At a petrol station, an attendant sloshed gasoline over
Melawend's full tank. Clumsy oaf!
I thought. But he was a
young guy who was just awed by Melawend and the load she carried.
I
rode on and easily found BBC Radio Newcastle. It
was housed in a modern glass and steel building. In
the vaulted reception area I awaited for God knew who after my presence was conveyed by
the receptionist. A girl came out of one of
the doors. Her name was Brigeen Clafferty and
she was filling in for a producer. She wore a
long gray skirt and a baggy white cotton top. She
looked like Patty Duke whom I had, as a young boy, admired in the 1963 – 1966 TV
series The Patty Duke Show (about the adventures
of a perky girl, who had only seen the sights you could see from New York's Brooklyn
Heights, and her reserved intellectual twin cousin from Scotland). I gave Brigeen my portfolio.
"This
is wonderful, Tom," she said. "Give
me a few minutes."
She
disappeared behind a door and reappeared soon after.
“We'd
like to put you on the air," she said.
"Sure!"
I said.
I was petrified. This would be my first ever radio interview.
Brigeen returned and led me into through narrow halls to a waiting room. Within half an hour I was on the air live on the
BBC's morning talk show YTT – Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow – with the host,
Mark Holdstock.
"That
was fabulous, Tom!" Mark said.
He
had made it easy, just like one-on-one conversation: his questions, my answers. About 15 minutes later, Andy Burns of the NewsRoom
taped an interview with me, as I stood beside Melawend in the parking lot in part so the
sound of Melawend's engine could be included. It
was edited and aired on the 1:00 p.m. news – I sat in the studio and listened to it. For both interviews, I was hardly aware that there
might have been hundreds, perhaps thousands of people listening to us.
(Someone I
would later meet was listening – in Cairo.)
"You're
welcome to stay with us," Brigeen said. "Here
is the address and a key."
I
couldn't believe my luck, nor the trust one stranger put in another so quickly. It gave me something to live up to.
Melawend
and I rode back out to South Shields to see if I could get a sponsored passage to Bergen. In his office at the terminal, I met young
blond-haired Dag Ramslo, manager of the local office of Norway Line.
"The
best I can do for you, Mr. Smith, is £15," he said.
“You can leave right away. There
is a ship boarding in half an hour."
What
was going on here? Just yesterday I was in a
quandary. Now I had a choice: a temporary home
or a hugely reduced passage that I could afford. I
was tempted to board.
"That's fantastic Dag!" I said. "But I'll take a later ferry. I’ve got some things to do before I leave
England."
I
still needed to earn money, get my green card insurance for Europe and perhaps do an
article for The Times or a local paper. I rode to Ryton and, led a lady in a Volvo, found
Brigeen's place. I believe Brigeen had felt
both admiration and pity for me. She had taken
me under her wing and into the townhouse she shared with her boyfriend Alan Rooks, an
executive with a microelectronics research company. Once
inside, I saw that they had begun renovations. The
air had the acrid stale smell of plaster dust. I
remembered my own home that I had renovated and then sold to pursue a more meaningful
life.
Brig and
Allan made me feel at home. And we went out
together, including outings to pubs.
"This is Bass Ale, Tom," Allan said. "Try it."
It was strong but smooth.
It was nice to walk home behind Brigeen and Allan – a
handholding couple walking under lamplight on a damp evening, with leaves rustling
overhead. There were vegetarian meals cooked
at home and an all-night Trivial Pursuit party at the home of some friends. And it actually felt good to again sweep up bits of
plaster from a demolished wall.
For
their first anniversary, Allan bought a bottle of Maison Royale Champagne. With cheese and wafers and glasses in hand, they
shared the first hour of their celebration with me. They
posed for my camera as they toasted each other on the foot of their bed. Click. There was romance in their eyes and I was gone.
We
had brought an old couch up from the dusty soon-to-be living room to the guest bedroom and
I would go to sleep to the sound of their soft murmurings.
While they were at work, I did laundry and cleaned house and luxuriated in
their clawfoot bathtub, cleaning myself with Cusssons Imperial Brand soap. Domestic bliss.
"This
is silly," Brigeen said one morning. She
saw me loading gear onto Melawend. "You're
welcome to stay on."
She
did not realize I was just off to see Tony Jones, Diary Editor of The Journal, to give a story and to show something
of a load on Melawend.
I
rode into the city. The city was on the site of Pons Aelii, one
of the Roman forts on Hadrian's Wall.
"You
fellas (adventurers) are all alike," Tony said. "I
wish you bad fortune – you'll likely be robbed or mugged or some such thing."
Was
he kidding? Jealous? Bespeckled Tony's story was mostly factual but his
style was flippant – from the As-I-See-It School of Journalism. The article suggested that I was
"hustling" my way around the world.
It ignored the purpose of the journey. The quotes were largely his invention.
The
story smacked of tabloid journalism and I had an aversion for tabloid journalists. They seemed to be egotistical writers who authored
witty shit and other distortions of truth. I
had little respect for publishers who exploited, exaggerated or even invented controversy
just to sell copy – why, because enquiring minds wanted to know? Yeah, right. But
sales figures did speak for themselves and that was disheartening. Were there really so many spoon-fed minds that had
such an insatiable appetite for the sensational? But
what did I know about "journalism"?
Tony
may have simply reflected a certain English temperament.
I discovered another when I called London to see about doing a story of the
journey for The Times.
"This
seems rather parochial," an editor said.
How
could he consider a journey around the world as being "parochial"? Perhaps I was just being oversensitive.
Even
my own country's journalists and broadcasters had brushed me aside. I had approached The Toronto Star, the venerable daily for which
Ernest Hemingway been a reporter in the early 1920's.
An editor mentioned that they were already carrying periodic stories from a
family that was sailing around the world. He
also explained that publishing the unkept promise of stories from other would-be travelers
had embarrassed the paper. I had no track
record. He suggested I would be better off to
complete my journey so I would have a complete "package" to sell a newspaper
– so they would know exactly what they would be getting.
While
I was in Nova Scotia, I got the idea of doing periodic call-ins to Morningside, a popular morning talk show on CBC
Radio that was hosted by Peter Gzowski who was considered a national icon. At CBC headquarters in Toronto, I met with one of
the show's producers who thought it was a wonderful idea.
He suggested that listeners might not be very interested in my journey until
I reached Africa because Europe was cliché. And
they were currently airing call-ins from two "bubbly" girls who were riding
bicycles across Canada. I had thought, I'll give them "bubbly", if that's what they
want.
Now,
in Newcastle, I put both of my feet in my mouth. Brigeen
and I had this crazy idea that a live link between the BBC Radio in England and the CBC
Radio in Canada would be fascinating to listeners in both countries. At the BBC studio, a call was put through to
Toronto. I knew the producer I had originally
spoken with (who had also given me a letter of intent) was away, and so was his alternate. I spoke to another producer who had not heard of
me.
"This
doesn't sound like something Morningside would be interested in," he said.
This
wasn't going to be as easy. Brigeen got on the
line to verify the BBC connection. In the BBC
Control Room, Mark Keen was ready to make the connection.
"I'm
afraid this still doesn't meet our criteria," the CBC producer said.
I was dumbfounded. I
became embarrassed and annoyed. I was given
the phone.
"I
don't believe this," I said into the mouthpiece.
(Someone
once said: "A closed mouth gathers no
feet." My mouth was wide open.)
I
had simply expected the CBC would jump at the chance to connect with the BBC. But the moment those words left my mouth, I could
not believe I had uttered them. The reality
was that I had put this poor fellow in Toronto – who gets a bizarre call, supposedly
from England – on the spot.
(And you know
that old saying that "what goes around, comes around." It happened to me in 1997. Perhaps this scenario is familiar to you:
A customer
calls. Of course the caller is focused on his
or her needs. You, on the other hand, have had
your face in a computer monitor, dealing with the needs of a particular customer whom you
promised to call back to as soon as possible. The
phone rings and another customer tells you of their needs.
Another line rings and with no one else in the office, you politely ask the
person you've been talking with to please hold while you take the incoming call. The caller on the new line is, of course, focused
on their needs.
But this
latest customer is a rude jerk. He spoke with
someone else at your office earlier but you have never heard of this customer or the
transaction that they have just blurted out. He
wants to deal with this now. You repeat what
he has said to give him the chance to correct you in case you have not understood him. He is asking for sensitive company information that
you are not sure that you are permitted to give out though he says he was to be given this
information. He is annoyed because of your
slowness. He says, not so quietly to someone
near him, "What a reject."
You do a slow
burn. There’s an impulse to say,
"Look asshole, you know what you're talking about but I have never even heard
of you, let alone know anything about what you want or what you said to someone
else." You squint and begin feel a bit
like Harry Kalahan. "With your attitude,
I frankly don't give a damn what you want. Do
you want to push it? Do you feel lucky? Go ahead. Make
my day."
Wrong move. You bite your tongue.)
That poor guy at the CBC. I was full of so full myself and my unique
situation. I was arrogant and impatient. Though the
conversation ended diplomatically, I wondered if I had jeopardized the producer who had
supported me. I blamed my blunder on fatigue,
but that was a lame excuse.
(I would pay
for it with no response to two letters of apology that I sent to the CBC.)
I went about my business. As Tony Jones
might have put it, I "hustled" the Northumbria Tourist Board where David
Richardson accepted the information exchange with Fort Erie on its behalf. Back at the studio, I made personal calls to Canada
(thank you, BBC Newcastle, and Brigeen!). I
got my scooter insurance. I got film, camera
batteries and an Italian phrase book. I
munched on fruit pies. I found a copy of The Star, a tabloid, and lusted over the large
sun-reddened breasts of Terrie Woods, the current "Star Bird". But I still had to find a way to make money.
At
Brigeen and Allan's suggestion of taking a break, I rode up to the city of Durham to see
its famous cathedral. "You really must
see it". It rested atop a rocky
scrotum-shaped outcrop carved by the river Wear. This
Anglo-Norman church was the most spectacular building that I had entered in Britain. It was massive: the interior was 469 feet long, the
vault of the nave was almost 73 feet high and, in places, the walls were eight feet thick. It humbled you.
It was vaulted stained glass windows, learing statues, pale reposing figures
on ornate sarcophagi, high dark recesses, and echoing voices that seemed to emanate from a
long and shadowy past – it was a majestic place but it was also spooky.
The
cavernous nave was the oldest part of the church, having been built between 1093 and 1133. It enshrined the bones of St. Cuthbert who died in
687. To keep the remarkably preserved body
safe from invading Vikings in the 9th century, monks hauled it around the north
country. The bones were finally entombed
behind the High Altar.
As
many churches in medieval times provided sanctuary to fugitives, the cathedral had, in the
15th century alone, harbored 331 fugitives, including 283 murderers. It had also been a prison to 3,000 of Cromwell's
prisoners taken after the Battle of Dunbar in 1650. For
me, it provided an inspiring if a bit unnerving interlude.
Meanwhile,
Brigeen had been hustling on my behalf and secured for me the job of "official
photographer" for the 1st Tyneside Music Festival.
Its PR man was dashing Roger Neville, a flamboyant charmer who looked like
Dabney Coleman but with more hair, a British accent, roller skates and an umbrella you
could sit on. He loved to sneak up on women
(who, I believed, knew him). He would spin
them around and give them a hug and a kiss.
My
paid assignment was fantastic. I was given a
Press Pass to Exhibition Park and during three mostly sunny days, I scrambled around
taking publicity photographs of spectators, performing musicians and of patrons of a
much-visited beer tent. The music was
impressive and appealed to all ages as you had rock, jazz, reggae, folk, blues and
children's tunes. There was not one performer
whose name I recognized. If you closed your
eyes, it was hard to tell some of these regionally or nationally known performers from
world-famous artists. It made me wonder: How many thousands of unsung artists go virtually
anonymous in the world?
For
our last dinner together, Brigeen, Allan and I had quiche, potatoes and wine. We talked about the music festival and my
photographic efforts there.
"Was that
the first time you've done that kind of work?" Allan said.
"Yes,
to get up on the back of the stage like that..." I said.
(It was done:
I could be open about it now.)
We
talked about the journey ahead. Allan offered
advice on Norway as he had recently been there.
"It
is very steep." he said. "We spent a
lot of time grinding the gears of our car."
I
thought, Am I nuts to even think of taking Melawend
through Norway? I was also concerned
about camping.
"You'll
have no problems there," Allan said. "In
Norway, it is what they call ‘every man's right’.
You can camp just about anywhere as long as it's not within 150 meters of
someone's home."
"I'm
praying that you will come back to England and that you'll find our place more
comfortable," Brigeen said. "Next
time, we'll have a double bed for you."
We
promised to keep in touch.
They
were sitting together on the floor, sipping their wine.
Brigeen nudged Allan's inner thigh with her foot. It was time for me to go.
Brigeen
had admonished me for my peanut butter diet and then said,
"I worry about you." In
the morning, she packed me off with two bags of Crunchy Apricot Muesli and one of Granola. I said goodbye to Allan as they went off to work. I washed last night's dishes, finished packing and
rode to BBC Radio Newcastle for the last time. Brigeen
and I hugged and said goodbye in the parking lot. "You're
so daft, you know." Her eyes seemed
watery. Mine were as I rode off to the Tyne
Commission Quay.
(Thanks
to the Internet, I recently renewed contact with Brig and Alan - truly wonderful,
hospitable people. They now own and operate a beautiful B&B in Ireland - Linsfort Castle B&B - a country
house built in 1610 on the site of an old castle, rebuilt in 1720. You will find it
on the western shore of Donegal's Inishowen Peninsula, with stunning views of Lough
Swilly. If you go, tell Brig and Alan that Tom sent you.)
I
was leaving new friends. It was difficult
having such fine people come in and out of your life so quickly. I was leaving Britain, the home of my maternal
ancestors. I had been in Britain a little over
a month and had covered over 1500 miles (2,400 km), yet I felt I had hardly seen this
"kingdom by the sea". I had fretted
about getting onward passage – now I hesitated to use it.
Will I be able
to return someday?
With
Melawend stowed in the vehicle hold, I stood on the deck of Norway Lines' M/S Venus as we sailed past rows of small boats at
anchor on our way out of the quay. I
stood at the rail and watched the shore of England disappear into the horizon. At last, I was riding bodily on the mistress sea. I had won her and it was worth it for this
one-night affair. With some trepidation, I
thought road ahead – foreign tongues, new customs and attitudes. How will I be
received?
For
now, I would not worry too much. I knew a girl
in Norway.
PART II
Scanidavian Serenity
Chapter 14
Norweigan Highs and Lows
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