regimental ties and proudly set off to participate in the many activities provided by the Comrades Association for their amusement.
As well as getting banjaxed on the unavoidable wave of beer.
Why was I there? Well, you all remember my husband Pat? He actually had a life before me and when he was a tender teen, set off for a military career and joined the Royal Welch. Pat had a wonderful 7 years in this regiment and during his time ”in” made some of the best friends ever. It’s an experience indeed to be a spectator to this camaraderie. Men who haven’t seen each other for many, many years, greet each other heartily amidst the banter and friendly insults. Some have changed beyond recognition, some have slightly aged but are easily identifiable as the young lads they were. It’s a special time, a time that keeps you laughing until the tears of hilarity flow unrestrained but also instills an innate respect for these men. They’ve lost colleagues as the years pass, some have been through personal trauma and are currently experiencing some harsh and sad realities, yet they support each other. They hold each other up and even though they’re not on any muddy and bloody battlefield, they’re in the middle of life’s combat zone and it’s easy to see how much they value the presence of their “mates”, even if only for a short time. To know that kind of friendship and trust is a gift a lot of us will never experience. To see it manifest in this comical yet significant force, is a gift to the layman.
Having set off for the A company reunion, Pat and I got no further than the door of the local hotel before he was beset with greetings and catcalls. Mostly, relating to his still naturally brown hair color. The grey’s there though, it’s just not as easy to spot. Pat’s also still quite trim and I will never tell if he spends weeks at the gym or enhances his locks with anything artificial…so stop asking…or buy me copious amounts of booze. I’m ashamed to say I kept getting everyone’s name mixed up. So many people who still identify each other by their military numbers and nickames – well that’s easy for them to do but for the civvy, who incidentally feels a bit daft referring to someone as “43” or “47” ..or even calling a 40 something man “Shagger”, takes some practice. Finally the ladies present (yes, I am included in that) opted to use christian names. Wouldn’t it be great if I could have actually got their names right. Sorry “lads”.
The one name I will never forget and believe me, I was determined to find him; my wonderful friend Richard Donovan. I met “the Hon Don” many years ago when we were members of the original Royal Welch forum and used to enjoy meeting up with many others in the chat rooms. These days the chatrooms aren’t as popular, but my mate Hon Don is still one of the (new) forum stalwarts. We were at the pub aptly named after the regiment and I was just about to demand Pat take me to the memorial hall so that I could find RBD, when…he walked around the corner. Talk about perfect timing. Having informed Pat that I’d “pulled”, Don and I had a quick catch-up. For me, seeing him again was the icing on the reunion cake…or the froth on the reunion pint? Arrderchog.
Far too quickly it was suddenly Sunday. Having set a cell phone alarm for an uncivilized 08.30 am, I proceeded to kick and drag a still slightly drunk Pat out of bed. Making coffee and getting the bacon on for a hangover curing breakfast, I was horrified to look at the wall clock and discover it was actually 07.30 am. Ooops, which silly Sharon hadn’t changed her phone to British time? Pat never said a word, just turned around and crawled straight back into bed.
The lack of wordage felt a tad surreal, although my consequent giggling didn’t seem as funny to him as it did to me.
Eventually, we set off for the memorial hall and the preparation for the march into Wrexham town, ending in a memorial service at St. Giles’ church.
I must admit to having a lump in my throat at the sight of so many ex comrades and veterans, suited, booted and proud in their flash and hackle. Bryn Davies was the first person we saw as we approached the hall. Bryn was in the band with and is a great friend of Pat’s dad. He actually used to babysit Patrick... all those moons ago. Always turned out meticulously, Bryn looked fabulous in his military regalia and Pat, as always was thrilled to see his “old mate” looking so well. Slowly but surely, the company grew and finally they fell in, facing the war memorial.
This has to be one of the most moving sights for a “civvy”. Old men, young men and middle aged men, standing side by side as they paid their respects to the fallen. Marching to the church, age and infirmity forgotten, they lifted their chins, squared their shoulders and stepped out.
The church service over, they fell in once more. This time marching back to the memorial hall, for well earned relaxation, catching up time and the yearned for “pint”.
It will probably be a few years before I go to Wrexham again but I hold these memories dear. Even now, eager for the next time I can be a spectator to one of the most impressive displays of camaraderie a layman can experience.
9/1/10
Coughing into the Caucasus
Well Hello Blog, it's been a while.
I seem to have bypassed August somehow. Not surprising though, August was a rough and busy month. It started with a bout of the common cold which eventually developed into sinusitis and lost me three weeks of life, sanity and breathing without effort. Then, after all the congestion and heavy breathing, I rediscovered the wondrous and addictive attraction of nose spray.
Oh Dear!
A few years ago I was prone to frequent bouts of sinus infections and eventually caved to the relief provided by said nose spray. After a few months of prolific use, I had to admit that yes, I was addicted. I knew it. I would look at my reflection and speak the words out loud and yet, was unable to stop sticking that little tube up my nose and inhaling the chemical mix that eased my beleaguered breath. I’m ashamed to admit that it went on for months, possibly more than a year. Finally I felt able to stand up to the evil that lives in the tiny bottle, and stop. It was quite easy to be honest. After that I swore I would never become its victim again. I convinced my mind; unfortunately my body follows its own path in life. Aaah, dreaded nose spray, I may have become your temporary victim once again but I assure you, it’s not for long.
I hope.
August also gifted us with a lovely family holiday. Packing up our sunscreen, swimsuits (nose spray) and flip-flops, we jetted off to Turkey for lovely, relaxing week in the blazing sun. This was our fourth time in Turkey; we always go “All-in”, mostly due to the fact that we’re a lazy lot and usually hang around the pool enjoying the 30 plus heat and refreshments. This time we chose Kusadasi, in the shade of the Turkish mountains. Much fun was had by all and we made friends with two young Dutch girls staying in our hotel. Unfortunately, these two stunningly attractive girls appeared to be a magnet for unwanted attention from the waiting staff. One day, the girls asked our advice with a dilemma. A man claiming to be reception staff had phoned their room, he proceeded to insist that the girls accompany him and a friend to the local night clubs that evening. Full of shock they declined, he continued to insist; eventually they hung up on him. Advice? Well, that’s a no-brainer isn’t it? Call the manager and inform her that her staff are pestering her guests and infringing their privacy.
Enter Manageress. Those of you with kids will know the series “Rug Rats” or for the Dutch amongst us “Ratjetoe”. I kid you not, this woman was the image of Tommy Pickles' Mama, complete with bright red curly hair and thick rimmed specs. Having got over the initial shock of being confronted with a real life cartoon character, we helped the girls explain in English what had happened. Initially shocked, the manageress seemed disinclined to believe the girls’ story and explained that her receptionist was recently married and she found it difficult to believe he would do this. “Well somebody did” …. Eventually she agreed to look into it and get back to us. By this time I was pretending to be the girls Aunt as a means to protect them fro unwanted attention and interfere to my hearts content within the sensation eruption. An hour or so later, she returned and said nobody on her staff had admitted to calling the room. Erm....No kidding, Sherlock? She did however tell us to contact her should anything untoward happen again.
Guess what, it did!
During lunch one day (and after numerous catcalls in Turkish with accompanying wolf whistles by the pool) the girls were presented with a napkin by a waiter. Written on this, in a bad mix of English, Dutch and German was a request for a date….surprise surprise!
They refused. The waiter(s) kept insisting and aggressively trying to persuade them. Eventually, the girls just walked away. We’d been for a morning out and when we got back they asked for our help to speak with Mrs.Pickles. Pat said he’d rather speak to the boys himself and warn them off but the girls felt they’d feel safer and happier reporting it. Which they did. That evening, during dinner they pointed out the offending waiter, who was then fired on the spot.
Ooops.
Mrs. Manageress informed us she’s run her hotel with a rod of iron and this behavior would not be tolerated by her staff. Yes dear, this would be the same “staff” who denied all knowledge when you first confronted them, would it? Is someone’s nose out of joint here perchance? Whereas I felt the punishment a tad harsh to fit the crime, there was nothing to be done apart from get on with our sunshiney retreat.
The girls joined us for a game of “who am I” one evening. You know the one where a post-it is stuck on your head and you try to guess who’s on it. All was going quite well, apart from Gareth’s repeated protestations about the “stupid game” and the constant interruptions as we all popped to the bar for (much needed) alcoholic refills…then someone picked “Nelson Mandela” - the girls were a tad confused. Who’s that then?…I know the name but...
Realizing that Nelson was a bit beyond them, Pat chose Barack Obama. Repeating…"Who’s that then?" and both looking a tad blank. I kid you not, they really were, Gary explained in his permanently disdainful tone “Are you serous, the President of America?” …”Oooh, I know”, one of them yelled excitedly “It’s George Bush” …big grin...silence...a little less confidently “Isn’t it?”.
Game Over!
Later on, after the girls had made their fragrant way back to their (now safe from unwanted attentions) room, we asked Gareth whether he was as still enamored of these blonde beauties as he'd first seemed. Again with the disdain, coupled with some bemusement “ Yeah Right” shake of gelled quiff ”Barack Obama, seriously?“
On a mischief roll I said “Yes, but they are lovely girls”
“Fair enough” shrugs Gar “but dead thick outweighs beauty you know, Mam”
Gotta love Gareth’s “Holyhead” turn of phrase, as well as his wonderfully deep insight. I was very proud of Gar that evening.
Next blog – “Wrexham – the Reunion Report”
Too much work, and no vacation,
Deserves at least a small libation.
So hail! my friends, and raise your glasses,
Work's the curse of the drinking classes.
~Oscar Wilde
I seem to have bypassed August somehow. Not surprising though, August was a rough and busy month. It started with a bout of the common cold which eventually developed into sinusitis and lost me three weeks of life, sanity and breathing without effort. Then, after all the congestion and heavy breathing, I rediscovered the wondrous and addictive attraction of nose spray.
Oh Dear!
A few years ago I was prone to frequent bouts of sinus infections and eventually caved to the relief provided by said nose spray. After a few months of prolific use, I had to admit that yes, I was addicted. I knew it. I would look at my reflection and speak the words out loud and yet, was unable to stop sticking that little tube up my nose and inhaling the chemical mix that eased my beleaguered breath. I’m ashamed to admit that it went on for months, possibly more than a year. Finally I felt able to stand up to the evil that lives in the tiny bottle, and stop. It was quite easy to be honest. After that I swore I would never become its victim again. I convinced my mind; unfortunately my body follows its own path in life. Aaah, dreaded nose spray, I may have become your temporary victim once again but I assure you, it’s not for long.
I hope.
August also gifted us with a lovely family holiday. Packing up our sunscreen, swimsuits (nose spray) and flip-flops, we jetted off to Turkey for lovely, relaxing week in the blazing sun. This was our fourth time in Turkey; we always go “All-in”, mostly due to the fact that we’re a lazy lot and usually hang around the pool enjoying the 30 plus heat and refreshments. This time we chose Kusadasi, in the shade of the Turkish mountains. Much fun was had by all and we made friends with two young Dutch girls staying in our hotel. Unfortunately, these two stunningly attractive girls appeared to be a magnet for unwanted attention from the waiting staff. One day, the girls asked our advice with a dilemma. A man claiming to be reception staff had phoned their room, he proceeded to insist that the girls accompany him and a friend to the local night clubs that evening. Full of shock they declined, he continued to insist; eventually they hung up on him. Advice? Well, that’s a no-brainer isn’t it? Call the manager and inform her that her staff are pestering her guests and infringing their privacy.
Enter Manageress. Those of you with kids will know the series “Rug Rats” or for the Dutch amongst us “Ratjetoe”. I kid you not, this woman was the image of Tommy Pickles' Mama, complete with bright red curly hair and thick rimmed specs. Having got over the initial shock of being confronted with a real life cartoon character, we helped the girls explain in English what had happened. Initially shocked, the manageress seemed disinclined to believe the girls’ story and explained that her receptionist was recently married and she found it difficult to believe he would do this. “Well somebody did” …. Eventually she agreed to look into it and get back to us. By this time I was pretending to be the girls Aunt as a means to protect them fro unwanted attention and interfere to my hearts content within the sensation eruption. An hour or so later, she returned and said nobody on her staff had admitted to calling the room. Erm....No kidding, Sherlock? She did however tell us to contact her should anything untoward happen again.
Guess what, it did!
During lunch one day (and after numerous catcalls in Turkish with accompanying wolf whistles by the pool) the girls were presented with a napkin by a waiter. Written on this, in a bad mix of English, Dutch and German was a request for a date….surprise surprise!
They refused. The waiter(s) kept insisting and aggressively trying to persuade them. Eventually, the girls just walked away. We’d been for a morning out and when we got back they asked for our help to speak with Mrs.Pickles. Pat said he’d rather speak to the boys himself and warn them off but the girls felt they’d feel safer and happier reporting it. Which they did. That evening, during dinner they pointed out the offending waiter, who was then fired on the spot.
Ooops.
Mrs. Manageress informed us she’s run her hotel with a rod of iron and this behavior would not be tolerated by her staff. Yes dear, this would be the same “staff” who denied all knowledge when you first confronted them, would it? Is someone’s nose out of joint here perchance? Whereas I felt the punishment a tad harsh to fit the crime, there was nothing to be done apart from get on with our sunshiney retreat.
The girls joined us for a game of “who am I” one evening. You know the one where a post-it is stuck on your head and you try to guess who’s on it. All was going quite well, apart from Gareth’s repeated protestations about the “stupid game” and the constant interruptions as we all popped to the bar for (much needed) alcoholic refills…then someone picked “Nelson Mandela” - the girls were a tad confused. Who’s that then?…I know the name but...
Realizing that Nelson was a bit beyond them, Pat chose Barack Obama. Repeating…"Who’s that then?" and both looking a tad blank. I kid you not, they really were, Gary explained in his permanently disdainful tone “Are you serous, the President of America?” …”Oooh, I know”, one of them yelled excitedly “It’s George Bush” …big grin...silence...a little less confidently “Isn’t it?”.
Game Over!
Later on, after the girls had made their fragrant way back to their (now safe from unwanted attentions) room, we asked Gareth whether he was as still enamored of these blonde beauties as he'd first seemed. Again with the disdain, coupled with some bemusement “ Yeah Right” shake of gelled quiff ”Barack Obama, seriously?“
On a mischief roll I said “Yes, but they are lovely girls”
“Fair enough” shrugs Gar “but dead thick outweighs beauty you know, Mam”
Gotta love Gareth’s “Holyhead” turn of phrase, as well as his wonderfully deep insight. I was very proud of Gar that evening.
Next blog – “Wrexham – the Reunion Report”
Too much work, and no vacation,
Deserves at least a small libation.
So hail! my friends, and raise your glasses,
Work's the curse of the drinking classes.
~Oscar Wilde
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