Benches Galore

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In April 2013 I wrote a poem called 'The Third Bench'. The poem described a short but very painful walk I took to a bench on a cliff path near my house. For some it was not easy reading. Two years on and I've been at it again...

This time I have had a year of intensive training, a new approach to pain management (called; avoid doctors and drugs at all costs.) and a huge lump of determination. When I got back I was in agony, the pain has not changed..... but my attitude, well perhaps you should read the poem; I hope you enjoy it.

Benches Galore

I’ve been working out hard
in a pool and the gym.
Has it been worth it -
the effort put in?

A jog on the cliff path
I’d best take a phone,
‘coz if I break down
I’ll be miles from home.

Last time I tried this;
I made the ‘Third Bench’
but things got real ugly,
and I cried like a wench.

I start out slowly
my sticks left at home;
I will need them later
it hurts to the bone.

I grit my teeth
ignore the pain.
Think; ‘I am the master,’
time and again.

I manage the steps,
a bit clumsy, it’s true
they’re steep and uneven
there’s more than a few.

I pass couples, families,
walkers with dogs,
we hop to the sides
a little like frogs.

Then I steam past it,
I pass the ‘Third Bench’
but this time;
this time, my heart gives a clench.

‘coz I’m on the way back
with a leg that’s real sore
and I’ve hardly a care;
I’ve passed benches GALORE.

15 February 2015
John Carré Buchanan

The Third Bench

Image Source: John Buchanan

Yesterday we had beautiful weather here in Guernsey and I took the opportunity to take a stroll out along the cliffs at Icart. In recent years there have been times when I wished the cliffs were steeper here, but yesterday I was determined to take a walk.

The Image above shows both the third bench and the view from it. This view has travelled all over the world in my mind. It has been used as a benchmark against which to compare all other views. In my opinion, it has seldom been surpassed.

According to Google Earth, the third bench is one hundred and eighty meters from where I parked the car, which means that my round trip was three hundred and sixty meters, it took me about two and a half hours.

On my return home I wrote the following poem, I hope you like it.

The Third Bench

I went for a walk today,
out on the cliff paths.
As I hobbled along
the familiar foot worn path
I could hear the gulls mock me.
I'd plant my sticks carefully
then advance my left foot
just a few inches and then
I'd move the right, just a touch
trying to stop my trousers
brushing against my skin.
Then, braced for what was to come,
I took all my courage in hand,
and placed my right foot.
Instantly pain seared up the leg
like a bolt of lightning,
it surged through the knee
and scorched my soul.
My body screamed at my mind to stop
It refused, forbade a pause,
not before the bench,
the third bench.
Plant the stick, breath, left and then
bite hard on the scream.
Sometimes a moan or gasp escapes.
Tears of frustration wet my cheeks.
I used to run here,
NO,
‘used to’ is no good.
I will make the bench,
the third bench.
I was less than ten meters out
when a dog walker crested the hill in front of me
one hundred meters away.
He walked slowly with two Malamutes.
Left foot, place my sticks, right foot
another searing blast of pain
one step closer to the third bench.
I move the sticks again,
the walker passed me,
passed the man with tears rolling down his face
and I took another step
toward the third bench.

John Carré Buchanan
06 April 2013

Go-Carts

A couple of weeks ago week my son asked if I had any wheels or wood which I could donate to his Scouts troop for a Go Carting event they were holding. We scraped together a few items and took them up to the Scout hut last Friday in order that the Scouts could make a couple of carts. When I collected him later that evening the pile of parts had grown slightly and a project for the remainder of the week was born.

Each evening after school the two of us worked together to make a cart. I must admit that watching him use my circular saw, and other power tools was slightly nerve-racking but also very rewarding. I watched with pride as he marked, cut and drilled the wood, and I listened as he voiced ideas and worked out what was required.

Whilst we worked I remembered a cart I made in 1974 when I was lived in Ascension Island. I built it using scraps I had salvaged from the Georgetown dump, (that dump seemed to hold everything; I even scavenged a hacksaw blade to cut the axle free from the heap of twisted metal it was entangled in). I also remember using my father’s power tools.

For me the our project took on new meaning. Here was I reliving events from my childhood through the eyes of a father, and whilst my size and weight precluded me from ever driving the finished product, somehow I knew that I was with him as he sped down the hill for the first time.

The best bit though was spending time working on the project with my son, and enjoying his company. The 2 pictures were taken 37 years apart.

Go-Carts

The shed had been overturned,
a pile of debris sat challenging;
planks of wood, an old bike,
a length of rope a lawnmower wheel.

He remembered being ten
Sitting on the scrap heap
using scavenged tools
to create a similar pile.

Back then his mind saw the sleek lines,
could feel the wind in his hair;
the joy of being free
As he raced down the hill.

Now younger eyes looked up, pleading.
A smile cracked his face
the unspoken deal made
as father looked at son.

They toiled together
Small hands on large tools,
proud father watching on
lending power and advice.

Finally they stood together, smiling.
A cart had risen like a phoenix
from the pile of debris.
It stood awaiting its maiden run.

With foot on brake the young driver
looking eagerly down the hill.
His father proffered advice and then
They were off…..

Two hearts pound in unison
Speed picks up, corner smoothly taken.
Father remembering the childhood joy;
As they raced down the hill together.

John Carré Buchanan
25 June 2011