This is the Best View in Europe You Know!
It was my grandfather who announced this. Not when he was on a whale watching trip in the North of Iceland, but in a car park on Droskyn Head overlooking Perranporth Beach on the north coast of Cornwall, the year after he'd retired and followed us down to live in the place where half the country seems to come for their summer holiday each year. We just nodded. We'd barely been anywhere beyond Cornwall, or the Romney Marsh where we'd lived until a couple of years earlier. If Grandad said it was, then it was. He was like that. A huge genial oaf whose hefty bulk made his opinion the final one on any subject. He never left Britain. Not once did he even go on a booze cruise to Calais or Boulogne on the ferry. During the war he trained Polish and Czech soldiers to drive trucks and ride motor cycles in Hampshire. In their broken English they would refer to him as "the big sergeant who swears a lot." I always liked that. Afterwards he ran a removal firm out of Royal Leamington Spa. From Thurso to Truro he knew the British Isles inside out. But he never stepped outside our nation. So despite living to the age of 87 he never saw this. But then again he never even saw the inside of a cross channel ferry.
It was 1977, the year of the Silver Jubilee, Virginia Wade winning Wimbledon and Scotland beating England at Wembley with a goal from a bright young thing called Kenny Dalglish, who'd just joined Liverpool. I was 11 years old and I remember it all so clearly. The Queen even visited Falmouth, and despite having just left our primary school we had to go and stand in the town centre waving our Union Jacks in those terrible brown uniforms for one last time. Flanked on either side of the road we got the B side of events, Prince Philip asking whether we'd been press-ganged into standing there on a Saturday morning in August wearing school uniform. We grinned, like 11 year old schoolkids who'd been addressed by a member of the Royal Family do.
I'm not sure this is the greatest photo I've ever shared with you, but those of you who are kind enough to bear with me know I enjoy spinning a yarn to accompany the image. 11 months ago almost to the day, Lee and I decided there was just enough time in between one location and the next to squeak in an extracurricular whale watching adventure at Husavik. It was an absolute joy, with four Humpback Whales announcing their presence. Our vessel puttered five miles out to sea over a bay flanked by snowy mountains on either side in gentle but persistent rain, small groups of puffins racing low across the sound in perfect formation. Just a stretch short of the Arctic Circle it's the furthest north I've ever travelled and it's a day I'll never forget. I don't even know how I managed to stitch no less than seven shots together from the decks of the good ship Salka into a panorama.
There must be a million best views in Europe, and just maybe this is one of them. It certainly left me looking for the oxygen supply. It's always when I'm in front of a view such as this that I remember his words from all those years ago.
I'd like to dedicate this to one Kenneth Basil Claude Jackman, a big swearing sergeant who left us with some fond memories a long time ago.
This is the Best View in Europe You Know!
It was my grandfather who announced this. Not when he was on a whale watching trip in the North of Iceland, but in a car park on Droskyn Head overlooking Perranporth Beach on the north coast of Cornwall, the year after he'd retired and followed us down to live in the place where half the country seems to come for their summer holiday each year. We just nodded. We'd barely been anywhere beyond Cornwall, or the Romney Marsh where we'd lived until a couple of years earlier. If Grandad said it was, then it was. He was like that. A huge genial oaf whose hefty bulk made his opinion the final one on any subject. He never left Britain. Not once did he even go on a booze cruise to Calais or Boulogne on the ferry. During the war he trained Polish and Czech soldiers to drive trucks and ride motor cycles in Hampshire. In their broken English they would refer to him as "the big sergeant who swears a lot." I always liked that. Afterwards he ran a removal firm out of Royal Leamington Spa. From Thurso to Truro he knew the British Isles inside out. But he never stepped outside our nation. So despite living to the age of 87 he never saw this. But then again he never even saw the inside of a cross channel ferry.
It was 1977, the year of the Silver Jubilee, Virginia Wade winning Wimbledon and Scotland beating England at Wembley with a goal from a bright young thing called Kenny Dalglish, who'd just joined Liverpool. I was 11 years old and I remember it all so clearly. The Queen even visited Falmouth, and despite having just left our primary school we had to go and stand in the town centre waving our Union Jacks in those terrible brown uniforms for one last time. Flanked on either side of the road we got the B side of events, Prince Philip asking whether we'd been press-ganged into standing there on a Saturday morning in August wearing school uniform. We grinned, like 11 year old schoolkids who'd been addressed by a member of the Royal Family do.
I'm not sure this is the greatest photo I've ever shared with you, but those of you who are kind enough to bear with me know I enjoy spinning a yarn to accompany the image. 11 months ago almost to the day, Lee and I decided there was just enough time in between one location and the next to squeak in an extracurricular whale watching adventure at Husavik. It was an absolute joy, with four Humpback Whales announcing their presence. Our vessel puttered five miles out to sea over a bay flanked by snowy mountains on either side in gentle but persistent rain, small groups of puffins racing low across the sound in perfect formation. Just a stretch short of the Arctic Circle it's the furthest north I've ever travelled and it's a day I'll never forget. I don't even know how I managed to stitch no less than seven shots together from the decks of the good ship Salka into a panorama.
There must be a million best views in Europe, and just maybe this is one of them. It certainly left me looking for the oxygen supply. It's always when I'm in front of a view such as this that I remember his words from all those years ago.
I'd like to dedicate this to one Kenneth Basil Claude Jackman, a big swearing sergeant who left us with some fond memories a long time ago.