Bitten by an Australian Creature

Back to the land down under, where beer does flow and men chunder. Classic lines from the classic “Men at Work” song.

I have, pretty much, been all round Australia, well, the coast anyway. I have wandered through spiders’ webs and survived, I have come face-to-face with a nasty looking snake in Queensland and lived to tell the tale, I have walked along crocodile infested roads and reached the destination in one piece.

I have swam in the shark ravaged waters and got to shore intact, and there are more. Jellyfish bob along in the waves, poisonous shells lay on the beaches and, of course, don’t forget the flesh tearing cassowary stalking the forests around Cairns.

After a pretty arduous flight, sitting next to a man who had clearly had an accident in his pants, a little bit of a stink! We landed in the fresher air of Perth, the capital of Western Australia.

We were greeted by my brother and his entire family: John, his wife, Jenny, and their two children, now grown up, Brittany and Alex; plain Alex, it is most definitely not short for Alexander. No confusion, therefore, with Alexander the Great, except he, like his parents and sister, were Great hosts. Made us feel very welcome.

Didn’t know it at the time but I was within hours of an encounter with an Australian animal, with sharp teeth, that would leave me unable to make the dance floor later that day. Indeed, I haven’t been able to dance since.

We were sitting around the kitchen table, drinking coffee, a pre-requisite for my days in recent times. We were planning our day, when a sudden skittering across the floor was followed by incisors digging into the side of my calf muscle on the right leg. The pain was immediate, the sweat was profuse, and I thought I had been bitten by a snake.

I replayed the noise from immediately before the bite got me and recalled that it had been accompanied by a growling usually associated with canines. Being on blood thinners, as I was at the time for my blood clots, it was like a blood tap had been turned on. Jane kindly dressed it for me, she had been a nurse before turning to teaching, and we wandered into the town.

Apparently, I had been Montyed, and I wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. Monty was John and Jenny’s beloved family dog. I am sure he was a great pet, but from that moment on he became my number one enemy. I only had to walk in a room and a low growl would emanate from some dark recess somewhere, and I made a quick exit.

In truth, I was just biding my time. I have never told anyone this before, so you are the first to know of this, I have a special power. Clark Kent turns into Superman, Peter Parker is Spiderman, and little old me, well, I am Blood-Poison Man. If anything bites me I release incredibly powerful toxins into the throat of the perpetrator, and from that moment on it is only a matter of time.

Sometimes the revenge is quick acting, like mosquitoes, which are seen on their way pretty damned quick. Horseflies are another pest that deserve to be despatched without delay. Monty, a full-grown Shih tzu, took a little longer; five years to be precise!

Of course, I am making this up, sorry if I fooled you, I don’t really have those powers. It was about five years later before he passed, I think he was about 67 by then and had more notches on his gun than Billy the Kid.

I looked the breed up on Mr Google’s search engine and discovered an amazing list of adjectives to describe them. Here are just some I took note of before losing the will to carry on any further: playful, clever, affectionate, intelligent, outgoing, lively, friendly, loyal, alert, happy, spunky, calm, independent, gentle, courageous…

Forgive me if I can’t find it in my heart to agree with all of them. I might well work on a list of my own, which might be a little different!

Joking aside, though, I know I shouldn’t mock, for at the end of the day, he was a much loved family member and I know his passing was mourned deeply by my brother’s family. Rest in eternal peace, Monty. You have certainly left your mark in their world, and on my leg, both keenly felt until this day.

I am not going to run through our stay in WA in any particular order. I have to start with a wine-tasting trip along the Swan River Valley.

Beautiful as it was, the weather was not kind, it was rainy with a distinct chill, so don’t believe Australians when they tell you every day is sunny, it just isn’t true. Jane and I were not newbies when it came to meandering along the Swan. Back in 1989 we took a boat from Barrack Quay, in central Perth, and ventured inland.

If you look at a map you will soon spot that Perth is fairly isolated. In fact, it is further away from any other major city than any other large settlement anywhere in the world. The closest town of any real consequence, within Australia, is Adelaide, 2,605km away.

To put that in perspective, Denpasar, in Bali, is only a 2,692km flight away, much closer than the big eastern state cities. That just plays havoc with your thinking. If you set off for a drive to the South Australian capital make sure you fill up before, it will take you over 27 hours to drive it. It might be worth taking a bottle or two of water with you as well.

It just puts into context the vastness of this island country. Indeed, only earlier this week, someone commented to me that you can be flying for four hours out of a number of airports within the country, a time that will get you just about anywhere in Europe, but you are still not outside the clutches of Australian air traffic control.

You can, therefore, understand why such a remote race claims the achievements of any of its favourite sons and daughters. Back then, at least, they were very proud of the digeridoo playing Rolf Harris.

As we progressed toward the vineyards, our guide pointed out some landmarks synonymous with the then national treasure: this is where Rolf lived, this is where Rolf first swam, that is where Rolf went to school, that is where Rolf had his first kiss, so on and so forth, I’m sure you get the picture.

That’s where he tied his kangaroo down, that’s where he played with two little boys, that’s where Matilda waltzed around his billabong. You would have been forgiven for thinking you were on the Rolf Harris Heritage Trail.

Spool forward thirty years there was no reference to him whatsoever. Can’t think why, can you? A tourist, not me by the way, asked if this was the area Harris had come from? They had been, and still were, a fan and did not believe he was capable of committing the crimes he had been convicted of. The guide answered with a simple “Who?” Nothing else required.

Whilst on the subject of wine, they do produce some terrific reds and whites within the state, not sure about rose or sparkling as I don’t usually partake, my brother’s company own a house and vineyard, Juniper Creek, near a south-western town called Margaret River. Sometimes it’s who you know, not what you know, and we were treated to a wonderful tour with unlimited tasting.

It was absolutely brilliant to get the personal treatment, even though it was at about nine in the morning. The Shiraz was to die for, and half-a-dozen glasses later I thought I might.

Add this to the stream of other wines as well meant that the rest of the day was spent lounging around in the six bedroom mansion, with us as the only occupants. I think there are worse places in the world to see out an intoxicated late morning and afternoon.

I am sorry but this experience is not open to the usual touring riff-raff! I will dedicate an entire episode to Margaret River in the next week or so. If I were to live anywhere, outside of Norfolk, in Australia or, for that matter, anywhere, it would probably be here.

Just sometimes you hear little children asking why that man carries a white stick around with him. It is a fair enough question and you can often tell that they don’t like the answer. The concept of going blind to little children of four, five or six is about as daunting as the tooth fairy not being real. The very thought must terrify them.

I have heard one young mother ask a man with a white cane if he would put it away as it was making her precious little girl frightened and she couldn’t stop crying. Sorry, love, get over it!

Where is he going with this, I hear you say? Well, I was on the quayside at Rottnest Island, Rotto to the locals, a few miles across the Indian Ocean from Fremantle. We had gone over there with my niece for a nice day out, hadn’t been there in thirty years.

Unbeknown to us, it was the same day as the Cottesloe to Rottnest Annual Swim. What is that? Sort of self-explanatory, really, it is a swim that happens each year. It is nearly 20km, takes around eight or nine hours, depending on ability and category, and has over 2,000 competitors rock up each year to take part.

Then add the 4,000 or so volunteers who give up their time to ensure its safe completion each year and you have a pretty major event. Volunteers range from start and finish officials, to crew of support vessels, through to shark spotters. You what? That’s right, shark spotters. And people do this for fun. Imagine doing the King’s Lynn 10k, the GEAR, with a need for lion patrols. Rather off-putting, wouldn’t you say?

Anyway, there I was, minding my own business on a wall near the passenger ferry terminal, the ladies having sought out a comfort stop, when a Mum and her young lad, maybe six years old, came and plonked themselves nearby. To say the boy was in a bad mood was like saying walking down the middle of a motorway is dangerous. He had certainly gotten out of bed the wrong side.

“Daddy should be in soon,” said the patient Mum. “Let’s go and see him.”

“Don’t want to,” responded the boy. God, was he angsty. He took his hat off and slammed it into the ground.

His mother, remaining very calm, said, “Come on. Daddy has been very brave and would love to see you. Once we find him, there’ll be an ice cream in it for you.”

“Want an ice cream now,” shrieked the out of control six year old. Yes, they do exist.

“Well,” continued Mum. “I’m going off to meet Daddy."

With that, she turned and left the ungrateful little s**t sitting on the floor, about five or six metres from me. To be fair she didn’t wander too far.

Jane and Brittany reappeared. I don’t know what came over me, but I was feeling a little mischievous. I nodded to the boy, now sitting on the ground playing with the shingle, like running it through his fingers, a face, I am sure, looking like thunder.

Now, there is a marsupial that lives on Rottnest, and can be found nowhere else, called the quokka. When the Dutch first called by this way they thought they were giant rats so, as seems to be the case with these things, used no imagination whatsoever, they named the place Rottnest, rats’ nest in Dutch.

I said, “That little boy is being really naughty for his lovely mummy. He obviously doesn’t realise that this is my magic wand.” I held up my cane. “Now, if he doesn’t start being nice I will turn him into a quokka. Trouble is, though, I can’t remember how to turn naughty boys back into boys.”

He tried to brave it out, pretending he hadn’t heard me. Then his hand started to feel around to his side and behind him, looking for his hat. He didn’t turn to look at me. He located his hat, picked it up and placed it on his head, he got up, not a care in the world, and started to walk to his Mum, before bursting into a sprint. He flung his arms around her legs She bent down to listen to his panicked explanation.

He pointed at me, she looked at me, and I thought she was going to come over and give it to me from both barrels. She didn’t, she looked across again, and put her thumb up.

So, next time your child asks you why that person is carrying a white stick? Tell them it is a magic wand, it will keep them in line for the rest of the day. You’re a wizard, Harry!

Dereham Parkrun

This is one of the more recent events on the Parkrun roster and, I have to say, is rather pleasant.

“The Heart of Norfolk.” How many times have we gone along the A47, only to bypass the delightful little town of Dereham, when heading to the Norwich metropolis? Loads, I don’t even know the answer. Until this day I hadn’t actually set foot in the market town. Sorry!

Through no fault of the organisers, and all the affable and courteous volunteers I was to end up in bed for the following 48 hours. More of that later, let’s concentrate on the 5k circuit first.

I travelled over there with Jane, met up with my good old VI Guide, the ever reliable Nik Bryan, and as usual, we were greeted as if we were royalty. Nik always lets the organisers know, in advance, that we will be popping along to their parkrun on any particular day.

As is usually the case, the Event and Run Directors were effusive in their welcome for us. I think it is a cross between intrigue and voyeurism. Firstly, how do they actually do it without running flat out into a tree or some such, and, secondly, I wonder if we will be lucky enough to see him run flat out into a tree? For absolute clarity here, I don’t honestly believe that any of them think like that at all. Maybe they just wonder a little bit?

As is quite often the case we were the first VI runner and guide to be in attendance here, it will be one year old during the weekend following our visit.

We lined up for the first-timers’ briefing, given by the amazing Fin Asbury, a fourteen year old Duke of Edinburgh’s Award participant. I am not quite sure how many fourteen year olds would have the strength of character to stand in front of, maybe, a hundred or so grizzled old parkrun veterans, and deliver this address with such eloquence. All power to your elbow.

D of E participants are often numbered in the ranks of Parkrun volunteers. I believe synergy is the word as it shares so many attributes with the Parkrun ethos, primarily it is non-competitive and imbues volunteerism. Nik gave his own inimitable performance. I think we both like to have a wee laugh, which I know doesn’t sit comfortably with some, but, in this game, if you don’t laugh you might cry.

On making his way to the muster point he made out he was the blind leading the blind, and walked right on past the RD. I, of course, couldn’t see this and did wonder what the audience were laughing at? It was later explained to me and was faintly amusing.

Right, it was time for the off. We went off like a herd of wildebeest charging across the Serengeti, kicking up just as much dust. It was like we were searching for the last of the productive waterholes, of which there were not many left. God, did we need rain.

Humidity caused us all to sweat buckets and the dust soon caked us in a gritty rime that would welcome the later application of a shower. The headline temperature was only 19° at the start, but felt like much more in the parched landscape. Because I run in compression socks to aid circulation I am loath to get my legs out, and I only have two pairs of tracksuit trousers. They are both black. My legs felt as if they were on fire, whilst running with sweat at the same time.

The course, I am sorry to say, was probably one of the more difficult I have run, from a visually impaired point of view. The tracks were often narrow, not ideal for a runner and guide side-by-side, were difficult to pass other participants and, probably worst of all from my view, went in and out of dark and light, thanks to the bright sun, as we passed through leafy tunnels.

Indeed, there were a couple of places where we had to pass through in single file. Add to the aforementioned the numerous ruts, some parallel to the direction of travel and others across it, and it all combined to present me with one of the most challenging courses I have encountered to date, if not the most challenging. Nik certainly brought home the bacon this time around, getting me home without a single hitch. Water couldn’t come soon enough.

Jane, Nik and I stayed on to mingle with the locals afterwards. It is very nice when praise is heaped on us in the way that it sometimes is, but it is not wholly justified, there are many people far worse off than me who deserve so many more plaudits that it is most humbling. That is not to say that it is not welcome, of course it is. Thank you very much. See you again sometime, maybe when those pesky leaves have fallen from the hedgerows.

Little did I know as I stood at the start line I would end up in bed within hours. There is no question about it, in my opinion, I had succumbed to heatstroke. All the classic symptoms were there: sweats, vomiting, prickly skin, headache and dehydration. It took me over two days to make a reasonable recovery, and as I write this, nearly a week later, I am only just beginning to feel roughly normal.

Jane was brilliant, smothering me with cold flannels, dosing me up on painkillers and electrolytes, something I used to think were found in car batteries, and tending to my every comfort.

You can write what I know about medical matters on the tip of my white cane, even in letters big enough for me to see, so to be married to a former nurse and St John Ambulance crew member does have its uses. A massive thank you, as without you I think I would definitely have needed a hospital visit.

One thing I need to make clear here, the heatstroke had nothing whatsoever to do with Dereham Parkrun, I didn’t know anything about it until I returned home. It was probably more as a result of the three hour hike I had been on the day before in 30°. I definitely hadn’t taken on enough water after that as I got straight into other chores.

As a pal from my younger days and my cousin-in-law stated, I was more akin to Private Pike from Dads’ Army than a highly toned athlete: Stupid Boy!

White Cane Ratings*
Car Park: good; Dereham FC, small charge to raise money for youth football - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
Welcome: very good; friendly and enthusiastic - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Atmosphere: very good - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Course: not good; ruts, roots and dappled light - 🦯 🦯 (2)
Marshalling: very good; - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)

*These ratings are how the event suits a blind person, and are my opinion only; they are not scientific. Whatever happens no-one must be put off by me. The best way to learn about something is try it for yourself.