"Be Kind" as Jacinda said.

 The Kindness of Strangers: Travel Tales and a bit more

Why do I get overwhelmed by people's kindness almost as much as I get underwhelmed by how unkind people can be? Generally, the overwhelming kindness has come during our travels, while the underwhelming unkindness has been courtesy of family, ex-friends, and one particularly horrible consultant who deserves his own chapter in the annals of workplace horrors.  "Be Kind" as Jacinda said is not a bad thought to aspire to.  I was saying to Ali only this morning that I seem to spend a lot of time pissing people off, such is my character!  Maybe that's why I'm quite content living in near solitude with some sheep and chickens!!!

 

 Coffee Art.                                              Breakfast Pancake Art from Ali - "Is this love, is this love that                                                                     I'm feeling"

The Orkney Bus That Wasn't

Take the Orkneys. We'd ventured out on the bus like proper tourists, only to discover the next bus would arrive "tomorrow morning," delivered with the sort of cheerful matter-of-factness that only islanders can muster.

Not fancying a night in a cold, windy bus shelter, we stuck out our thumbs. Five minutes later, a car stopped. It was the shop owner herself. She'd left her shop completely unattended and open—apparently trusting that Orkney thieves are as rare as the buses—and declared, "there's no one to serve anyway, so I'll take you to town." She kindly drove us all the way, turned around, and drove back to resume her job. I hope she didn't get sacked from her shop.

Bird of the Year

Talking of birdsong.  Last night we went to the hustings for a national election.  We’re voting for ‘Bird of the Year’.  We get 5 votes.  It’s not PR, but FPTP(!)   The Grey Warbler gets my vote.  Bird of the Year is in it’s 20th year and after 5 days the bird of the year vote has reached 25000 votes.  Votes have come from 89 countries with a vote from Guam.  It is so exciting, Innit?

Clearly worth the vote, eh?

The Consultant Who Shall Remain Nameless (But Shouldn't) and the Very Good Folks.

At the other end of the human decency spectrum lurked the horrible doctor I once had the misfortune to work with. For reasons known only to himself and perhaps his therapist, he took to calling me "a wanker" (which no doubt I was) during a procedure and in front of a patient. Charming bedside manner, really.  NOT!

I was so upset that I refused to ever work with him again. Even though I reported him, I doubt anything happened, which isn't surprising once you realise that the purpose of HR is to protect the name of the Executives and hospital, not to do anything material.  An irony was that he was investigated by a consultant colleague!!! Had I needed an investigation I doubt it would have been a fellow radiographer.  He's probably still there, abusing and bullying others like some sort of medical monster. To quote Mr Trump "he's a terrible man, terrible terrible man". I'll say "truly horrible" person.  His behaviour certainly sped up my departure.  A great example of the opposite of kindness.  Perhaps it was the equivalent of Ferguson's hairdryer moment with Beckham, though that's where the similarity ends—I never did master the art of bending it like Beckham.

But perspective is important.  At the same 98% of the people I worked with were really wonderful, lovely, fun and kind people as well as being tolerant of me in the areas in which I was less confident (CT & MRI).  We did a lot of laughing.  I was very lucky to finish my working life in a generally decent place.

The Mystery of the Backyard Boat Builder

Speaking of puzzling human behaviour, our next-door neighbour, 1.5 kms away, has decided to build a trailer for his new boat. Logical enough, you might think. Except he's chosen to construct it in his backyard—roughly 50 kilometres from the launching ramp.

The beach is infinitely long and almost as wide, but no, he's opted for maximum inconvenience. I suppose the main advantage is that he doesn't have to travel further than 50 meters to start work in the morning. How he plans to extract this creation from his backyard and navigate it down the road remains one of life's great mysteries. My money is on a Chinook helicopter. First person to guess correctly gets a ride in his boat—how lucky can one be?

 

 

That's the drive the trailer has to go down. 

Jordanian Tea and Universal Language

In Jordan, in a perfect 30-degree day, we found ourselves in a scene straight from a pastoral painting. Goats grazed contentedly, a child shepherdess spun wool, and we picked figs on our way toward a castle.

We walked past a house where an old gentleman sat pondering the world's problems over tea. Without sharing a common language beyond hand gestures, he beckoned us in. Fortunately, Ali is something of a Pictionary champion, and between her artistic skills and universal tea-drinking etiquette, we managed a delightful conversation.

We drank tea, understood each other perfectly, and completely ran out of time to see the castle. But here's the thing—I can't even remember what that castle looked like in the guidebook, yet the kindness of that stranger remains vivid as yesterday.

Martinborough Music Festival – Opening Gala Performance

Martinborough has something for everyone: 'Toast', dead pig competitions, women's football, jazz festivals, Round the Vines, and apparently, classical music for the musically bewildered.

At 13, I was banished to the library during music class—declared tone-deaf with zero rhythm and labelled a "hinderance." So naturally, when invited to the festival's opening night, terror ensued. However, the promise of a saxophone lured me in. I assumed I knew what string quintets would deliver, and it was from the violin class that I was banished.  Tickets purchased, commitment made.

Disclaimer: In my numerous years, I've attended roughly four classical concerts. I think that's what you call them. While never fully understanding what I was hearing, I clearly haven't concluded "once is enough."

Martinborough emerged in full finery—people certainly scrub up well, there were stacks of people who I knew but didn’t recognise until they expressed more surprise that I was there than I did. 

 A reverent hush fell as musicians entered. I waited anxiously while the programme mocked me: "Allegro moto perpetuo" followed by Kodály's "Allegro serioso non troppo"—clearly serious, possibly forbidden in tropical climates?

It was wonderful. During the interval, sophisticated conversations swirled around me incomprehensibly. All I knew was that I loved it. The violin and cello mesmerized me, as did the players' facial contortions—each note apparently requiring specific grimaces. The cellist's robotic head movements added theatrical flair. They seemed spiritually connected.

Kodály believed "music belonged to everyone." I'll take some of that.  Good lad I say.

I was enjoying myself without understanding why. Did I need to? Hardly. Sitting beside two ex-NZSO members, I naively whispered, "Is this any good?" Their emphatic "Heck, yes!" suggested I'd cracked the code.

The second half flew by: "Sicilienne pas vite" (presumably "slow in Sicily"), "Grave" (coincidentally resembling a sponsor's name), and "très animé"—indeed animated, featuring apparent barking dogs and screeching cats. I was mastering interpretation! Poor Monsieur Chausson the composer died at 44 in 1899 after falling off his bicycle. Concert over.

Feigning expertise, I turned to my learned neighbours and simply said, "Well?" Their response: "Really good, but we didn't enjoy it. Too much grumph." Honestly, I thought they'd missed something profound but didn't dare mention it.

The audience loved it, and so did I. Martinborough truly has something for everyone—the annual Martinborough Music Festival must be included in that comprehensive list.  Go on.  Next year give it a go.

 Dad's Stories and Doodlebug Days

In the last few months of my father's life, I'd sit down after supper and pepper him with questions about his formative years. Stories emerged of dodging doodlebugs during the war, flights to Tanganyika that took days rather than today's mere eight hours, stopping in Paris, Rome, Brindisi, Khartoum, Addis Ababa, and finally Dar Es Salaam. He regaled me with tales of epic bike rides cycling amazing distances across the UK—no derailleurs, no drop bars, no lycra, just pure determination.

These conversations inspired me to email him regularly with specific questions, and he always replied. Always. It became our ritual, our way of preserving stories that might otherwise have vanished with him.

It was nice to make a connection because despite trying I'm not sure we ever really got on or that he liked me very much.  Maybe a mistake in 1956, but I tried.

Careful where you Wee.

It's a great way to start the day.  To go out on the front grass and take in the morning fresh air, birdsong and say hello to the sheeps.  There I was, randomly pointing but not realising that the aim was directly towards the electric fence.  I never did that again!

Iraqi Hills and the Three-Offer Rule

Random acts of kindness appear in the most unexpected places. There we were, walking over hills  on the Iraqi - Iranian border where we'd been warned to avoid landmines—though no one bothered explaining what they looked like. Our "guide" didn't have a map because none existed. An Iranian drone cruised overhead for good measure. We glanced over a crashed Russian helicopter.

Eventually, we found our way to a remote mountain village where a farmer and his family were harvesting tomatoes. Despite sharing no verbal language, we were invited for lunch.

There's a tradition with these invitations: you're offered three times, you refuse the first two, and if you refuse the third, that's conclusive. Accept the third, and you're in. It's rather like a Brit offering tea—"Well, if you're having one" being the appropriately useless reply.

In we went for what became a banquet: flatbread, enough rice to flood a paddy field, several chickens who'd had better days, sweet tea, and then more of everything. Whether you're vegetarian or simply overwhelmed by someone's generosity, sometimes courtesy overrules dietary preferences—it was delicious.  So so kind.

Lambrusco had a sore foot and needed a hooficure, which our friendly Londoner vet kindly did.  We're kind to our sheeps; no big 3 tiered green truck for them at christmas.

Can't mange without assistance collecting wood; it's always necessary.

 The Resurrection of Geckie: A Miraculous Tale

Our beloved house gecko has earned himself a divine promotion. He is now officially "Jesus"—a title bestowed after performing the most documented miracle in reptilian history.

It began with a midnight snack run. Geckie had ventured into the kitchen on what he presumably thought would be routine foraging. Alas, his quest for sustenance led him straight into the spring-loaded mouse trap.

There I found him, martyred by his own gluttony, splayed across what appeared distinctly cross-shaped; a mouse trap. With the reverence of a disciple, I established "Gecko ITU"—a makeshift intensive care unit beside the fire.  I hope Geckie thought we were being kind to him.

Then the miracle occurred. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, signs of life returned. A twitch here, a barely perceptible movement there—Geckie was ascending from apparent death.

But the true resurrection moment came when we turned away briefly, only to discover our patient had vanished and self discharged.  Panic set in until we spotted him—very much alive—scurrying across the floor with the casual confidence of someone who had just conquered mortality itself.

Unlike his more famous namesake, our Jesus requires no faith to believe in his existence. He can be found most evenings, performing his less miraculous but equally impressive feat of walking on walls and occasionally ceilings.

Making Your Own Luck

I was once told that you make your own good and bad luck. How true is that? I think I was dealt a generally decent hand. I've had a raft of great, informative, fun jobs. I've reached the point of my incompetence and had to move on with speed, ruffling enough feathers that my time was clearly up.

But along that varied journey, I met stacks of wonderful, kind fun people who were generally tolerant of my doziness and remarkably patient with my gentle learning curve.

Now I'm here in a degree of solitude, safely out of everyone's way, in a "Bortle 1" area—the darkest, best star-gazing spot on the scale. We sat outside watching satellites traverse the heavens while Capricorn and the Southern Cross got pointed out with infinitesimal laser precision. It's a galaxy of fantasticalness.  Shooting stars and learning that the Milky Way is vertical.

From French Villages to Martinborough

All those times flying over the Alps, I'd peer down at little French villages snuggled against snow-covered hills and think, "How lovely for them." Then we arrive here, drive into Martinborough, and discover this view. It's rather nice, isn't it?  Despite overt racism, which I hate, there are a good few decent kind people around.

The DR’s Wife.

Ali and I did our third Gaza fund raiser, this time showing a film called the ‘Dr’s Wife’, an amazing film about a Kiwi, Dr Alan Kerr, a paediatric Consultant Cardiologist and his wife who went to Gaza and the Illegally Occupied West Bank to do incredible surgery, and train Dr’s to do the same work.  I’m calling it a success.  $2000, taking our total for the 3 events to $9000 (£4000).  It was sold out and in time honoured tradition we had ice cream and popcorn at the interval whilst those we were learning about were being showered with white phosphorous thrown down by F35s and dodging sniper fire.....  There were tears, no laughs, sighs of desperation and rounds of applause for the film maker who was with us, and Dr and Hazel Kerr.   Funny old world innit?  The donations reflect such generous kindness.

 It's ok if you are a sheep but tough for the boys.

When Ali goes to see her Mum for a few weeks the sheeps get more cuddles that the boys.  It’s tough for the boys!!  But it is kind.

 

But at least she cleared the cobwebs before she went.

For more information, details from info@sick-international.com.  Made in Germany.

 

 The Moral of the Story

Here's what I've learned: strangers often surprise you with their generosity. People you expect more from can disappoint spectacularly. The key is to collect the overwhelming moments like precious souvenirs and let the underwhelming ones teach you the fine art of strategic avoidance.  Love kindness.

And always, always ask the old codgers about their stories. You never know what adventures they've tucked away in their memories, just waiting for someone curious enough to ask.