Beach pimples!

 

Weather trumped work - at least the academic sort – and we spent the morning on the beach.  The weather varied from scorching sunshine to cloud filtered mugginess.  The other two set off on a long hour duration walk while I slumped in my chair, occasionally braving dead jellyfish to dip myself in the sea.

This year has seen a marked increase in the number of jellyfishes rolling through the surf to die in the shallows.  At least we think they are dead, once they are out of the water and stranded on drying sand they look inoffensively inert.

Legend has it that jellyfish are still poisonous even in death, with the chandelier-like stingers able to inflict wounds on vulnerable flesh even when the malign force driving the living creature is no more.

This morning, there were three glistening ‘pimples’ with easy reach, occasionally washed by more adventurous waves, but anchored on the littoral.  They were viewed with interest by the passing pedestrians promenading along the water line, but it took a couple of young lads to do something about it.

It is obvious that the younger generation of beach dwellers have been deeply influenced by “Finding Nemo”, especially in the sequence where his dad and the truly wonderful Dory met the jellyfish when the dark (but safe) canyon is rejected in favour of the lighter, higher (but fatal) shallower water.  They know that the dangling stings are painful, but they also know from having seen it in the film that the rounded tops of the jellyfish are harmless.  So, the lads made their hands into crane-like grabs and lifted the blobs from their occasional sea-washed dampness to the fatal embrace of the perennially dry soft sand.

I have to say that the visible reminders of possible pain did not deter swimmers, including myself, from going into the briny.  I did “look about me” to check if there were any obvious transparent dangers, but satisfied myself that the odds of safety were on my side.  And, indeed, they have been so far this year as I have been signally un-stung.  Though I am aware that last statement is a hostage to fortune, especially given the prevalence of ghostly retribution swimming about in the waves around us.  But I have faith.

Tomorrow, with a rare sense of occasion, we have been invited out to a barbecue on the only day in recent weeks that is scheduled to have thunderstorms. 

Sometimes the irony of life is too obvious to be funny.

Union or League?

 

The win of the Catalan Dragons over the Warrington Wolves reminded me of the reason why I was born in Leeds rather than Cardiff.

My father was fiendishly good at rugby.  He was captain of his school team at an absurdly young age and made sure that he was academically capable as well.  Though he never tired of retelling the story of the time when he was top overall in the top class of his year in Maesteg Grammar School in South Wales.  His form teacher wrote of my dad that his achievement, “reflects nothing of his ability, he is top out of a mediocre lot, is slapdash, erratic and easy-going” to which, after reading this crushing dismissal of my dad's worth, my grandfather responded, “That man knows you!”

My father did not go to college to train as a teacher because of World War Two.  He joined the RAF as a technician and, after initial training in Blackpool (where he said that he had never been so cold in all his life) he was posted to South Africa and Rhodesia – mainly because his surname began with a later letter of the alphabet.  He later told me that those with an earlier letter for their surnames were sent to the Far East.  I think he got the better of that particular deal and he continued to play rugby for his squadron, being made captain of the team in spite of his being a lowly LAC.

On his return to Britain after the War he got a job as a PE teacher and continued to play rugby for various clubs and was eventually given a place in the Possibles against the Probables to decide the selection for the Welsh team.

In spite of doing well as the Possibles hooker (and winning balls against the head) dad knew that he wasn’t going to be picked, and there is still one Welsh player for the national team of the late 40s whose name I still bridle at!  This player had his selection ‘on rails’ – and so it proved to be.

However, dad was seen by a Rugby League scout and the end result was that he was tempted to Go North and become a professional rugby player for Hunslet while also teaching PE in Leeds.

 

                                        Don Rees, my father, front row, third from the right. Hunslet, early 1950s

Dad spoke about his time as a professional player, including in his first game where, as a bright and innocent (?) young rugby union player, he tucked the ball under his arm and started to run for the line.  He was met by a hardened professional in the opposition team who gave him a stiff-arm tackle and, as my father folded over his opponent’s arm, he heard him say, “Not that way sonny!”

My mother, also a PE teacher, did not watch my father play, though she went to the ground when she could.  Once she was with officials of the Club and one said to her, “Don has dropped a goal!” to which her reply was, “Oh god!” as she thought that he had made some sort of grave error!

But one recollection of his anecdotes of play concerned France. 

Rugby League had been banned by the collaborationist Vichy government and Hunslet were visiting the country after the war and playing what one official described as “missionary games” with smaller clubs to encourage the take-up of League rather than Union in France.   

Dad said that Hunslet players saw posters advertising one of their forthcoming matches as “L’equipe de Hunslet v. L’equipe de France”! which was not quite what they were expecting.  “Their forwards were faster than our backs!” dad said and they had to react to the new situation.   

One Hunslet player, injured but still playing, was given the unedifying task of limping after his opposite number and hitting him whenever he caught up with him.  Which he did.  The way that dad told the story it was as if the injured player was a Boris Karloff character lurching out of the mist gaining inexorably on his prey!  I forget what the result was, but that was not the point of the story.

So now, with the victory of the Catalan Dragons there is a watershed moment in the history of rugby league, the first time that the cup has left Britain, what will be made of it?

I like to think that, whatever the future of League, I have an historical stake in its progress.

And, anyway, what son would pass up an opportunity to bring a picture of his dapper dad to a wider audience?