Introduction
Rozanne and I had a subdued weekend marking the transition to the New Year from the old. Rozanne and I shared a super wee dram of whisky, I have been banned from any alcohol or even a cigar until after my proposed surgery. Even post-surgery, it may be frowned upon. I must say that small sup tasted delicious and has awoken a yearning in me to savour a good malt in the not too distant future, good or bad health.
When I discuss my health issues with Rozanne, she is always so positive and upbeat. I believe we all need family and friends to be upbeat in these times. Thank you, Rozanne, for your glass always being full. Luckily, on the pre-surgery consultations she was allowed to attend and her knowledge of Portuguese, although somewhat still limited, far exceeds mine. Her presence was critical in me understanding what is required of me, especially in the meetings where the consultants had limited knowledge of the English language.
This past Monday at 7am, on a frosty morning, we set off for Coimbra to visit my cardiologist and have further blood tests in preparation for surgery at a date still unknown. See in my medical update. Who says Portugal is warm? Today, Friday was minus -3C with frost on the roads. But clear, crisp blue skies despite the cold.
As my appointment today, Friday with the surgical team was moved forward a week, I did not have a set appointment time for my blood tests; therefore I had to join a rather long meandering queue. Another queue was in evidence, in which ours surprisingly intersected at one point. Confusion. The other queue was for COVID-19 testing. My queue was much longer but significantly less in numbers. Mine had an average age of probably sixty-some years while the other probably averaged early twenties. Our queue was disciplined and well-spaced, the other more of a rabble with much greeting and hugging. Not quite cavorting. Were most of them students being tested for the virus before returning to their studies? Coimbra is, after all a large university town; in fact, the hospital is the University Hospital. The behaviour in the queues starkly emphasised the differing attitudes of the generations. The COVID-19 testing queue had the occasional sombre elderly person interspersed in its line looking oddly out of place and decidedly uncomfortable. This virus is deemed to have little effect on the young, but devastating to the old. Meanwhile, everyone wants to have their life span extended. To sustain this, I believe there have to be personal sacrifices by all in lifestyle behaviour. Living longer certainly costs more both in health care and pensions. I often wonder if the young appreciate this? I did not. When we abuse drink, drugs or tobacco to the extent it affects our health or ability to be a functional, productive person, we all end up paying for it. It will surprise them how quickly they will change queues as life progresses. I lived for the day and thought let tomorrow take care of itself. Everyone seems to want something now, caring little for how it will be paid for in the future. Whatever you can do to protect one's health will be of benefit to all. These hardships we are being asked to suffer are minuscule to what previous generations have suffered.
“If you do not pay for what we demand immediately, it becomes much more expensive for all in the future. We are all living in a make-believe world, where community costs will not affect the individual. Just not true!” Peter McSporran
I did not need to hear on the news that there were no truck queues at Dover or the price increase of groceries had not occurred. Why? There was no mention of either on the news. I am sure much to the press’s disappointment. Did those crews on New Year’s Eve predicting doom at the ports following Brexit just silently pack up and go home on the 2nd of January because they did not have any bad news to report? Perhaps they were not geared or mentally tuned to present positive news? If there had been queues or price increases, these would have been the lead stories on the day. This proves the saying “No news is good news” is a true statement nowadays. Why is it universally accepted that bad news is what everyone wants to hear? Why does the press decide bad news is better than positive news? How can we encourage a reset in this negative mindset?
The Walter Mitty choreographed events on Capitol Hill would have been funny in a movie. In reality, a sad reflection on how badly we choose our leaders.
Medical Update
The week started with my cardiologist, who gave me a thorough going over. He was slightly late, having worked all night on emergency patients. He is still happy with my heart for the operation, but there will be some risks to manage. Following my appointment with him, I went off to give blood for numerous pre-surgical tests. This meant queueing once again, as my appointment had to be moved forward a week. Needless to say, all was completed by 1300hrs. Unfortunately, Rozanne had to wait outside for the full six hours, as usual, she was not allowed entry.
Today, Friday the 8th of January, I had my pre-surgery final review and ERAS (Enhanced Recovery After Surgery) preparation meetings. These are the final processes in preparing for surgery and post-surgery recovery. The four hours of consultation included interviews with nutritionists, physiotherapists, recovery nurses, the anaesthetist, doctors and general nurses. They reviewed all the information from tests and scans, including the blood tests taken on Monday along with the cardiologist's report from that same day. The Public Social Security System, provided by the state, will also do a consultation by telephone. I have been put on a high protein diet, including, protein supplements, four meals a day, an exercise regime coupled with breathing exercises in preparation for recovery. Post-surgery, they want me sitting up within four hours of the operation, walking the following day, and an expectation of hospital discharge on the third day.
Unfortunately, COVID-19 cases in Portugal, post-Christmas have suddenly increased substantially, and hospitals are filling up rapidly. I was informed some operations were being put on hold; oncology is still a priority. However, I should not expect a call this coming week should expect a call any day following to report for surgery. I will get at least a three day notice period as I have to cut out all fibre in my diet. I was also given a list of what I am required to take to the hospital along with the phone numbers and names of the nurses taking care of me pre and post-surgery.
Life Story
There were four main events that attracted the interest and attendance of the whole family on Mull come rain or shine. They were the Killiechronan Estate Christmas Party and Dance already covered in earlier blogs. The others were the Salen Agricultural Show, the Tobermory Highland Games, and the Tobermory Regatta the latter falling within the West Highland Yachting Week.
The Salen Show was normally held in August and was the main agricultural event on the island, attracting visitors from the mainland. There was another show held in the South of the Island, the Bunessan Show. Although this show was smaller, father and I attended annually. One particular year remains vivid in my mind. Our head cattleman, Alec, was the nominated cattle judge that year. In judging the cow class, he put a huge fat cow to the bottom of the class as it had no calf. He emphasised his decision by informing the spectators he thought she was probably a Freemantle*. This infuriated the owner, a well known local character coupled with a very loud mouth who had bought the cow to specifically ensure a certain winner at the show. As the day wore on with the help of “uisge beatha” his courage and outspoken disenchantment rose in equal quantity. Finally, when Alec sneaked into the beer tent for a quick dram before departing for home to face the wife, it was just too much for this disappointed exhibitor to bear. His grievances changed from moans to full-on physical aggression. He was nearly as big and strong as his barren cow, Alec had no chance and was last seen being assisted to his car due to his injuries, not from the eagerly anticipated drink as planned.
Back to the Salen Show, on the calendar, it was a huge event on the island. Second only to the Highland Games. Police reinforcements were always sent from Tobermory to support the local constable. How can one be expected to control your friends and drinking mates anyway? The only animal not shown were pigs. West Highlanders were obviously not known as pig farmers. We did fatten one pig annually for bacon and ham but certainly not for show.
Along with the livestock, entries was the home craft section. Much more keenly competitive and vitriolic. The exhibits included jams, baking, needlework, cake icing, to name a few of the classes. In my memory, every married woman on Mull baked. Many of the daughters also entered the junior classes. You would rarely visit a neighbour without being offered a homemade cake or scone for your tea—the latter with homemade jam and clotted cream. The only place I tasted scones to challenge those of my childhood were at the Rhodes Nyanga Hotel, Zimbabwe.
Post judging, the home craft tent was to be avoided. Some women would be preening, while others would be spitting. The no man's land between the respective parties was ill-defined. A dangerous place for a child. Interestingly, most of the judges of home-craft would return to the mainland before the post-show dinner dance. By then, the judges, not the opposition, would have become seen as the enemy. Show day was always a great day, and Killiechronan showed cattle and sheep. They would be disappointed not to lift the champion trophies in both fields. Killiechronan had the advantage of having the financial ability to bring breeding stock to the island to improve their flocks and herds. Many of the Mull farmers just did not run the stock numbers to warrant this. In the sheep classes, our main opposition was the McGillivray brothers from Glenforsa Estate. There was no love lost between them and my father. As children, we could hear derogatory remarks being whispered in the opposing camps.
“Children hear and understand everything. Do not be fooled by their silent innocence.” Peter McSporran
In late June early July, the whole family would head off to the Tobermory Highland Games, which coincided with the McLean Clans annual gathering. The home of the McLeans Clan is at Duart Castle on the shore of Mull's South East side. Father, who as a youth competed in Kintyre games, was an avid supporter. He preferred the running, while we kids loved watching tossing the caber, sheaf and weight throwing, stone-throwing and hammer throwing, mainly as the amateur local contestants were likely to throw the hammer into the crowd on occasion. Of course, the tug of war would get the whole crowd cheering. The bagpipes played all day; the dancers also seemed to dance all day. We enjoyed the sound of the bagpipes in the hills, and for weeks following the games, we would hear them ringing in our ears. The dancing for us kids was boring and of no interest, especially following a traumatic and personal painful episode due to having to attend sword dance classes in the Salen village hall. Traumatic for the teacher, painful for me. At the games, we used to sit on the side of the hill overlooking the field. We could witness all the events from up there. We all took our own rugs, picnic lunches, and drinks. No cokes back then, just Irn-Bru. I cannot remember seeing much litter after the event back then, before the advent of fast food and take-aways.
Of great amusement to us was a man who would arrive off the boat from Lismore Island, well drunk. He would run and win the cross country race every year by a large margin, leaving on the evening boat even more drunk than he arrived. He was a one-man attraction, looked on in awe by both adults and children alike. He never had to put his hand in his pocket to buy a drink; getting drunk was both cheap and easy for him. He was not the type of hero our father wanted us to look up to. Secretly, I think this man's unique prowess even impressed him. There were children's races. I cannot remember winning any prizes myself. Although really fit as a youngster, speed does not seem to have been my forte. Endurance yes, and that stayed with me most of my life.
The Tobermory Regatta was a more distant affair. We never participated, however, took time in the first instance to go and view the large yachts racing up the Sound of Mull during West Highland Yachting Week. More than a hundred yachts racing up the Sound of Mull was an awesome sight even for us youngsters. You cannot imagine how disappointed I was one day when family friends took us out on a dinghy to see their yacht close up. Above deck it was fine, below deck, it smelt of dirty bodies, wet clothes with everything dank and clammy, if not downright soaking. Needless to say later on at boarding school, I took up sailing. One of the few things I enjoyed at school.
There were many fun events to watch from the esplanade on the Tobermory waterfront, including dinghy sailing races, rowing races, and best of all, the greasy pole. Here, a couple of idiots would face each other on a greased pole over the water. The higher the pole, the better for the spectators. With sacks filled with straw, each would try and knock the other off. It was really a question of who hit the water last, to be declared the winner as both normally fell. Pre-limbering up for this event included a good few drams. Afterwards, there was a dance on Tobermory pier. A fair number of the revellers could not even stay on the pier for the night. Many rescues from the water took place through the course of the evening. All these events would be catered for by special bus services provided by McBraynes or Bowmans. Bowmans were local farmers who owned a couple of buses for the summer tourist trade. Not many people were privileged enough on Mull to afford cars in those days, so lifts via friends or buses were essential to get around.
At a much later stage, another large event was brought to Mull, the Mull Motor Rally, circa 1969. I was never on the Island when it was held, but it is still an annual event today.
You could try and watch the snowy TV, listen to the radio, or play board games for home entertainment. Radio was by far the most popular. For news, my father would get the Glasgow Herald and the Daily Express delivered every evening. On Sundays, he would collect the Sunday Post from Salen. The Scottish Farmer and the Farmer and Stockbreeder came on a Friday along with my mother's People's Friend. Us kids did not get weekly comics. The older Creighton Boys did, the Eagle and the Lion. Of course, we would look forward to the Broon’s, Oor Wullie, and Black Bob (a collie dog) in the Sunday Post after our parents were finished with it. We could rely on receiving the Dandy and Beano annuals from our aunts as gifts without fail at Christmas.
In the farmhouse, we had a large kitchen split in two, one end for cooking which had a hearth for a coal fire which we sat around in winter. The other end was like a parlour with a dining room table, settee, and armchairs. This had a built-in electric fire in the wall and was used mostly for our family’s indoor life for the rest of the year. We rarely used the smart lounge or study/dining room. The smart lounge had a coal fireplace; the rest of the house relied on electric heaters for warmth. It was frigid in winter. So after our peas brose and cod liver oil tainted malt, we would take hot water bottles to bed. Ice on the insides of our windows in winter was not uncommon.
Next week my mother’s death and all change.
Farming and Investing in Africa
After a year of running around in the bush chasing, not necessarily catching, insurgents or Freedom Fighters, the term depended on the side you were on. We were demobbed in 1974, only temporarily. Over the previous year, the war had escalated considerably. The day we were demobbed, I received new call-up papers. From then on, the norm was eight to nine weeks in the bush, with six weeks at home. Farmers would be able to swop call-ups around to fit with busy times on the farm. In the meantime, our wives, neighbours, and senior local staff would run the farms in our absence. Once again, more detail in my life story to come.
On returning to the farm, and having a brand new car bought with my first year’s bonus from the previous year, I returned to take over as a farm manager, no longer an assistant. I rattled around in a fairly new, large farmhouse with limited furniture. Unfortunately, I was very unsettled and some days my heart was just not on the job. Hamish, my boss, I could see was becoming irritated with me. My fault entirely. The call-ups every six weeks for two months did not help with my mood. Meanwhile, I had taken up with a local farmer's daughter, Diane Belinsky, her parents being successful and highly respected members of the local farming community. Together we decided it was time for me to move, in doing so, I wanted to expand my knowledge and experience into other crops for future use. Remember, all farmers were dedicated patriots and knew of their manager’s commitments to the war. I applied for a couple of jobs and ended up with the ideal, in the form of better pay and broader agricultural production knowledge. I have no doubt Hamish must have given a better recommendation than my performance merited.
The job was with the Edwards family in the Enterprise Valley farming district, one of Rhodesia's best farming areas. They grew, over and above maize, seed maize, soya beans, wheat, potatoes, groundnuts, onions, strawberries, and pigs. They had a cattle ranch, this was in the south of the country. My job was meant to fit in with their son, Liford’s, military call-ups. The plan was to alternate call-ups, with one or other being on the farm most of the time. As the war escalated, it turned out we were more often away together. Continuous Call-up was introduced in 1976; time on the farm was even less than before. This led to a mass exodus of young white people from Rhodesia and was phased out fairly quickly reverting to the rotation status quo. The experience I got working for the Edwards was immense. Those people were serious crop farmers, innovative, and were disappointed even in those days, being the mid-70s, achieving a yield below eight tonnes a hectare for rain-fed maize and six and a half tonnes for wheat. They also had made full use of a Government scheme to stimulate winter wheat production. Wheat was difficult to import into Rhodesia as it had to come from outside the African continent. South Africa was, and still is a net importer of wheat, so any imported wheat would have had to sneak through the sanctions cordon in the form of a port blockade. After failing to find a suitable summer wheat variety due to the disease challenge, the innovative agricultural research scientists in Rhodesia had bred a variety of wheat capable of growing in the Rhodesian winter. It does not rain in that part of Africa in winter, irrigation has to be used in its production. While now having varieties that could offer viable yields, price alone was not enough to stimulate the investment required to grow this crop. Finance was needed for water storage, reticulation, and application. To this end, the Government introduced the Revolving Winter Wheat Irrigation Fund which enabled farmers a loan to develop irrigation at 2% interest long term. All repayments went back into the fund with interest income used to administer and grow the fund. Patient capital. Of course, if you had irrigation in winter, it could also be used to supplement crops in summer. Crops other than wheat that benefitted in summer were soya, tobacco, and early irrigated maize. Irrigation could add over 50% to the yields of these crops. Not only did you have the benefit of increased yields with the irrigation, but you also had the use of the land and machinery for two crop productions a year as opposed to one. Machinery, such as combine harvesters, suddenly became viable considerations. This scheme was a major game-changer in farmer viability and food security. I was in exactly the right place to understand, putting into practice the benefits of double-cropping using irrigation.
At Edwards, I also learned about growing crops and bulk handling, drying, storing, and marketing of a wide bouquet of high-value crops. I became well educated in proper working gross margins and cash flows. I moved away from the home farm to a farm about ten kilometres up the road, yet continued with the management swapping exercise on existing call-ups. On that farm, I grew a record yielding sorghum crop on which all the experts wanted to glean how I had achieved this. To this day, I do not know, as I just followed the normal advised protocol. Protocols are critical in farming.
In September 1976, I got special leave from the army to marry Diane and started to look at our next options. After all, I was now at the ripe old age of twenty-six. Our options were to leave Africa for a fresh start, or go farming on our own in Rhodesia with all the attached risks. Choices and decisions next week.
*Freemantle - A female cow is born as a mixed twin with a male brother and because of this, is infertile.
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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