The American Bomber Crash Mystery

I was told this story by my Mum around the mid-80s. She was in her fifties at the time. She’d been shopping in Guildford and  was waiting for a bus back to Shalford, from opposite the ‘Yvonne Arnaud’ theatre. When she got on the bus she struck up a conversation with an elderly man towards the rear of the bus. The old chap apparently asked her a few questions. ‘Was she married?’ ‘Did she have any kids?’ That sort of  thing. Mum had never met this man before, but she instinctively knew he was ‘alright’, just a harmless old chap who enjoyed chatting with anybody, and everybody! He asked her where she lived and she replied “Shalford”. He told her that he had known Shalford quite well many years earlier. He went on to ask her where in Shalford she lived. Mum said “Tillingbourne road”. He asked her if she lived in the oldest part of the road or the ‘newer bit’. She replied “The newer bit”.  (This was the council owned far end of the road built in the fifties). “Oh” he replied. “I knew that when it was all just fields!”

He then asked her if she had heard about the American wartime bomber that had crashed in those fields during the Second World War.  She hadn’t. (No one we knew had ever mentioned this). Now, bear in mind that this conversation was happening on a bus trip from Guildford to Shalford, a trip that would only take ten minutes at the most, and my Mum was already almost at her destination. Mum was fascinated by his story and decided to stay on the bus for one stop more, just so that she could hear more about the bomber crash. The bus would also stop further along in the village, so it was ‘O.K’., she would just have a slightly longer walk home, but it gave her the time to hear a little bit more information. Sadly, the only other information that she was able to get from the old chap, before she had to get off the bus, was that it had been on a training flight heading for Canada. He said that all of the crew onboard, at least six young men,  were killed on impact. My Mum said that the impact site he described to her, sounded very much like the field directly behind the Tillingbourne river, which was directly behind our home.

Mum never did meet that old chap again. It was a few days after her brief unexpected meeting with him, that she told me the story, but, as far as I know, she never told my brother or sisters.  A few years ago a book was published called ‘Wartime Guildford, 39 to 45’,  (By David Rose and Graham Collyer, it is a book I highly recommend to anybody interested in Guildford or the war years). I was confident there would be a mention of the American bomber and its crash site in there. But no, there was nothing. The problem we have now is that anybody old enough to remember it, if it actually happened, has either died or their memories are fast fading.  It would be nice to get to the truth of this mystery, not just for me, but more importantly, for all those who (possibly) died there, and their surviving family members and descendants.

Watch this space. I’m working on it!

UPDATED FEBRUARY 22ND, 2016…….

I did lots of  research on this (alleged) American W.W.2 bomber crash site near my childhood home. After looking at every possible lead on the internet, I  still could not come up with any verification that a crash had actually occurred there. But, with the help of the ‘Surrey History Centre’, I obtained a map of all plane crashes around the Guildford area during the period of 1939 to 1945. It was very small and hard to see in any detail, (as it was covered in heavy marker pen), but it did show various crash sites within a few square miles of our home in Tillingbourne road, Shalford. I found amongst U.S.A.A.F. wartime British crash site records, an entry for an American ‘B24’ Liberator bomber, which had crashed on July 3rd, in 1944. The crew had abandoned their damaged plane over Chichester, and it had flown on crewless for about 35 miles, before finally crashing at Trunley Heath, near Shalford, (about a mile south of our home). I also tracked down an American ‘C-47’, the ‘Lilly Bell 11’, which had crashed into a field at ‘Hurst Farm’, Jacobs Well, Guildford, (four miles to our north), on October 25, 1944, killing all of its four-man crew. 

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The C-47 that crashed at Jacobs Well, near Guildford, killing all 4 crewmen.
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The map showing plane crashes around the Guildford area (39/45)

There were records of two German ‘V1’s (‘Doodlebugs’),  crashing in the Chantries. One on July the 26th, 1944, on the other (Guildford) side of the Chantries, near South Warren Farm,  and the other one crashed off East Shalford Lane, on Manor Farm’s land, (on July 7th, 1944), which is on our side of the Chantries woodlands. Neither of them crashed behind our house.   I contacted the local Guildford historian David Rose and he very kindly did some research. Mr Rose’s e-mail response with his final findings is shown below….

“There was a ‘V1’ (rocket) that landed just to the north of East Shalford Lane, on 11th July 1944, (to the NE of 83 Tillingbourne Rd.,) that fits the bill. I think that the aircraft crash and 6 airmen being killed was a wartime rumour. The closest aircraft crash to ‘No.83,’ (our home in Tillingbourne Road at that time), was the U.S.A.A.F. ‘B24’ Liberator that was abandoned by it’s crew over Chichester, but flew on to crash to the west of Trunley Heath Road, north of Tilthams Corner Road and south of Unstead Lock on July 3, 1944″. (David Rose, Guildford Historian.)

So, to sum it all up, it seems as if the old chap that my Mum met on the bus back in the 1980s,  got his facts, and his local geographical knowledge, a little bit mixed up! I have highlighted, (above), David Rose’s comment that he thought it was a ‘wartime rumour’, it would appear that the old chap was, (perhaps unknowingly), still spreading that rumour in the 1980s! But never mind, we have hopefully laid the rumour to rest now, and regardless, I have enjoyed researching these incidents, and I have learnt a great deal. I think that it is now case closed!

A big ‘thank you’ to David Rose and the ‘Surrey History Centre’ for all your help and expertise in solving this wartime riddle.  In Honour of the following brave young men, who lost their lives near Guildford in 1944, fighting fascism.  R.I.P…..    1st Lieutenant Mercer Wilson Avent;  Flight Officer John Edmund Wright;  Technical Sergeant John R. Hillmer; and… Staff Sergeant Dale E. Dellinger.

 

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A German ‘V1’ Flying Rocket Bomb  (known as ‘Doodlebugs’!) Two of these crashed in the Chantries area of Guildford, one to the north, and one to the south.
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An American ‘B24’ Liberator, similar to the plane the crew abandoned over Chichester, which flew on and crashed at Trunley Heath, Surrey, in 1944.

Mark Anthony Wyatt, Bude,   February, 2016.

Note; Any written work, music, images or videos that Mark Anthony Wyatt has created, remains his personal intellectual property! But any other images, videos, quotes etc., that were NOT created by me remain the intellectual property of those who created them. 

 

You can also find me on ‘Facebook’..@ ‘It’s a Dark, Dark Night’ or ‘Mark Anthony Wyatt’.

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‘Monkee-ing around…anticipating the new Monkees album’

“Here they come, walking down the street, they’re getting funny looks from…….. everyone at the post office”….. (on pension day!)…..For those of you who care, (and yes, I do)…the 3 surviving Monkees, (Tork, Dolenz and Nesmith), are currently making a new album, (‘Good Times’), to celebrate their 50th anniversary. Yes, you read that right, a NEW album. ‘So what’, ‘big deal’, you may well think, (O.K., fair enough, each to their own…). But for me, and other music mad kids who were young enough to pick up on them when their T.V. show first hit Britain…we loved them, we loved their music and we loved their humour, and it IS a big deal. For those who were a few years older than us at the time, of course they mostly looked down on them as just a ‘kids band’, which perhaps they were at the time, but I’ll bet they all secretly sung along to all those classic songs when their mates weren’t around!

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The Monkees, circa ‘Headquarters’ era.

The Monkees have enrolled some guest songwriters for this new album, (just like the good old days), quality musicians who, like me, also loved the Monkees. They’ve got Paul Weller, (Yes , him from the Jam, and my home-town Woking), Rivers Cuomo, (Weezer’s main man, who’s music I have loved since ’96), Andy Partridge ( X.T.C.), Ben Gibbard, (Death Cab for Cutie), and even Noel Gallagher, (Oasis and Man City fan), a pretty strong line-up I reckon, and I look forward to hearing the results. My money’s on Partridge for the most ‘Monkee’ sounding song! There will also be contributions, made many years ago, by the great Harry Nilsson, and, of course, little Davy Jones himself…’Gor bless him Guv’!

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Nesmith in more recent years.

But for me the best songwriter of the lot, (yes, seriously), is their very own Mike Nesmith, who, for me, and many others, wrote their best songs back in the day, and went on to write many more later. He was rated by Lennon, Harrison and Zappa, among others! Forget your Hart, Boyce, Goffin, King, Mann, Weill, Douglas, Diamond and all , (as good as they all undoubtedly were), Nez songs had that certain extra special ‘something’ that just set them apart, that ‘something’ which put them on an altogether different, higher, almost, dare I say it, more ethereal level! When I heard that jangly Gretsch and his slow Texas drawl I knew it was another Nesmith gem heading my way. You can keep your ‘I’m a Believer’ and ‘I Wanna be Free’, I’ll take one of Nesmith’s quirkier songs every time. He was, and is, a general all round genius, he has crammed so much in since his youthful ‘Monkee’ days, but that alone is what he will be remembered for by ‘Joe and Jane Public’ when he sadly leaves us behind one day. It’s strange how the mainstream (music) media dictates who is ‘great’ and, by omission, who isn’t. But many of us, especially my fellow ‘Nez heads’, know that in life the best things are often well guarded secrets known only by the lucky few. He is, among many other things I’m sure, an art media innovator, (his work led directly to the ‘invention’ of the music video and M.T.V.), a philanthropist, an author, a storyteller supreme, a producer, and also a naturally sharp and funny guy, and that’s why I still care!

Mike Nesmith…….

For those of you who still like to repeat that tired old chestnut “They never played their own instruments, and they never wrote their own songs”. You are only half-right. (Do the research). Both Nesmith and Tork were already on the folk music circuit in N.Y.C., and were skillful musicians and growing performers. Jones and Dolenz, it is true, were actors and not bona fide musicians, but it would be churlish not to accept that Dolenz has an amazing voice; (check out his amazing version of the old hymn ‘Oh, little town of Bethlehem’), and Jones too, (R.I.P.,) although his voice is not so much to my taste, but there’s no denying that he was very good at the occasional cabaret type number or ballad.

It is true, however, that their albums and singles, especially the early ones, were often played on by professional session musicians, and that many of the songs were written by composers such as those I mentioned earlier. But in those days that wasn’t so unusual, so why pick on them? It should also be noted, to their credit, that they did increasingly take ‘ownership’ of their albums in both the writing and producing, and while not actually putting out an entire album of their own material, they did have a heavy creative input on both ‘Headquarters’ and ‘The Birds and the Bees…’, a testament to the very fast learning curve they were on, which is always overlooked by those who like to ‘rubbish’ them. They did this because they had pride in themselves and their own increasingly creative abilities and musicianship. They were fast outgrowing the ‘apron strings’ of their first years, and it should also be remembered that they were still very young. Check out the two albums I mentioned and hopefully you will hear the variety and depth of their work, and off the top of my head, from memory, you may hear what I can hear, the influence of their finest contemporaries, (they were soaking it all up like a musical sponge), shining through in their songs, that of Arthur Lee’s incredible band ‘Love’ and the Beatles, to name but two. There was even a 1920s jazz influence from Nesmith on ‘Magnolia Simms’!

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Rivers Cuomo

 

As a ‘proper’, but very short-lived, live band, (I’m not talking ‘post’ the first break-up), they very much learnt on the job, always in the public eye in front of their screaming young fans. (Most of us played in our garages or village halls first!) It was said that when they came over to Britain for the first time they had only just begun to gel into a proper band, and for those who actually listened they sounded more like a raw garage band than an alleged cheesy pop group! But the problem was that their young fans, well the girls anyway, weren’t really listening at all, they were all far too busy screaming “Davy! Davy! Davy!” and wetting their knickers.
As I got older I got into many other genres of music. Everything from Slade to the Undertones, to Stevie Wonder, via the Wedding Present, Elvis Costello, Bob Dylan, Teenage Fanclub, the Faces, Weezer, the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel  and the Jam, and many dozens of other bands and artistes in-between! In more recent years I’ve discovered the likes of John Prine, Townes Van Zandt, Morgan T Davis, the Milk Carton Kids, the Felice Brothers, early jazz, and, yes, Nesmith’s (4 decades + worth) of solo work. But the ‘harmony constant in all of these things’……..(A little joke there for those in the know)….is that I still like to play Monkees C.D.s in my car, and at home, every now and then, and that my kids love them too! They deserve their place in pop’s great canon, they have worked bloody hard for it.

Micky Dolenz telling a lovely little story about how he came to write ‘Randy Scouse Git’.

Constructive comments below are very welcomed. Glowing praise even more so. It’s how I know that you have been here. Offers of highly paid writing gigs, though unlikely, would be lovely too. But just for the record, all spammers can just go and **** themselves.

All written work by Mark Anthony Wyatt, Bude, Cornwall. February, 2016.

Note; Any written work, music, images or videos that Mark Anthony Wyatt has created, remains his personal intellectual property! But any other images, videos, quotes etc., that were NOT created by me remain the intellectual property of those who created them, and NOT me! 

You can also find me on ‘Facebook’..@ ‘Wyatt’s Rebellion!’ or ‘Mark anthony Wyatt’.

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‘The Man from Atlantis’

Note……Before we begin, I’d just like to point out that almost all of the names of the local ‘Bude’ characters, in this mostly true aquatic tale, have been changed to protect their privacy, spare their blushes, and, yes, probably to protect me from them if they should recognise themselves!

At sometime not long after the turn of the ‘new’ Millennium,  on a late Friday morning in July, the word had got around that there was a local crew driving down the coast from Bude to Bossiney for a surf.  I was at the time, when the call came through to Jimmie, gardening on a little job with him on a small property high on the cliffs above Millook.

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We were working very close to where this photo was taken, just a little bit higher up the road, when we received the call…..

I was new to surfing and only been ‘in’ a few times. I could hear the conversation, (if you could call it that), it was another friend of ours, Ronnie, a guy that didn’t waste too many words, and all he said to Jimmie was “Surf Jimmie? Bossinney?”  Jimmie, also a man of few words, unless he was talking about his amazing exploits on the football pitch, or about the latest album by the bland Coldplay, (and no, that wasn’t a spelling error), had looked over to me and simply substituted his name for mine by saying “Surf Geordie? Bossiney?” (That was their nickname for me, because I had recently moved to Cornwall from Northumberland).

I hadn’t needed much persuading. It had been a long, tiresome week and I needed some ‘R and R’. We swiftly packed all of our gardening tools away into our own vehicles, and then we both drove back to my place. I parked up my van and quickly grabbed my board and wet-suit from the garden shed, and a bath towel off the washing line. I put them into the back of Jimmie’s van, and then jumped up into the cab alongside him. Jimmie, a proper surfer, was of course already prepared as his board and wet-suit always went everywhere with him.

There were a fair few vehicles in our little surfing convoy driving the short trip down from Bude that day. We were people from all walks of life, there were two gardeners of course, a plumber, an optician, an office clerk from the local builder’s merchants, (who was off ‘ill’), an unemployed lad, at least one unemployable lad, a surfboard shaper, a student, a mechanic, a doctor, a joiner, a teacher, and the best carpet fitter in the country. (You can put the cheque in the post, ha, ha!) We were just one big happy, watery fraternity. There weren’t any artificial class lines drawn on our sand. We were all in it together (the sea that is)! Just as the Cornish motto says…”One and All!”

The surfboard and surfer laden vehicles in our convoy included Ronnie’s trusty, ever present  ‘old school’ V.W. camper van, (see my previous story), Jimmie’s flash new V.W. van,  various other work vans,   a few family estates, and some real old bangers too.  We soon arrived, and we parked-up just off of the ‘B’ road that connects Tintagel to Boscastle, alongside a beech hedge on the perimeter of a cliff-top field. We all quickly changed into our surfing gear at the side of the road, (dodging the speeding locals, whilst balancing on one leg,  trying desperately to put my wetsuit on without falling into the road in my case), and then we all dodged the cattle across a cow-pat covered field towards the cliff edge.

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Bossiney

We had to climb down a 400 feet plus cliff side. The other Cornish ‘beys’ and ‘maids’ had been going there for many years and knew the rickety old spiral walkway well.  As we all gingerly walked down, it had creaked and groaned under our  combined weights. The strong sea-breezes kept blowing my surfboard violently around, threatening to knock  Jimmie over the iron hand-rail and down towards an untimely, painful death on the jagged, vicious rocks below.  I was relieved to finally put my feet down on to the warm sand.

We walked through a throng of happy sun worshipping tourists, many of them Dutch and German.  A sweet little girl with cute blonde ringlets pointed at me as I walked through their midst, and she said “Look Mummy, a proper surfer man”.  I looked around to see him too, only to realise that I was at the end of our line and she had meant me. ‘Mummy’ was quite unimpressed and she stifled a giggle. I felt like a fraud. I felt like a boy in a boy-band being mistaken for a musician. The other guys and girls were indeed all ‘proper surfers’, most of them had looked the part too with their sun-kissed tans and long flowing locks, but as for me I may have looked a little bit like one in my wet-suit, with my board tucked under my arm,  but I knew that I wasn’t a ‘proper’ surfer, or at least I knew that I wasn’t one just yet!

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Mr Zog’s Sex Wax!

The others all ran quickly into the sea. After a last minute wax down with ‘Mr Zog’s Sex Wax’ and attaching the leash to my ankle I ran in too. The conditions were very flat, but looking on the bright side I knew I wouldn’t be taking another heavy wave pounding like I had at Widdie a few weeks earlier.  There weren’t any waves as such, just gentle little ripples.  I was happy to just paddle out to just beyond the breaking surf, and relax on my board,  enjoying the sunshine on my back.

Every now and then there was a gentle ripple of seawater that would run around me on its way towards the beach, sending delightful little sensual shivers right through my entire body. The others were a longer distance ‘out the back’. They were just lazing around too, discussing the previous night’s antics in the pub and making general surfing ‘chit-chat’. Occasionally one or more of them would break-away from the ‘surfing chat-room’ and paddle in front of an approaching slightly bigger wave. They would then briefly rise up, like graceful ballet dancers, or a trout rising to a mayfly, onto their feet, before diving, or jumping off a few seconds or so later. This ‘Bossiney wave’ was a glassy, mellow sort of a wave. In musical terms the ‘Widdie wave’ which had battered me so, had been like the ‘Sex Pistols’, it was aggressive and loud, but the Bossiney wave was more like the Eagles, it was, I had briefly thought, easy going and gentle. I decided to join the others  for a bit of banter, and it was so easy to paddle out to them. The sun was glinting off the calm sea. I was beginning to unwind a little and feel like a proper surfer now.

Eventually, a bit bored by the surfing gossip I had decided to paddle back towards the beach again, and to lie on my board a bit closer to the small breakers. I laid there  continuing to soak up the warmth of the Sun’s rays, and I did  some ‘people watching.’   All of the time these little cool ripples of water  kept passing right through me; it was exquisite. What I hadn’t perhaps realised, in my relaxed state, was that I was slowly drifting into the water where the waves were breaking. I had been totally misled by appearances. The ‘Bossiney wave’, whilst very small in stature, is actually  very powerful; it was the Charlie Magri of waves!

All of a sudden, taking me completely by surprise, one of these powerful little waves  picked me and my board right up and, like a legendary giant from Lyonesse, it had hurled us both ferociously towards the shingly beach where all the tourists were sunning themselves. It had all happened so quickly and so unexpectedly. One moment there I had been lying sunbathing on my board, happily watching the  pretty girls applying their sun tan creams, and then the next I had been lying prostrate on the stony beach with my face a good foot deeper than the rest of my body. I had just experienced my first ‘beach-dump’.

How not to approach and chat up an attractive lady on the beach……

I slowly raised my head up. I snorted seawater out of my nostrils, spat out shingle, shells,  seaweed, and thousands of tiny particles of plastic, and rubbed bits of tiny grit out of my face. I then saw, only about eighteen inches in front of me on the sand, a pair of golden brown sandy feet in a pair of red flip-flops! These, I noticed, upon closer inspection, were attached to a pair of well bronzed and very shapely female legs, which in turn belonged to a very pretty ‘thirty something’ lady. She had beautiful long straight black hair, parted in the middle and swept back behind her cute little ears.  My eyes travelled slowly upwards from my prone position on the beach, on a journey of delightful discovery.  She was sat in a deck chair alongside a grumpy looking middle-aged guy who I assumed to be her partner. She was wearing a red bikini, and reading one of those  glossy Cornish monthly magazines that the tourists and Cornish ex-pats like to read.

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The lovely lady was reading a glossy Cornish mag much like this one.

She lowered her expensive sunglasses to see what had so suddenly,  and so unexpectedly,  arrived at her feet. Our eyes met. Maybe she had just put out a little prayer, asking ‘god’ for a short, stocky, bronzed, good-looking surfer? (Well, I’m sure that even ‘god’ fu**s up from time to time). But she had seemed quite unfazed to see me laying there so close to her sandy flip-flops. She smiled down at me. “Do you come here often?” She said in a very sexy, cultured, and husky voice. I laughed, impolitely spat out some lingering shingle, and replied. “Damn! You beat me to it, that was going to be my line!”

“Well, you’ll just have to just think of another one now”. She giggled.  “O.K.” I had replied. “My submarine has just sunk, I’m the only survivor, and I don’t suppose you could put me up for the night could you?”

“Oh, dear.” She said. “You’ll have to do much better than that, I’m a classy girl you know, and I’ve got my standards.” There was an impatient, angry cough for attention from her miserable looking partner, who, to be frank, had a face that only a mother could love, and frankly she would struggle too. He gave me one of those ‘hands off she’s mine’ sort of looks and said, in very measured, concise public school tones,  “When you think you have seen quite enough of my wife’s body I would appreciate it if you would just pick yourself and your damn surfboard up, and f**k off back into the sea where you bloody well came from.” (Who did he think I was? The Man from Atlantis perhaps?)

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The Man from Atlantis…..I couldn’t resist this one!

He followed this up with a sharp reprimanding look at the gorgeous lady. In return she gave him a look that said “Who got out of bed the wrong side this morning Tarquin?” She looked back down at me, smiled, winked, and  said “Take no notice of ‘Mr Grumpy Pants’ he scratched his brand new B.M.W. on some of your Cornish brambles this morning”. She then raised her sunglasses back up and continued reading her glossy Cornish mag.

The feature she was reading was standard fare for those sort of magazines. It was an article about some rich Southerners who had sold their mansion in Oxford and bought a small farm in Crackington Haven. Apparently they were struggling to make ends meet in Cornwall, and they had had to let the au-pair go, start maintaining their own garden, do their own housework, sell off one of their Audis,  and take young Sebastian out of his public school. The poor dears. Life really was throwing everything at them. I do hope that they survived all of the turmoil.

I painfully rose to my feet and spat out a few more bits of hard to shift and lingering shingle. I was briefly tempted to have a little dig back at ‘Mr Grumpy Pants’ but I didn’t want to spoil anybodys day, not even his. I picked up my board which had settled a little bit to my right, and then carelessly turned around back towards the sea and my mates. As I did so I almost smacked him on his head with the business pointy end of my board, but  luckily for him he had seen it coming and had ducked just in time!  The lovely lady had been watching my departure over the top of her sunglasses, and she laughed, but sadly that just had the effect of annoying him even more. He stood up and yelled “Damn surfers! They think they own the bloody beach!” I tried not to laugh and carried on walking out into the sea with a big smile on my face. My work there was done.

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Patrick Duffy, T.V.’s ‘Man from Atlantis’ emerges from the sea, but not at Bossiney.

Jimmie had seen my epic ‘beach-dump’ and its aftermath, (named because that’s what the wave does to you, it dumps you on the beach like a load of washed up, discarded sea debris). He was still laughing; he had thought it hilarious. “So Geordie, did you get her number? Surely there must have been an easier and more dignified way of approaching her?”

“No”, I said, “I don’t think Tarquin would have been too keen on the idea.”

Oh, that’s a shame “, said Jimmie, “She looks really lovely from here”. I assured him that she looked even lovelier close-up.

“Oh, and by the way Geordie, don’t be misled by how small ‘the wave’ is here at Bossiney, it still packs a very powerful punch you know!” I sarcastically thanked him for his belated concern, and said that I would be sure to look out for it in the future. Jimmie told me that ‘beach dumps’ are like a rite of passage for all new surfers,  and that all surfers have experienced them at some point. “It happens to the best of us Geordie,  but it just wouldn’t do to warn a novice of the dangers, because that would only spoil everybody else’s fun!”

But I like to think that I made that lovely young lady’s day just that little bit more exciting than it might otherwise have been, had I not have landed at her feet. I wonder if she is still in a relationship with that chinless wonder, and whether she still remembers her holidays in Cornwall that year, and the lanky, hopeless surfer in the antique wet-suit who had briefly disturbed her reading.

The End.

Constructive comments below are very welcomed. Glowing praise even more so. It’s how I know that you have been here. Offers of highly paid writing gigs, though unlikely, would be lovely too. But just for the record, all spammers can just go and **** themselves.

All written work by Mark Anthony Wyatt, Bude, Cornwall. March 22nd, 2015. Edited Feb, 2016.

Note; Any written work, music, images or videos that Mark Anthony Wyatt has created, remains his personal intellectual property! But any other images, videos, quotes etc., that were NOT created by me remain the intellectual property of those who created them, and NOT me!

You can also find me on ‘Facebook’ as Mark Anthony Wyatt and @ ‘It’s a Dark, Dark Night’

markanthonywyatt.com