Open Writing

My friend and I were lying on the beach, just dozing. We had been riding the waves for about an hour, you couldn’t call it swimming, as from somewhere unknown to us on this warm, sunny day, the breakers were rolling in fast and furiously. After soaking up the sun for a while and drying out, as women do, we got to chatting.

The campsite was pretty full. Two weddings were taking place in the Bay, one an up-market affair at the local garden lodge, with a huge marquee high up above the cliffs on the lawn. Someone’s dad was going to have a big hole in his bank account. The other was to be held in a field across the road.

Accommodation is always at a premium in this area, so every available site was taken and the camping huts full. It was interesting to watch the folk wandering around. The night before had been a hectic one, with the jazz band, hired to play at the field wedding, performing until the early hours at the Mussel Inn. A lot of the guests were in the water or lying under sun umbrellas, recovering from “a hard day’s night'', while others wandered along the edge of the waves, hand in hand, with romantic thoughts in their minds.

Later the women emerged from the showers in big hats and fancy frocks while the men changed into suits and ties. We marvelled at the transformation as yet another youngster was thrust under the cold shower on the beach and told to “clean up.” It was all very New Zealand and this put our minds onto a different tack - all the overseas tourists who come here on package tours, be they cruise or bus, and never see the real New Zealand.

One thing led to another and we got ever more ridiculous, finally deciding that it was a pity that the average tourist, on his return home, would only think of woolly jumpers, sheep and sheepskin rugs and would have seen very little beside the inside of a bus, hotel or shop. On the other hand, those hardy young backpackers who travel around the out of the way places in the world and the retired couples who hire campervans would probably experience something of the real country as they wandered about at leisure, exploring the less publicised areas. And so, philosophically, we mused.

Talking about sheep skin rugs took my mind back to Scotland and our sheepskin rug, or would be sheepskin rug.

Martin and his friend were always experimenting with something new. We were young and enthusiastic in those days. The enthusiasm remains, but age has replaced youth. Back to the story. They had been given a rather grubby sheep skin by one of the farmers, don’t ask me why, and decided to investigate the arts of curing and tanning and hopefully producing one of those fluffy white things which you lie on in front of a roaring fire. Out came the books and copious notes were taken. Chemicals were acquired for this mysterious process and work was commenced.

“First we have to wash it,” they said, surveying the less than clean fleece. Here was a problem. They were next seen vanishing down the street towards the loch. A boat ramp dipped below water level from the side of the road and they lugged the heavy, slightly smelly object down into the water where it floated ominously. A tour bus paused to take in the view on its way down to the Shin Falls and Gordon, ever the comedian and master of the impromptu, began to leap up and down on the fleece shouting, “Die you beggar die.” The tour bus departed quickly and two grinning young men carried the now relatively clean fleece back.

Soon it was stretched out on tenters, the Yorkshire breeding coming into play, and pulled into shape. The fleece was hosed down and curing and tanning began. Strange happenings occurred in the garage, as various sprays and chemicals were applied, the thing was hosed down frequently and they both developed coughs, there is more to this tanning than meets the eye and it certainly meets the lungs.

Finally the great day arrived. It was declared finished, with fanfares and flourishes and how proud they were, mission was accomplished or almost…

“Now Glen all it needs is a good wash. Start it off cold and bring it up to lukewarm, it’s all yours but be careful.” They lovingly handed it over to me with extra words of warning.

I slowly immersed it in cold water with the finest of soap flakes. A new baby couldn’t have been treated with greater care. I switched the washing machine heater on to bring the water to lukewarm. I watched and tested the temperature with my hands. No mistake could be made.

The doorbell rang. One of my garrulous neighbours had arrived but “couldn’t stay a minute as she hadn’t time, so she wouldn’t come in.” Three-quarters of an hour later she said, “What a lovely lamb stew you have going, Glen.”

Oh no! That lovely white fluffy thing, now a glutinous mass the size of a powder puff, was bobbing about in boiling water.

I took to the hills and ate a can of cold baked beans while the wrath of the engineers in the Invershin Power Station raged below me.

I often think of Gordon and the rug when I see those expensive but certainly not as well loved rugs, laid out in the up-market shops to tempt the tourists.