rch alumni · 2018. 11. 18. · rch. the 2018 rch alumni executive. dr hugo gold, president ruth...

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Newsletter – November 2018

Below: ‘Liquid light’ by Gigi and Robin Willams. Liquid Light explores the relationship between light and liquids in collision. Gigi and Robin have worked collaboratively on this joint project using ultra high-speed flash and macro photography to capture tiny splashes of liquids.

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RCH AlumniThe Royal Children’s Hospital Melbourne5O Flemington RoadParkville Victoria 3052 AustraliaTELEPHONE +61 3 9345 5522www.rch.org.au/alumni

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Contents3 Vale Kester Brown RCH Alumni

3 Unexpected outcome Kester Brown

4 Fifty years ago Kester Brown

5 An African holiday Hugo Gold

7 Velleron Vignettes 2018 Bev Touzel

11 An afternoon in Antarctica Geoff Mullins

14 The Camino del Norte Bev Touzel

20 John Martin McNamara Daryl Efron

Authors in this issue:

Hugo Gold, formerly a general paediatrician and endocrinologist, is President of the RCH Alumni.

Bev Touzel was in a past life, a Clinical Nurse Consultant in Developmental Disability.

Geoff Mullins is a retired anaesthetist and intensivist who lives in Perth.

Kester Brown was the Director of Anaesthesia and a Divisional Director at RCH.

The 2018 RCH Alumni ExecutiveDr Hugo Gold, President

Ruth Wraith OAM, Vice-President

Professor Jim Wilkinson, Treasurer

Professor Garry Warne AM, Honorary Secretary ([email protected])

Jim Wilkinson (Treasurer)

Kevin Collins

Karin Tiedemann OAM

Christine Unsworth AM

Don Cameron

CreditsEditors – Profs. Garry Warne and Jim Wilkinson.

Graphic design – Dan Warne

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Vale Kester Brown, AM 1935 – 2018As this newsletter was being finalised, we received the sad news of the passing of our friend and colleague Kester Brown. The Royal Children’s Hospital Alumni sadly farewells Kester, who was on staff from 1967 until 2006 and who served with distinction in many roles including as Director of Anaesthesia. He was a fine man, a leader, and a great inspiration to many. Our sincere condolences to Janet and family.

The following articles were contributed to this newsletter by Kester, and embody his outstanding scholarship and passion for participation – even in failing health.

We will publish a fuller tribute to Kester in the following newsletter, and Alumni members are invited to share their thoughts and memories via contributions to Garry Warne ([email protected]).

Unexpected outcomeBy Kester Brown

A young Italian surgeon from Parma, Michael Vitali, came to work at the hospital for a year. Before returning home, he came to say good bye. On the off chance that I might have the opportunity of visiting Parma I asked him if I could have his address. He agreed and wrote it in my diary.

About a month later I visited Kenya, where my brother lived and where I had grown up. I was going to attend the East African meeting of anaesthetists and surgeons. I was also to visit Uganda to examine their diploma candidates but because of political problems could not get a visa. I reviewed their papers in Nairobi. After the meeting at Arusha in northern Tanzania my sister had arranged for me to join a party climbing Mt Kilimanjaro which was nearby. I had my 50th birthday on the way up and managed to reach the top. My thoughts as I began the decent was “how could I inflict such misery on myself” but it was always something that I had wanted to do – to stand on the top of Africa.

After the climb we spent a night at a hotel in Moshi where an elderly lady had been sending parties up the mountain for forty years. My sister asked how she wanted to be paid. It was at a time when Tanzania was in a desperate economic situation. Her response was to

bring her packets of soup, electric light bulbs and toilet paper – items which were constantly being pilfered by guests.

My brother was writing a book on the exploration of the Lake (Rudolf) Turkana region of north west Kenya between 1880 and 1920. I asked him how he was getting on with it. He replied ‘ It is complete except for a chapter on Bottego, an Italian from Parma. He hadn’t had any response from people there. I told him about Michael Vitali and that I happened to have his address with me. I wrote to him explain my brother’s problem and he promptly responded that if he came to see him next time he was in Europe he would help him find the information, which he did.

My brother was amazed to find a fine monument of Bottego in front of the Parma railway station. It had not been looked after very well so my brother wrote the mayor of Parma saying it was a disgrace to allow the statue of a great son of Parma fall into such disrepair!

Some of you may remember Norma Sardi who looked after some of the hospital houses before they were sold in 1992 to pay for a $13 million debt incurred by a hospital building progamme. She kept in touch with Michael and one morning approached me while waiting at the lift and told me that Michael had phoned and asked her to tell me that they had cleaned up the monument. So much for an impromptu request for an address.

James WilkinsonTypewritten TextReturn to "Contents"

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50 years agoBy Kester Brown

When I came to RCH in 1967 as the first Medical Officer in Intensive Care I was allocated the 2-storey back half of 22 Gatehouse Street as my accommodation and a salary of $5000 per year. We could also have free meals in the doctors’ dining room - table cloths and formally set places! I was on call for anaesthesia and intensive care (part of the Recovery Room) two nights a week and every third weekend when none of us was on holiday. We did not have days off. Many of the resident medical staff were male and lived in hospital accommodation.

Two medical registrars lived in single rooms at the front of 22 Gatehouse Street and had a kitchenette and bathroom off our stairwell. Our 4 ½ year old twins had a bedroom opening on to the top of the stairs. One day the lady who cleaned the bachelor flats was approached by one of the girls and asked “how many wives can a man have?” An astute observation from the top of the stairs of an array of young ladies who visited one of the registrars who came from interstate, obviously having a good time away from home. Later, he took an attractive air hostess to the hospital ball. He went to the toilet but, to our consternation, never returned. He was waylaid by an opportunistic nurse who was on the lookout for him. Soon after a letter in our postbox was addressed to him, House of Love, Gatehouse St! The occupant was a charming fellow who returned to his home city, married a clergyman’s daughter, and had a successful career which sadly ended in a fatal car accident.

The occupant of the other room also had a very successful career. One night he had a party where he told the story of the great country dog who out-piddled all the town dogs when he came to town. What was the secret of this dog’s success? It had diabetes!

After 6 months we took over John McNamara’s house at 64 Gatehouse Street when he went overseas. At the end of the year Brian Douglas took it over. He was a very competent surgeon from New Zealand. He always sang lustily when he was scrubbing up for surgery. One night he developed chest pain. Myocardial pain? He went down and up the stairs to see if it got worse. It did. He went to coronary care at the Melbourne Hospital. He was due to sit his final surgical fellowship examinations so he left his bed and went to the College to do them and returned to coronary care. After he recovered he went to Adelaide for an interview for an assistant surgeon position but returned with a senior position which was also advertised. He deserved it.

Brian and I were in Malaysia and Singapore in 1973 for meetings. We also played golf with two former RCH trainees – Karpal Singh (paediatric surgeon) and Lee Choong Keet (anaesthetist). At the Royal Selangor course, which had recently been the venue for the Canada Cup, one had to drive across three ponds. Brian drove to the middle of not one, but two ponds but on both occasions the ball bounced and skimmed out the other side. I have never seen this happen again. Maybe this was a unique occurrence which should be recorded. Sadly, Brian died relatively young.

Things were different in those days but things changed with the abandonment of the Doctors’ Dining Room, the closure of the Nurses’ Home and then the selling off of the hospital houses and the flats which had been built across Flemington Road. More of the staff were married and had their own accommodation. Staff no longer lived at the Hospital. It became just a workplace. Working hours became more restricted and industrialized. It gradually lost some of its soul.


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An African holidayBy Hugo Gold

In August, Lorraine and I made our 6th Safari visit to Africa. We had fallen in love with the continent after our first visit, and it continues to fascinate, astonish, delight and challenge. It is exotic, ethnically and culturally diverse, with large undeveloped regions, and amazing wildlife. Our previous trips have been to Kenya, Tanzania, Zambia, Botswana, Malawi, Namibia and Rwanda. We have lunched on the verge of Victoria Falls, slept on the salt pans of the Kalahari, climbed the sand dunes of the Namib Desert, taken a makoro in the Okavango delta, trekked the valleys in Rwanda to find “the Gorillas in the Mist “and visited the chimps in Mahale on the shores of Lake Tanganyika. And of course, we’ve spent many hours in the back of jeeps to photograph the “big five” and to follow the Wildebeest migration in the Serengeti.

This trip was different. Its focus was on 2 conservancies—the Odzala in the north of the Congo Republic and the Sarara camps of the Namanyuk wildlife trust in the Mathews ranges region of northern Kenya. Both areas have in common large undeveloped pristine lands and tribal peoples emerging from isolation. They are being assisted and empowered by NGOs, philanthropic groups and governments to preserve their cultures, promote their wildlife and conserve their environments.

The Odzala region encompasses the second largest pristine rain forest jungle on the planet, second only to the Amazon. It is home to a large collection of great apes, including lowland gorillas, chimpanzees,and a variety of other monkeys. The Odzala conservancy is largely funded by the Sabine Plattner foundation and owned and operated in conjunction by the local tribes. The guides are mainly Caucasian speaking French and English. There are three camps, each with 6-8 huts, with travel between them by boat, kayak or road. Our goal was to find and observe the lowland gorillas. It was an incredible

experience to trek through the jungle behind a tracker and our guide who cut a path through the jungle. The tension mounted as we neared the gorilla family. We were taught to step noiselessly, maintain silence and to put on surgical masks. And then we saw them, picking fruit off the trees above us. Later they entered a clearing to dig up tubers under tree roots. The young ran around, played, chased, thumped their chests and pretended to fight. The behaviour was instantly recognizable.

On a later jungle walk, we came across chimpanzees feeding in the trees above our heads. A large chimp swung between the trees above our heads with a roar that sounded like a jet aircraft.

We walked through the waterways (Bai s), sometimes waist deep. These we shared somewhat warily with water buffalo and jungle elephants whilst occasionally flocks of brightly coloured birds put on a raucous display while they fed on the abundant fish and insect life. The local crocodiles , we were assured, were small fish eaters.

We visited a nearby local hunter gatherer tribal village. Via an interpreter, the village secretary told us of the challenges they faced. They have no electricity, so everything shuts down at sunset. School is 18km away, in the regional town and students stay there during the week with one or more adults to look after them. Water is carried in by the women – 25 litres per family per day. Health care is government supported, but fairly basic. I could not find out about immunisation rates. The conservancy has begun to support contraception. Traditional healers - witch doctors - still function.

The Northern Region of Kenya is a mixture of cycad and juniper forest, and savannah. It is home to the Samburu people, a Nilotic tribe comprising 8 clans and approx. 12,000 people. The Samburu are semi nomadic pastoralists, closely related to the Masai. They have evolved a lifestyle tolerant of local wildlife and based around cattle and domestic sheep and goats. The number of cattle is the measure of wealth. The diet consists largely of blood and milk, supplemented by maize and wild vegetables. Meat is reserved for special occasions. Over the last few years, encouraged by the Northern Rangelands trust, they have established the Sarara camps for low impact tourism and programs to conserve


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wildlife and combat poaching. They have established an impressive community run elephant and rhino sanctuary, headed by a young woman in line with the stated aim of empowering women and providing paid jobs for the community.

We were privileged to watch the watering of herds at the “Singing Wells”,7 of which are dug into a dry river bed. Each family has its own trough, which is placed at the well head. The teenage boys who look after the cattle and flocks first prepare the wells for use. They then call the cattle to drink at their trough by singing a distinctive phrase to which their own cattle respond and come down to drink at their own trough while the boys bucket water into the troughs, all the while maintaining their song. When the watering is done, the wells are used to provide water for ablutions and drinking. Afterwards the wells are left to be used by the local wildlife. The scene evoked for me images of the biblical stories of Abraham at Beersheba, Jacob and Rebecca, and of a lifestyle thousands of years old.

We were able to visit a homestead or Manyatta, a compound of several huts for the several wives of two men who shared their own hut. The compound contained goats, sheep and poultry. Cows were held in an outer area. Children were preparing gourds into which they milked goats. We entered one of the ladies’ windowless hut, about 140cm high with a narrow entrance. Coals glowed in a stove dug into the floor, but otherwise there was gloom. We exchanged greetings with the lady, but I was glad to leave.

Many parents are now beginning to seek an education for their children and beginning to move away from traditional lifestyles. This is being done within the framework of a gerontocracy, but appears to be well

underway. Our two Samburu guides both lived in towns, but the senior guide had two wives, one of whom looked after his aged mother, whist the other looked after the children who were at school in town. He seemed pleased with the arrangement.

Thirty-six hours after this visit, we were at the incredible, enormously high-tech Dubai airport—a couple of thousand years of development on: the nearest thing to time travel!

We are grateful that we were able to see a little of two ancient lifestyles confronted by the lure of western education and culture. Whether the conservancy movement can help to maintain the essential values, particularly of coexistence with the environment, remains an open question. Although we admired the grace and dignity of the tribes living in nature, we could not help wondering if we were witnessing the struggle for survival , and the impoverishment of indigenous people in harsh environments.

Next year, we hope to do a trip to Arnhem land and the top end.


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Velleron Vignettes 2018By Bev Touzel

Bonjour à tous!We could hear them. As soon as we opened the car doors the cicadas heralded our arrival in Velleron with their loud, clicking sounds. The male cicada only serenades the female on a hot day when the sun shines. This day they were very noisy. Les Monsieur Cigales were out there with high expectations for a successful hook- up. Locals tell us it is not good to work while the cicada sings. This means it is after lunch and everyone is resting. We will have to wait until later in the afternoon to shop locally for provisions and a crisp cold rosé. As the saying goes wine is best because no great story ever started with someone eating salad.

Our pretty stone house is situated opposite the Mairie or town hall. It was part of an old chapel built in the 17th Century and occupied by the Penitents Gris, a

Roman Catholic Order, for almost 200 years after which the order relocated to Avignon and the building was deconsecrated. We appreciate the history of the Penitents’ practice of atonement and pleased we do not have to share its discipline of fasting and the wearing of hair shirts. We admire the deep stone walls that keep us cool in summer over which our geraniums spill framed by our blue window shutters. Le Mistral has been really giving the pink heads a battering as he sweeps and tosses them about. I know these tough girls will bounce back. Our view onto the Place du Château at night is illuminated softly with le tricolore whilst the trickle of water from the fountain under the plane tree lulls us to sleep. In the morning, from an upstairs window we glimpse the majestic white capped Mont Ventoux.

Very soon we are off to Velleron Farmers Market or Marché Agricole which is a five minute walk and is on almost every evening. Dark red cherries so juicy make my favourite jam which I found I could serve with slices of fois gras. Shiny strawberries in cane baskets and which this village pays homage to yearly in May when the Fête de la Fraise is celebrated. The same week the Fête des Fleurs snakes around the village lanes. Tiny haricots verts neatly lined up sit next to round melons patiently waiting to be sliced for fresh slices of jambon to be draped casually over them. Pale rounds of goat’s cheese of various ages perhaps to accompany the black figs we enjoy so much. Local trees are laden with them and today friends gave us a tray of these delights. A favourite of mine is to serve them with goat’s cheese, walnuts and honey slightly warmed. Good ingredients do not need complications. How lucky we are. Green frizzie lettuces lying upside down with the insides of their pale party dresses exposing themselves for all to see. They remind me of when at the end of Les Folies Bergère the dancers turn and flick up their outfits showing their lace petticoats.

Oh là là! Haughty hussies all of them.


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Tiny containers of assorted berries of blue and different reds sit displayed so neatly in a chequered pattern it seems a shame to ruin the arrangement. So still, so perfect. I wonder as to why I am reminded of Emirates hostesses at the Melbourne Cup?

At this time of year, we have the free village concerts that begin at 9:30pm as darkness falls. Many people from other areas attend as these spectacles are very popular starring some fine international artists. The outside visitors arrive a couple of hours before the commencement with their own provisions and snacks without spending a euro in the village. They always prepare for a weather change and carry bags and jackets even when the daytime temperatures are

well into the high 30s and steady. Perhaps it would be considerate if they had a meal or a drink at a village café or bar to contribute to the local economy and support the village. In the meantime, we now refer to them as ‘the cardigans’ as these items are either flung nonchalantly over their shoulders or securely hidden in their bags along with dry baguettes and oozing cheese melted by the heat. Bon appétit!

The wheat has been harvested. Cycling about we see fields are dotted with hay bales. Many of these are stacked in large square patterns resembling chess

boards whilst others are rolled up and remind me of giant sausage rolls.

The bumble bees seek out the dark faces of the sunflowers and whose bright yellow petals adorn our area.

We are always pleasantly surprised as the fields seem to unexpectantly appear as we turn a corner or they emerge from behind passing trees. Like naughty children in the early morning they refuse to look up and sulk defiantly with heads down until the rising sun warms them up. How beautiful are the fields of bright yellow stretching underneath the deep blue sky. A few red poppies are still finding it hard to depart until they grace us again when spring returns. The scent of the fields of lavender will soon disappear and they are readying themselves for their purple clumps to be shared by many in various ways.

Oleanders are prolific this year. The bushes are huge and the colours so bright. All manner of funnel shaped flowers of pale and bright ‘shocking ‘ pink, pale yellow and vivid white align the roads and tracks or tumble over the stone fences of private gardens. Being a native of the Mediterranean area, it is heat and drought resistant and its heady fragrance earns it the lovely name of the Laurier Rose de Provence. I think this is much nicer name than that of being a member of the ‘Dogbane’ family, so called as its milky juice acts as an animal repellent.

I can see many reasons the olive trees were so appealing to Van Gogh and Cezanne. Their spreading elegance and strength as well as their individuality spreads across the Provençal landscape. Many are hundreds of years old. Their grey trunks twist and contort under their green umbrella shaped tops providing oil and many other products sustaining farmers for generations. As their green leaves sway and bend with Le Mistral showing their silver undersides they seem to capture the languid pace of life here. Under the blue skies and light of Provence, the landscape is an artist’s dream. Throw in a pastis or two and voilà! my mind wanders when thinking about


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artistic talents and the various happenings in the lazy days and nights of summer.

Velleron has about 3000 residents many of whom are at the local bar where the excitement of La Coupe du Monde is building up. We all have blue white and red flags and painted colour sticks for our faces. It is a hot evening and the colour sticks are melting. Sangria instead of rosé is offered tonight along with platters of mixed olives, sardines, couscous, mussels, salami and cheese.

As I surveyed the scene I was thinking about French names. Males with a first name of Jean seems to be very popular. Jean-Michel, Jean-Paul, Jean-Luc, Jean-Louis, Jean Philippe, to name a few in the village. Over the years one of these young Velleronais we used to refer to as ‘underpants’ between ourselves, seems to have grown up and he now has a girlfriend. He earned his name from the sous-vêtement displayed with his regular below-the-hip jeans. We no longer see him swinging from the bar doors manoeuvring along, oil can in hand to lubricate the door hinges, with his pants seeming to slide down further giving rise to the fear that he might lose them altogether. Times have changed. ‘Underpants’ is now a very responsible Pompier (fireman) who will be called to act as a first responder to all manner of emergencies from fire alerts to medical emergencies. He is now a very respected citizen. Whilst we really miss the entertainment and sense of expectancy he previously provided, we congratulate and salute you, Monsieur Le Pompier.

My view of the Coupe du Monde at the local pub was very obscure. Amidst all Les Bleues and directly in front of me at our reserved table, a large man in a black t-shirt emblazoned with Le Coq arrived just as the match was beginning. He plonked himself right in front of where I was sipping my sangria. His shoulders covered the whole width of the widescreen television.

Note: at this point of my writing I will issue an alert to those who are sensitive or enjoying a meal with a fine wine. Continuing, to make matters worse, as the game was becoming more intense this fan began to put his finger into his right ear and bore out whatever his probing fingertips could find. After inspecting the unsatisfactory result, he was at it again. Quelle horreur! At this stage I began to snigger and our French friends were curious about what I thought was so amusing. Amusing? No more ice in my drink but something stronger was needed here.

This episode reminded me of an incident in Aix-en-Provence where a couple sat across from us at Les Deux Garçons (commonly referred to as LDG) on the beautiful Cours Mirabeau. The tall man looked so suave in his pale linen suit and Panama hat. The woman almost glided as her white floaty outfit billowed just as it should. Like a fluffy cloud. She was wearing a sunhat in the manner and type of Amal Cooney. Right colour, right shape and sitting

just at the right angle. Very chic, I thought. We were in the ‘cheap seats’ as we were only having coffee. They were in premier class with the starched white linen and the champagne bucket was just frosting on the outside. Wait. Horror of horrors! This so chic woman began to furtively slide pieces of cutlery into her large leather bag! Une voleuse! It was done so unobtrusively and quietly we thought the sun had been playing tricks on us. Her companion seemed to be unaware of what she was doing or at least pretended to be. Arriving home, I wonder if he questioned from where all of the various monogrammed cutlery came. It just goes to show clothes and class do not always go together. Later, my kinder self thought that perhaps the woman needed some help. Quite sad really. I do hope she finds the support she may need. In the meantime, I adore my plain Bonds cotton t-shirts.

Early risers, we sought out a brocante market which we were told about by some locals. As my husband was with me I was sort of pulled away from some interesting metal bottle draining stands and wire grape gathering baskets. He is very practical but does not have same connection with ‘things’ as I do. Various spouts and handles of old zinc watering cans always appeal to me. I imagine their history and who may have held them after filling them perhaps from a village fountain as is done below our window. He knows this as I have put more than one watering can in suitcases over the years. I have a weakness for garden elements. Some years ago, he was kind enough (sort of) to fit a very small fountain into his backpack. It was made of old stone. That was


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the same year I fell for a whole fountain re-erected in a hidden corner in L’Isle-sur-la Sorgue. I was shown an old photograph of in its original garden. It was surrounded by roses that even though the photo was black and white I knew the roses would have been pink. Probably Bourbon. Love hath no bounds. Dismantled and packed ready to be installed with the aforementioned la petite fontaine, they have both settled in nicely in our home garden. Both fountains are enjoyed immensely and with fish swimming about bring great delight to our grandchildren. True love travels across the sea.

Wooden shoe lasts, clogs and spools of different sizes which still have threads of linen wound tightly around them are standing upright for all to see. We have some smaller ones in our Velleron house that display tiny bonnets of cotton or lace that covered the heads of French babies many years ago. Polished wooden hooks that were no longer required have found their way here along with decorative gold picture frames with glass protecting the photos therein. Many of these are of couples, perhaps a memory of parents long gone. Will we be remembered this way in the age of digital and disposable photography?

Tall enamel jugs of speckled pale blue or one rimmed with sunflowers stand proudly. I visualise white lilies feeling quite at home on the table where I could have a deeper blue and white coffee pot sitting beneath it. Grooved ceramic coffee bowls with yellow flowers and dainty green leaves would set the scene for le petit dejeuner. Mais non! I decided that as I was accompanied by him who tolerates more than enjoys these markets it was best to be confine my desires. We have a few champagne buckets at home and I have become a little bit more discerning about the champagne houses from where they originate (‘from whence they came’ if you are a Coodabeens fan). I do not like football but I do find the Coodabeens quite clever and entertaining. Our children have started to eye our buckets off longingly. Our younger daughter acquired a lampshade from a famous champagne house that she discovered here at a vide grenier one year.

Moving quickly past large antique aluminium baths that would be useful for filling with ice for cooling party drinks, I thought about all the small children who would have had a weekly bath in these tubs, their little heads held gently above the water by mothers just as lovingly as mothers do now. Then I spied them. Two the same, heavy and from well-known champagne houses! I also asked the price of a third one that was not of the same quality but also quite attractive. A little very polite bargaining was at first not accepted, but soon afterwards the dealer and I we were both smiling and I was putting the three securely in my ever-ready bag. Buy one, buy three I say, as they can all tuck one inside the other. Just like I did with my tiny terracotta herb pots. That is my theory anyway. It seems to work - most of the time.

Just before we leave I take a quick peek at the monogrammed cutlery searching for any engraved with LDG. I could pick up a bargain.

Our family all enjoys cycling. Our older son, to qualify for something, rode up Mont Ventoux three times in one day! I am not in any way near that class but I am enjoying following the beautiful scenery of Le Tour. All those prominent church spires pointing to the heavens and calling out to be noticed.

I have had a very old bike. The seat and rear wheel have been replaced, which cost a deal more than the 20 euro second-hand bike. A basket was added. I discovered after some time the bike actually had gears. My husband referred to it as ‘vintage’ and serviced it lovingly. For me, love has its limits. I needed something higher without a bar and that I did not need to bend over the handlebars like a racer. Style and comfort is what I seek.

Today I bought a new bike. A vélo de ville hollandaise style. I am not sure why it is not a vélo française especially now I have added my pink flowered panniers, a gift from our younger daughter. I feel sure my bike and I will enjoy each other as I continue to discover tiny snippets of village life to share of our time in Velleron. That is, after my husband has fixed the new bike’s faulty generator!

C’est tout!


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An Afternoon in AntarcticaBy Geoff Mullins

Being an avid kayaker and attracted to some of the more remote waters in the world, one summer I decided to paddle in the environment of the Antarctic Peninsula. With 23 hours of daylight, calm waters, soaring snow covered mountains, massive ice cliffs and the shores and sea alive with wildlife, Antarctica in summer is a kayaker’s paradise.

Getting to the Antarctic Peninsula can, however, be a challenge. To meet up with a ship that would take me to the Antarctic Peninsula I had to fly to Ushuaia, situated on the Beagle Channel at the bottom of the South American continent. Ushuaia, the capital of the Province of Tierra Del Fuego in Argentina, is a beautiful city reminiscent of Hobart with its lovely harbour, mountains and history of being established as a penal colony. The Professor Molchanov, a Russian ice-reinforced ship moored in the harbour with its Russian crew, awaited the arrival of fifty passengers, eight of whom were kayakers.

Setting off for Antarctica, we sailed down the relatively calm waters of the Beagle Channel before entering Drake’s Passage and the Southern Ocean where we were

suddenly confronted by a force 8 gale. Almost all the passengers became violently seasick and were confined to their cabins to subsist on promethazine tablets and dry toast for the two days it would take to get to the Antarctic Peninsula. Some wished to die. Meanwhile the Russian crew moved seemingly unperturbed along the corridors and up the ladders of the violently heaving and rolling ship as it ploughed its way south. If one was brave enough to get to the ship’s bridge in the storm, a magnificent sight was to be seen. Massive white capped waves smashed over the bow of the ship spraying the windows of the bridge, wild winds churned the ocean and


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best of all was the sight of huge wandering albatross in graceful flight roaming and gliding above the waves as they followed the ship’s path south.

Once we crossed the Antarctic Convergence, the storm began to abate, the albatross were replaced with the much smaller petrels and on reaching the Antarctic Peninsula, the sun was shining, the seas were calm and passengers were no longer wishing to die. What confronted us for the next week were soaring snow-capped mountains rising up from the sea, masses of icebergs, ice floes, secret channels leading into sheltered bays and all glittering in the sunshine under cloudless skies (figs. 1, 2 and 3). The sea and the shores teemed with wildlife - minke and humpback whales and elephant, crabeater, weddell and leopard seals glided by or leapt silently through and above the ocean. Gentoo, chinstrap and adelie penguins noisily performed their pantomimes on shore and ice floes and above the screech of petrels, cormorants, skuas and terns flying overhead. Antarctica in summer is an assault on the senses.

Each morning, afternoon and some evenings, our kayaks would be lowered off the side of the ship into the sea and we would set off paddling amongst this wonderland of icebergs and ice floes watched by curious penguins and graceful seals and always on the lookout for the mighty humpback whales. We needed to keep well clear of the

huge ice cliffs as sometimes without warning a loud noise like a rifle shot would be followed by hundreds of tons of ice breaking away from the cliffs and falling into the sea setting up a wave that was best avoided if you wished not to have a swim in the literally freezing sea. We would only return to the ship for meals where we would share our adventures with the other passengers who were doing their own exploring in zodiac crafts.

On one of these days my lunch was interrupted by a very concerned and anxious expedition leader, who apparently knowing I was an anaesthetist, asked if I would help the ship’s doctor with a patient in the sick bay. I hurried with him there and was met by an equally concerned doctor who was busy caring for a deeply cyanosed, unconscious man lying on the treatment bed. The patient was frothing at the mouth, making no noise and it was obvious that he had severe airway obstruction.

The ship’s doctor quickly relayed to me that this was a Russian sailor who had fallen into the sea from the zodiac loading platform on the side of the ship earlier in the day. He was successfully rescued but had suffered a fracture of his left forearm. The doctor had attempted to reduce the fracture with the aid of intravenous morphine, stemetil and ketamine but during the procedure the patient had quickly become unconscious and developed severe airway obstruction .


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The airway obstruction proved relatively easy to manage with jaw thrust, oral and pharyngeal suction and oxygen via an air viva mask and then the ship’s doctor was able to reduce the fracture under more controlled circumstances. The patient, although very somnolent was soon able to be roused much to the relief of all present including the ship’s captain who had suddenly appeared in the tiny sick bay. The captain was a tall austere authoritarian man who spoke no English but entered into a confused conversation via an interpreter with the doctor and the expedition leader.

The doctor wished to have the patient’s arm x-rayed to confirm the fracture had been reduced satisfactorily. After much discussion it became apparent that two kilometers from the ship was a Ukrainian research base, Vernadsky Station (formerly a British base, Faraday Station, and famous for being the site of the discovery of the hole in the ozone layer and having been sold to the Ukrainian Government for one British pound). On this station was an old ex-World War 2 x-ray machine and an astronomer confident he could operate it. The captain of the ship, however, was concerned that the planned continuation of the ship’s journey not be delayed and if the sailor had to be transferred to the station for an x-ray it must be done promptly. All present in the room then deferred to my expertise as to when it would be

safe to move this very drowsy post -operative sailor into a zodiac and cross the now lumpy sea to the Ukrainian base. Being aware of the effects of the drugs given earlier, particularly ketamine, it was difficult even with the aid of an interpreter to determine if this vacant eyed sailor was orientated to time and place but I finally agreed to accompany him along with the ship’s doctor in a zodiac to the Ukrainian Station.

Wrapping our patient in a large army greatcoat we staggered him into the zodiac, sat him between us on its edge and clung to him as he swayed precariously backwards and forwards while we sped across the bumpy stretch of water to the Ukrainian station. I was dressed in my cold weather gear which had been lent to me for the trip by my soldier son. It consisted of a black balaclava and jungle green camouflage jacket and pants, hardly camouflaged in the whiteness of Antarctica. With the patient in his army greatcoat we looked more like an invasion force than a routine post-operative patient transfer to radiology.

The Ukrainian base members spoke minimal English but warmly welcomed us and proved very friendly. We were introduced to the Station doctor who offered to take us on a tour of the Station once the x-ray was taken. The x-ray machine proved difficult for the astronomer to operate but he finally indicated success and needed


30 minutes to develop the film. Our patient, now fully awake and obviously pleased to find himself on shore, suddenly disappeared. Whilst awaiting the development of the x-ray film, I was taken on a tour of the station by the station doctor and then on to his office to show me his collection of icons, his family photographs and his collection of images of scantily-clad women on his computer.

The x-ray that was finally presented to us showed the bones to be in acceptable alignment so we went in search of our patient. We found him in the Station bar amongst a happy noisy gathering of fellow Slavs. Once again, he was vacant eyed but now he was smiling inanely, smoking and sculling vodka shots and rather reluctant to return to the ship.

Meanwhile, because of these delays, the ship’s captain had relented and my fellow travellers on the ship had been offered the opportunity to make an excursion to the Ukrainian station. They soon arrived in both zodiacs and

kayaks. The Ukrainians, eager for visitors, were delightful hosts so all enjoyed the hospitality in the Station bar, including our patient, who continued to enjoy his prolonged post-operative recovery period.

Our partying was eventually curtailed by messages from the ship’s Captain insisting on our immediate return. Having missed out my afternoon paddle I decided to kayak back to the ship and left the care of our happy and now very inebriated, smoking Russian sailor to my colleagues.

As I kayaked slowly in the sunshine over the now calm icy waters towards the ship moored in front of the snow-capped mountains and ice cliffs I reviewed the events of the afternoon. I felt pleased that an anaesthetic emergency had been averted, a fracture had been successfully reduced, a patient transfer for radiologic investigation had been achieved without incident and the end result was a very happy, and pain-free Russian sailor.

The Camino del Norte 18 May – 22 June 2017By Bev Touzel

We had to don our raincoats as Jo and I set out along the promenade in San Sebastian. It was the first day of our five week walk. We were soon overtaken by a ‘Flying Dutchman’, covered in blue plastic as he confidently bounced along. We watched him climbing up and up the steep ascent as fast as a hare. It was only when he was out of view we spotted the yellow Camino arrow pointing the opposite way to where he was headed. (Picture of yellow camino arrow here). We followed the arrow feeling helpless to tell him the folly of his ways. It rained all day obscuring the sea below which on clear days must look spectacular. Towards Orio, hours later, the ‘Flying Dutchman‘ caught up with the two tortoises and explained he had been lost. He was fine and feeling much better than we were. We never saw him again.

It was mid-afternoon and we had left San Sebastian before breakfast feeling certain a café would be open but no such luck. We reminisced about our pintxos, those small rounds of toasted bread constructed of layers of tasty delights, that we had enjoyed the previous evening – the last supper as we had not eaten since. This was to be a recurring theme. In the unrelenting rain we were freezing. We thought it was a tough initiation to the Camino del Norte. Little did we know most days would test us.


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The steep climbs and rocky descents were challenging, as was the mud, but we were relieved the rain had stopped. Farming areas continued to surround us and in this loneliness we appreciated the company of goats, cows, donkeys and long haired sheep. Pigs were fattened up under cover as they were too precious to be left to the elements. A foal approached me and tried to nibble my backpack but Jo’s small wooden kangaroo dangling from her pack lured him away.

We soon realised that as we walked off the road into timber forests, steep and muddy climbs often confronted us. Every upside has a downside. To enjoy the coastal views we had to work hard. We became quite suspicious as we entered the forests. I was reminded of Stephen Sondheim’s Into the Woods where actions often have grim consequences.

Along the way we took pleasure in admiring the Sea Campion or Silene uniflora with its maroon veins and transparent lacy frill. It was in abundance along the coastal areas. I had to refrain from picking off their globelike round heads and popping them. No wonder it was formerly called Bladder Campion. Walking alongside the tall purple spires of the common Foxglove, I wondered why it was named ‘Digitalis purpurea’. It derives from the Latin where ‘digitus ‘means finger. It is because the flower fits over the finger like a thimble. I prefer this much classier name. Aquilegia Valgaris or Columbines are also known as Granny’s Bonnets from a time when Grannies wore bonnets. Thank goodness that fashion has not reinvented itself. These blue flowers have naturalized prolifically in shaded areas, their dainty nodding heads urging us forward. Large, scary bulls may have tried to block our paths but Linden, walnut and almond trees and a cyclist and his young son guided us safely into Gernika.

We had seen many cyclists and all of them male. Not for the first time, nor the last, I remarked that possibly the women were relegated to domestic tasks. Notwithstanding this, we were indebted to this young cyclist and his family at the end of this long day of nine hours of ascents and descents.

Familiar faces became important to us as we became aware of our strengths and weaknesses. Whilst steep descents were not problematic for me, climbing in the heat at the end of a day was something with which I, and not Jo, frequently struggled. (Back view of Bev hiking here). Pink peonies, the aroma of fig trees and wild roses were a soothing balm for me. A late morning breakfast of Basque cake and glass of rioja with jamon at the end of the day with friends also helped.

Bilbao with the Guggenheim Museum and its glistening yellow aspect in the soft light was something I will remember along with the delicious fish soup we shared with a Danish Pilgrim and an English couple we had met earlier.

Setting off from large towns while sensible people are sleeping, brings its own rewards. The quietness of the streets still glowing with the soft glow of night lighting reflecting in the well-worn patina of the old stone paths invites a sense of wellbeing. Some of us feel this more than others. (picture of street lights)

Leaving Bilbao, roosters crowing early in the morning reminded me of when, in our previous home, our lovely partridge-coloured silky named Gigi, declared herself as George. I miss my girls and the lovely clucking sounds surrounding us at this time are quite comforting.

As well as barking dogs announcing our presence, we saw many cats slyly crouching in the fields ready to pounce on mice or birds innocently looking forward to the new day. I recall a black cat with a bite out of its tail, removing some of its haughtiness, stretched languidly at the side of the road. I briefly considered this may be ominous but as the cat did not cross our path I dismissed this potentially bad omen.

Home-made wooden gates and wood stacked so neatly it reminded me of Switzerland. The heaps formed patterns that looked, from a distance, like decorative walls. Not a piece out of place.

We farewelled Pobeña at sunrise, immediately trekking uphill along the coast to Castro- Urdiales, the beauty of this beach resort made up for the complete lack of cafés all morning. The Gothic Parish Church of Santa María de la Asunción overlooking the sea, with its frieze of


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rabbits kissing oxen, eating dragons, serpents and birds depicts Templar times. Climbing the old stone staircase overlooking the Bay of Biscay with water washing onto the rocks below on a fine day, is unforgettable.

Enjoying a lovely but rugged coastal walk to Liendo on our way to Laredo, from where we had to take the ferry to Santoña, we happened to find an open café after lunch on a very hot day. I greeted the Señora and Señor in my best Camino Spanish. The Señora insisted the Señor drive us the few kilometres to the ferry that goes to Santoña. Jo’s questioning of … “Are you sure?” was promptly put in its rightful place and without delay, installed in the car, we enjoyed all that Laredo had to offer.

As at times, I recall, we had sometimes felt unwelcome in cafés, I try to remember to be very courteous to café proprietors. Sometimes I am so preoccupied trying to remember the right words to, I forget the basic niceties. I resolved to do better.

Santoña is a busy and lively fishing town and were helped by the friendly café owner, Pablo, to locate our accommodation which was through the town. Arriving there, we sprayed the room to unsuccessfully remove the strong smell of sardines, and later laughed as we discovered we were staying in the fish processing area. No amount of spray was going to help.

Leaving our sardine smelling accommodation before sunrise, we experienced one of our most rugged climbs on the way to Guemes. Descriptions of distances and terrains were underestimated as we discovered climb the hill, actually means for us to scramble up rocky cliffs on narrow high paths (Picture of rocky path here). I also found that my friendly sunhat, which claims its third Camino, has multiple uses. It has served me faithfully in hiding tears, wiping my nose and sweat and even as a footbath to wash off sand. What a bargain for a couple of dollars!

Up stony and treacherous cliffs and through wild thyme overlooking beautiful beaches on our way to the Albergue la Cabaña del Abuelo Peuto in Guemes where the hospitalero, Ernesto Bustio, provides an interesting place for pilgrims. We were fortunate, for some reason, to be allocated our own four-bunk room for two. We discovered later sharing paella with our Danish and Norwegian friends that others had to share with twenty people. The power of silence is be respected at times. At the albergue, we were given a potted history of the Camino. It also clarified that the response to any question relating to the distance still to go was dos, meaning two. This made a lot of sense, as from our experiences, dos often meant anywhere between five to ten kilometres.

On to Santander, the capital of Cantabria, and Santillana del Mar, a medieval village cut from rock. Its great financial success came from linen and wool production and residents became nobles. Twenty years ago animals filled the ground floor of homes but now these areas have been converted into busy tourist shops. Our guide book states that Jean- Paul Sartre has called it the most beautiful village in Spain.

In a bar, I watched a man as he sneakily helped himself to the omelette topping of the pinchos bases leaving just the bread. He moved quickly and thinking I had imagined it , I then saw all the lonely and topless pieces of bread. As Pat Boone sang, in 1962, Speedy Gonzales, how come ya leave me all alone? Perhaps the original Speedy Gonzales would have had less trouble being a pincho pincher rather than chasing other riskier pursuits.

After some rain during the night, snails crossing our paths were our only companions on the road. As I avoided stepping on them, I looked at them thinking we are all carrying packs on our backs. Everything is relative.

Ugly blue, yellow and green rubbish bins prominently lined the streets along most of our route. They seemed to be appealing to us for some Scandi design to improve their looks. I will pass the baton to our Scandinavian friends.

Walking 20 kilometres without a café in sight we came across an enterprising woman, where from the back of her home provided fresh coffee, bread and plump yellow home-made tortilla. We were in hunger heaven. As there


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was not any signage to indicate this find, we wondered if it were officially ‘approved’ by the local administration or by the nosey neighbour seen peering from her overlooking window. We did not care. Our host ensured she did not miss a passing pilgrim, many of whom, responding to her beckoning, joined us in food paradise.

Between Santillana and Comillas wild fennel, borage, blue and white wild thyme, delicious tortilla and friendly Scandinavians accompanied us for some of the way. In the 19th century, the local shipping magnate, Antonio Lopez, the Marquis de Comillas, made his fortune from the Cuban slave trade, became a primary patron of Gaudi and bought himself a title.

Ending our days in the Cantabrian region, in San Vincent de la Barquera we found the 13th Century church of Santa Maria de los Angeles but failed to hear Schubert’s Ave Maria, said to be played every 15 minutes. Perhaps as suggested, this has to do with the locals suggesting the playing of this was the work of the town enemy.

Walking into the sprawling town of Colombres very late in the day, we entered a furniture shop to ask the whereabouts of our hostel. Although Jo had sworn she would never have a ride in a white van, within minutes, we were in one and driven to our accommodation. I am not as fussy. Whatever the colour is fine by me after walking 32 kilometres, including a long steep hill at the end of another hot day.

Setting off for Llanes as the golden sun was just rising, the day was looking promising. Cows and goats were our companions as was unfortunately, confusing signage. Taking a wrong turn we spent two hours following a tractor path to paddocks we soon discovered were protected by electric fences. Jo tried to go under the fence and I tried to jump over but after we both received shocks we spent two hours retracing our steps through the long grass and muddy tracks to return to where we began hours ago. Disastrous! Making use of the rubber tops of the trekking poles did not occur to us. The upside was we found a café and sitting there were our English friends willing to listen to our tale of woe. As we walked through walled lanes surrounded with green grass and soft drizzling rain, I was reminded of England where Australian, Dorothea Mackellar wrote her famous poem. It is interesting to ask anyone to quote the opening words to My Country, and you will be surprised at how many will be wrong. I learnt to recite this lovely poem in primary school and it begins:

The Love of field and coppice

Of green and shaded lanes.

At the moment I am far away from …. a sunburnt country and like the author was I am feeling a little homesick.

Spanish shopkeepers are usually a friendly lot as are their customers, excluding the mean café owner near Piñeras who would not even make us a boccodilla. In Oviedo we tried to describe that we needed box tape in an attempt to repair Jo’s broken trekking pole. We managed to obtain it after all the waiting customers became laughingly involved in the discussion. No-one was in a hurry and the demonstration of their patience was to be admired.

In Asturias between Moros de Nalón and Novellana we enjoyed the cider and the fava beans but not so much the goat and tractor paths in the forests and the steep descents.

I had not realised the lovely white Marguerite daisy that forms white mounds in many areas of our Camino, is native to the Canary Islands. I am not sure why it is also known as the Paris daisy – perhaps it should be renamed the Spanish daisy.

We were relieved when the strong stench of cow manure was sometimes tempered with fond memories of sweet-smelling honeysuckle. My early childhood home had a honeysuckle hedge from which I would jump as well as suck the flowers. My mother told me the story that she would put on my gumboots and off outside I would go. I had cabin fever from a very young age. In Luarca we discovered the Legend of the Kiss Bridge. The daughter of the Lord of the area fell in love with the cruel pirate Cambarai, a prisoner in the dungeons of the fortress. The lovers eloped to the harbour, were captured and on the orders of her father and for their treason were beheaded.


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The bridge is the area where both heads joined in a last kiss and rolled into the water while their bodies remained in a final eternal embrace. Believe it or not.

Between La Carridad and Ribadeo corn and potato fields and pear trees surrounded us. As usual, the walk was much longer than anticipated. On reflection, our guide book often referred to going up a small hill when in fact it had been steep, rocky climbing where we almost fell over! We experienced this misleading information time and time again. In my downtimes I often contemplated suing whoever for something yet to be decided.

The numerous wind turbines we referred to as sentinels whose role, we felt, included guarding and keeping watch over us from a distance. Trudging on towards them they seemed to beckon reminding us of the Delltones hit song: Come a little bit closer and you will see….. but all we could see were hills! Pee Wee did not tell the truth.

The family-run hostel in Villamartin Grande was typical of many in which we stayed. In this case mother and daughter and grandparents living opposite supplied eggs and other farm products. The Mirabelle plums they shared with us were delicious.

A Spanish pilgrim surprised us in the lonely forests between Abadin and Vilalba when he suddenly appeared out of nowhere. I screamed, Jo screamed. We were unaware that he had been walking quietly behind us. The poor man nearly fainted from shock and apologised profusely. We all laughed about this each time we met.

Enjoying a lovely morning, a Scottish woman motorist pulled up beside us. Two years ago, she had moved to Cassanovas next to Penas. Excuse my schoolgirl humour but the adjoining place names are amusing. This kind woman was in the process of renovating her home to become a hostel for pilgrims. She was a masseuse and offered us coffee at her nearby home. Although not needing a break at that time, we felt it would be churlish to refuse her hospitality and who knows what other adventure this may bring? After applying cream to my painful ankle and adjusting Jo’s pack, she explained about the local area of mainly subsistence farmers who are not wealthy and unemployment is high. Like similar

towns, the young people are leaving and the local school has closed. We discussed her uncertain situation with a UK pension and the possible consequences of Brexit. We admired her adventurous spirit for undertaking this project alone. As we arrived at our next hostel, we regretted not having accepted her offer to stay the night. In the middle of a truck refuelling station, car wash on a bus route and railway line, there the stark grey

concrete structure stood confronting us in all its glory. The room décor was something else. The beds had pale blue blankets with large yellow and red butterflies with just a touch of deeper red on the wings. Perhaps this

was acknowledging the butterflies in the back vegetable gardens. I suppose this could be seen as ‘bringing the outside in’. I realised later the blue represented the sky as there were white clouds swirling over the blue. All this was overlaid with a dusky pink cover. Jo commented, at least it is clean. It is difficult to sleep when it is still light at 10pm and even more so when you are in the clouds with butterflies fluttering about.

In Miraz we shared a bunkroom with six lovely Colombian girls, all of whom were childhood friends. We had all said we intended to be up early to avoid the heat but did not expect their alarms to sound before 5am. Their whispering and little beams of light accompanied by light footsteps prompted us to make our moves also and we were all out together to face the new day. The enthusiasm of youth who were only walking for one week.

We met another English couple along the way. Initially, we thought the woman was or had been ill and was still recovering. Every few kilometres we came upon her bent double or resting eating an apple. Her husband seemed to be reading from an open book. At first I thought it was a prayer book and he was praying for her health. We were quite concerned as she had an extremely pale appearance and was extremely thin. She did not look at all healthy. Reading from a paper guide he was very much in charge, is a regular walker and pedantic about points of interest. We were relieved to learn she is a yoga teacher and not terminally ill.

After having walked some hours and we were finishing our usual late breakfast of Santiago Cake (as opposed to Basque cake earlier) at a café in A Roxica on our way to Sobrado , the couple arrived and he who was in charge, remarked surprisingly … Oh, you are having cake! They only ordered coffee. Feeling a little chastened, I did not like to confess that I ate cake at least once a day or twice if other options were limited. Not long after that, on the path, we came upon them sprawled out on the grass resting and sharing what looked like dry toast and another apple. They remarked they were very tired and needed a rest. As we continued on our way I said to Jo, Let them eat cake. Like me, Marie Antoinette was a Scorpio but unlike me, she lost her head. A few days later the woman left for an overnight bus ride to Lisbon, then by bus to Malaga for a yoga conference. An exhausting 20-hour trip for anyone and she was older than us. Contrastingly, her husband was hopping on a direct flight to London. He will probably be home eating ham and pease pudding while she is still waiting at a bus station. As Peter, Paul and Mary sang, when will they ever learn?

My limited Spanish was enough at most times to make an accommodation booking but there were exceptions. After a short day we finished early only to discover our room was not ready until 6pm. A group had booked the whole place for the weekend. They were all enjoying the casa rurale pool and lovely surrounds that we thought


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we had. My mistake in booking was that although I could understand Si, I could not understand all the other talk from the fast speaking Señora. She had tried to make the point that the room was available only from 6pm. Fortunately, the group kindly moved to free up a room. After they departed we enjoyed the pool and the bowl of fresh cherries provided by the friendly cleaner.

Now along the way to Arzúa, the leaves of the young corn encompass us in fields of green. In this lovely countryside with sheep in the meadow and cows in the corn but where is Little Boy Blue? (Picture of green fields with cattle here). Perhaps in a nearby potato field digging some up for dinner.

A French friend tells a story. When Dutch people go on holidays in their vans, along with their bikes, they always take sacks of potatoes. Now every time I see a van with an ‘NL’, I call it a potato van. In contrast to the starkness of the travelling potato vans, which are usually white in colour, the lacy white flower heads of Queen Anne’s Lace have a softening effect to the surrounds. Apparently, it belongs to the carrot family and its name derives from Queen Anne of England (1665-1714) who pricked her finger whilst sewing white lace. I wonder if in Spain it should be called Queen Letizia’s Lace? Perhaps not, but the message is avoid sewing at all costs.

The hedges of white hydrangeas with huge heads from previous areas have changed. Now we see heads of intense blue and a pink so deep that they it is almost red. I have never seen hedges like this before even though, as a child, I lived in Tecoma where they thrived. We see rows of cuttings put directly in the ground resembling tiny pickets with little green leaves. They just seem to shoot. We walk under baby red pears and cherries of a lighter red that are in abundance as are walnut and almond trees. Ground almonds are the main ingredient used to make the famous Santiago cake which becomes more available in cafes the nearer we come to our destination.

From Arzúa (where the Camino del Norte and the Camino St Jacques converge) to Rua after walking all morning and me feeling increasingly unwell, we arrived early to an hotel. Another friendly cyclist helped out as he explained to the initially unfriendly person in charge that, although we knew our room was not yet available, it would be helpful if I could have use of a bathroom and somewhere to rest. The fore-mentioned unfriendly person became understandingly friendly as she realised it was in everyone’s interest to accede to the request. All done, I just wish the ceiling of the room had not been bright yellow with a hint of green giving it the colour of bile. All that is left to say is that the benefit of side by side bidet and toilet has the advantage of enabling simultaneous use.

I now love cyclists. I even forgive them for sneaking up beside me without ringing a bell.

We had seen a lot of yellow Spanish Gorse and I had not really thought about its stages of development until I came across what looked like falling snow amongst the gorse bushes. That which seemed to be white was actually shimmering, pale, green pea-like pods. These drooped from thin branches whose dark green receding colour camouflaged them giving the pods the appearance of suspended snow drops. Beautiful!

Our Danish friend had left earlier in the week and we were sad would not see him in Santiago. He had been popping up most days and we had really enjoyed his company and quirky humour. Our lovely English friends had also departed. We were looking forward to meeting our Norwegian friend who had promised to have the champagne waiting.

Thoughts of three days of relaxed breakfasts in the garden of our pretty hotel, as well as our favourite tapas and other Galician food including Poulpo (octopus ) and green Padron peppers, had replaced discussions of distances and dirty clothes.

We were fascinated by Tetilla, (which in Galicain means small breast) a regional cow’s milk cheese so named as it is in the shape of a small breast topped by a nipple. Thick, soft and smooth with bitter and tangy flavours. It is accompanied with quince paste and a full-bodied white wine. Up and away early for our final day walking into Santiago de Compostela. Our Camino had taken us five weeks. We were pleased and relieved it was almost over. We had had some tough times but tempered with much fun and laughter shared with other pilgrims. Friendships made along the way we hope to continue. Moving along excitedly, we arrived early and queued at the Pilgrims’ Office to present our documents and receive our Compostela. We had finished.

I do hope the non- cake eating, in-charge Englishman did not need a guide book or a yellow Camino arrow to find his way to the dishwasher. Just a point of interest.


2020

John Martin McNamaraBy Daryl Efron

It is with sadness that we note the passing of Dr John McNamara, “Johnny Mac” to many.

John was head of the Department of General Paediatrics for about 10 years from the early 1980s to the early 1990s. This was a very different time to the present. There was no actual physical Department of General Medicine, just the “Blue Room” and Fellows’ office between the General Medical wards 5E and 5W.

John was the consummate old school general physician. He combined great knowledge with extraordinary intuition. His office was pile high with editions of the New England Journal of Medicine and the Lancet, from which he would often quote. He was a master diagnostician, and imaginative in coming up with enigmatic ways to help children and their families to move forward. He provided many excellent second opinions, and always added fresh insights and value to challenging cases. Even more impressively he provided unending, skilled long-term care and support for many, many families of children with complex medical needs and disabilities.

John had great curiosity about people. He was extremely generous and encouraging to trainees and faultlessly supportive of nursing and allied health colleagues. He was an excellent teacher and role model for paediatric trainees.

John had a wonderful sense of humour, with a keen sense for the ridiculous. His letters were famously incomprehensible, prose poems with flashes of sparkling wit. They were always a joy to read in the voluminous files of his patients who turned up in the emergency department.

John contributed an enormous amount to RCH. He chaired a number of committees, in which he combined good listening skills, fairness and insightful decision-making. He was thoughtful and made everyone around him feel valued.

John will be very fondly remembered. A portrait of John with that characteristic twinkle in his eye hangs in the Dept of General Medicine. Pay him a visit.

The Annual General Meeting of the RCH Alumni will be held at the Kew Golf Club at 6:15PM on

Tuesday November 20th.~

The Annual Gala Dinner of the Alumni will follow the AGM at 7PM. This year’s guest speaker will be

Professor Jeffrey Rosenfeld AC.


rch alumni · 2018. 11. 18. · rch. the 2018 rch alumni executive. dr hugo gold, president ruth...

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