Hitching across the Pennines to A Roy Harper gig

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Hitching across the Pennines to A Roy Harper gig – Dying to see Roy Harper

 

When I started teaching the pay was very bad and we couldn’t afford a car. That severely limited my ability to get to Roy Harper gigs but it did not deter me. I could get there if it was on a Saturday and I had time to hitch.

I noted Roy was on in Liverpool. That was the other side of the country but there was an interconnecting motorway. It was only a matter of four or five hours.

As it was January I dressed warm. I had experience of hitching and it wasn’t always easy. You had to be prepared for eventualities.

Getting there was easy. I arrived early and had a great talk with James Edgar about album cover designs. I sat in on the sound check and caught up with Roy.

The gig was brilliant as usual and I hung around a little. It was always awkward after gigs when everyone wanted a bit of him. You rarely had time to have a good chat.

I headed off into the night which is where it went wrong.

When you are hitching you are at the mercy of your driver. You can get pleasant friendly ones, cold, quiet types, or really unpleasant bastards. You wonder why some of them pick anyone up at all. Your job is to entertain them and make picking you up worthwhile. This guy was a lorry driver and he was a complete bastard. He’d picked me up in order to make my life miserable. He was openly belligerent and unpleasant and obviously detested long-haired hitch-hikers.

We headed out of Liverpool and on to the motorway with me regretting having climbed into the cab in the first place. He was so unpleasant that I was weighing up my options should he attack me.

Outside the weather took a turn for the worse and as we climbed up into the Pennines it began to snow heavily.

At the highest point he suddenly pulled over on to the hard shoulder and ordered me out.

I was glad to leave and watched him pull away. It was now gone one in the morning and I was standing at the side of a motorway on top of a mountain range in a blizzard.

There were few vehicles using the motorway. That was partly to do with the late hour and partly the atrocious weather conditions. The cars and lorries that were going through were travelling at speed and either could not see me because of the snow or were going too fast to stop. That was not surprising as they would not be expecting someone to be on the hard shoulder of a motorway. I started walking. The wind was blasting snow into my face and I was already freezing.

It was slow progress. I could not make much headway and there were not any services on this motorway for a long way.

I was beginning to think that I had best get out of the wind and build some kind of shelter. I was numb and in danger of freezing to death. I was also at risk of getting knocked down.

At that moment a police car cruised past and stopped. They took me along to the services and dropped me off. I thanked them most profusely. They said I would have frozen to death out there. I think they were right. They had probably saved my life. I could not stop shivering and my hands and feet were completely numb. It took all day for me to warm up. That lorry driver could have killed me.

Roy Harper gigs are good but not worth dying for.

On the Streets in Sixties Boston (well 1971)

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On the Streets in Sixties Boston (well 1971)

It was hot.
We stood on the street in Boston, clutching our rucksacks, with five dollars and some change in our pockets, looking for a payphone.
I rang the number.
A voice answered. I asked for Bob.
Bob had moved on many months before.
It seemed that Carol King was right. Nobody stayed in one place anymore. The whole of the youth of America and Britain was on the move, looking for something. I was looking for something. I was after some meaning, some purpose and I was after experiencing everything that the world had to offer. I wanted to travel and meet. I was standing on the street in Boston but Bob, whoever he was, was probably standing in the street in a different part of the country.
‘I’m Ken,’ the voice at the other end of the phone said. ‘Why were you looking for Bob?’
I explained, while wondering what might possibly be the next course of action. There was no plan B.
‘Oh come on over,’ Ken said. ‘You can stay here.’
This was the sixties. You didn’t need much. It was all about sharing what you had. We were community.
I guess we were all communists! That guy shouldn’t have let us in!
We hitched over to Ken’s and uncannily were picked up by a middle-aged black guy who quizzed us as to who we were, where we were going and why. We chatted freely. It felt good to be in the States on an adventure.
He dropped us off outside Ken’s and turned to us with a stony face as we thanked him.
‘I’m with the drug squad,’ he informed us. ‘I’ll see you around.’
Ah well. You have to be brought down sometimes.
Ken soon took us back up to speed and into orbit. The place was full of a lot of people sitting on the floor, leaning against cushions, talking and laughing while the music played. There were jays making the rounds and we were offered a plate of food.
We were home.
Over the next week Ken drove us round to find a job. We tried selling underground magazines – The Boston Phoenix. You bought a couple of hundred for a retail price and sold them at double. Except we weren’t very good at it. We discovered that all the best pitches were taken and ended up hawking them in the park. A black kid was really amused by our ineptitude. He came over to show how it should be done. He was a marvel. He took ten off us and walked along with this jive patter and talk and sold them all in five minutes flat. It was quite an act he had. I nearly bought them back off him.
We rapidly realised that this probably wasn’t the career for us.
I managed to get a job as a dishwasher and Liz secured a position as a waitress. I was hot sweaty and harangued and she was very popular. Being young and pretty and English helped. Guys would come in and tip her a dollar or two just to hear her talk. They loved the English accent. They were always asking her if she knew the Beatles and the Queen and whether London was always foggy. They seemed to have a quaint notion of Britain – it was tiny and everyone knew each other though you couldn’t find each other because of the perpetual fog.
We found a room in a house off Massachusetts Avenue. There were three other rooms occupied by three very different types of people.
Jim was a young black guy who said he was a member of the Black Panther Party. I don’t think he really was but he probably wanted to be. He actually worked in a shoe shop and had to say ‘sir’ to a lot of obnoxious white people all day. He was easy going but kept himself to himself. We kept different hours so I didn’t see too much of him.
Rose and Betsy were two young girls who shared a room. They were a bit straight and right out of college. They were observing what was going on around them with a little trepidation and not flinging themselves into it.
Then there was Bob O’Reilly, an Irish American who was a swashbuckling character in the mould of Ken Kesey. He was loud, friendly and full of life.
Bob did not have a job. He told us that he was a big time dealer. We took that with a pinch of salt. Bob told us that he was a go between. He bought in dope in bulk and sold it on. He did a dozen or so deals a year and lived on the proceeds.
We were sceptical to say the least even though Bob always had an ample supply of grass that he claimed were samples that he was trying out for quality control. He did not convince us despite the fact that he was never short of money. We thought he was spinning a yarn.
Then one day he showed us these blocks piled up in his room. Each was a kilo of compressed grass from Colombia wrapped in tin foil. There were fifty of them.
That apartment was one continuous party. Every time I got up or came home from work the place was alive with music, people I didn’t know and smoke. It was still the sixties in that place.
We stayed in Boston for a couple of months. Then it was time to move on.
Bob gave us an address of a friend in San Francisco who would put us up.
We said our goodbyes and boarded a Greyhound for another journey. We bought a three week ticket for unlimited travel.
We were off to discover America.

My first Rock gig – The British Birds with Ron Wood at the Walton Hop – sex on the stairs and knife fights.

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My first Rock gig – The British Birds with Ron Wood at the Walton Hop

 

It was 1965 and I was fifteen. I’d been buying singles and albums for some five years. I was mad about it. I’d discovered the Blues, Little Richard, the Beatles, the Stones, Downliners Sect, Chuck Berry and a host of others. Music had become a huge part of my life. It had displaced my pets and was even competing with girls!

That was serious stuff!

It was more than time to get a feel of the real thing. I love music on disc but it simply cannot compete with the real live deal – not that I knew that yet.

I was ready, more than ready. The Walton Hop was the only local venue I knew of and certainly the only one that I could access easily. I could walk there.

I do not remember who I went with. Perhaps I blotted them out. All I can remember is being blown away by the whole experience – not just the music. For a fifteen year old, innocent little kid this was serious mind blasting.

The Birds were on.

I did not have a clue as to who the Birds were. All I knew was that they were a British Beat group and I was told they were good.

The Walton Hop was where the rump of the Teddy Boy phenomenon was to be found. They still ruled the roost even though they were rapidly becoming an anachronism. To go to the Walton Hop was like going back to the fifties. The girls were all in those full dresses with petticoats and big bee-hive hairdos. The boys were in drape jackets, brothel creepers and shoe-string ties with greased back hair, DAs and big sideburns. They were older now – in their twenties – but they still had that air of menace. You kept to one side and avoided eye contact. We were the new generation of long-haired kids. But to them we were just kids. They ignored us. We were the teenyboppers.

The evening started with a bang. There was a knife fight out in the car park. Two Teds with flick-knives held out and one hand raised, circled each other. Around them was a circle of baying Teds. The girls were raucous – shouting at the two to get stuck in. It was like being on a film set. I stood back and watched it all with wide eyes. If someone had photographed me them I probably had my mouth open.

That was just the start of the evening.

Inside the hall it was dark and cavernous – all old dark wood – with a stage at one end and lots of people milling around.

There was an upstairs and some big old stairs leading up to a balcony. I decided to take a look. That was my second eye-opener of the night.

On the big landing, halfway up, were a group of Teds. One of the brassy looking girls with enormous back-combed beehive was being held up from behind by a couple of Teds who had hold of her thighs and were holding up her voluminous dress and petticoat up while a third was between her thighs and thrusting away to the accompaniment of lots of jeers and encouragement. The girl looked bored as if she was merely waiting for it to end. A couple of her friends looked on, chewing gum and looking equally bored, waiting for them to get it over with so that they could go where-ever it was they were heading for.

I’d never seen anyone having sex before, not that I could actually see much. It was like I was in another world.

When the band started I got myself to the front where I could see. They certainly looked the part. They had long hair, tight trousers. Cuban heeled boots, waist-coats and siddies.

When they started it was like a bomb going off. They were loud. The riffs ripped through me and the beat set my pulse going. Adrenalin rushed through my blood and from the first bars I was hopelessly caught up in it. Records were great but this was the real thing. It rocked you spirit!

They stormed through their set with someone at the back of the hall flicking the lights on and off in time to create a stroboscopic rudimentary light show. They were all over the stage. The bass thumped into my belly. The heavy chords pummeled my ears. The voice soared over it all. It was mesmerising and I was transported to another world

It was the most exciting thing I had ever experienced in my life. Even more exciting than the knife fight or sex on the stairs. This was raw, unadulterated Rock Music.

I was hooked for life.

Another Murderer in the Deli – a true Anecdote

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Another murderer in the same Deli

 

The other dishwasher was a full-blooded American Indian who went by the name Little Wolf. We got quite friendly and he’d come back to crash at our place sometimes.

Little Wolf was only eighteen but he had quite a tale.

He and his girlfriend, best friend and his girlfriend had sold everything to buy a camper van. They set off to discover the heart of American and see if they could find themselves. It was very sixties.

They travelled across from the West Coast doing casual work to buy food and petrol. Arriving in Chicago they stopped off at a liquor store. Little Wolf’s girlfriend was the only one who was twenty one so she went in with her ID to purchase a couple of bottles of wine.

On the way out a guy was standing in the entrance and grabbed hold of her. There was a struggle, the bottles got dropped and smashed. Little Wolf jumped out of the van to sort it out and the guy pulled a knife on him

Little Wolf pulled out his gun and shot him three times in the abdomen.

They jumped back in the van and hit the road.

A few days later they arrived in Boston. They were going down Massachusetts Avenue when a big Pontiac jumped the lights and slammed into the side of them at great speed.

Little Wolf regained consciousness in a hospital ward with a police officer standing guard over him. They had discovered the gun and an ounce of weed.

Little Wolf lay there with thoughts of a murder charge hanging over him. He was sure the guy he had shot was dead. The last he’d seen was him lying in a big pool of blood. He was also certain that they’d trace the gun back.

Later that day a solicitor came in to see him. His client was the Pontiac driver who was a rich man. All Little Wolf had to do was say that it was him that had jumped the lights and the gun and weed would magically disappear.

He jumped at the offer.

Later the four of them went back to the van. It was still on its side at the side of the road but it had been stripped. The wheels, engine and even seats had been taken. All they possessed were the clothes on their back and the money in their pocket.

His friend decided to hitch back to the West Coast with his girl and Little Wolf and his girlfriend had hitched to New York. Somehow Little Wolf and his girl had become separated in the rush hour and he couldn’t find her again. He looked for three days and then decided to head back to Boston in the hopes that she’d have the same idea. That seemed a long shot to me. But that was how he had become a dishwasher in the Delihaus.

He was hanging around hoping to meet up with his girl again.

I was beginning to wonder if everyone else in the Deli was a violent axe man, secret poisoner or vicious stabber. But they all seemed very cheery, normal and friendly. So it was only Boris and Little Wolf.

It made me think though when a young man was shot dead outside the door of the Deli one night. Once again we were inundated with armed police but nobody had seen anything and all the diners carried on eating as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

It seemed that murder was taken for granted.

I was only there two months. If I had been there a year I might have discovered more skeletons in a few more closets. Maybe everyone who worked there was a murderer?

What if I was but had forgotten? I couldn’t remember killing anyone but I am getting a bit forgetful these days. It had probably been in the job description as a requirement.

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A Murderer in the Deli – a true anecdote

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A murderer in the Deli

 

I was chief dishwasher in the Delihaus on Massachusetts Avenue in Boston. Well actually I was one of two and we were both chief.

There were only so many plates and utensils. In order to keep everything flowing when it was full (which seemed to be between seven pm and two am.) the kitchen was dependent on me replenishing the plates, dishes and utensils at maximum speed.

It was summer and exceedingly hot and sweaty in the kitchen. That didn’t seem to bother the extended family of cockroaches that lived behind the dishwasher but it caused a lot of sweat to drip and run down my back.

The dirty dishes and cutlery would be dumped in big plastic containers. I rushed through, lugged them back to the dishwasher, scraped the food into the bin and loaded them up. I pulled the lid down and there was a lot of high pressure spraying and steam. It did it very quickly. I rushed the empty container back and brought in a new one. Unloaded the dishwasher and piled up the plates, crockery and dishes in a tray, separated out the cutlery, reloaded the dishwasher, took the clean things through, took the empty container back, collected the full one and thus it went on at pace all evening.

Throughout this process, which couldn’t possibly go any faster, I had the chef, a large swarthy man of Russian extraction called Boris, shouting at me to go faster and threatening to kick my ass and fire me.

When he wasn’t working I discovered Boris was almost human.

One night, sharing a beer at three in the morning after having shut down the place, swabbed the floors, wiped the tables and cleaned all the cooking area, he told me that he was out on bail. He said it as casual as anything.

I asked him what he’d done.

He told me he’d shot three people, killing two of them.

There was a bit of a silence. I don’t think I’d ever met a murderer before. What was most off-putting was that he was very casual about it.

I asked him, quite casually, what had happened.

He explained that he’d been in a bar having a drink with a friend and these three guys were sitting at this table and they started having a go at him, calling him names. He said that he hadn’t done anything to provoke them and ignored them. But they wouldn’t stop.

He looked me in the eye.

‘You can only take so much,’ he said. ‘I took my piece out and shot them.’

It was very matter-off-fact. I found it quite chilling.

I asked him how he came to be out on bail and not locked up already.

Boris told me that he was out on bail because he was a Vietnam vet and the army was looking after him. He’d been through the trial, found guilty and was awaiting sentence. He told me that the army was sorting out a couple of years in an open prison.

That sounded a bit lenient to me for killing two guys but I wasn’t about to say that to him.

Sure enough a couple of weeks later a shedload of police swarmed into the place with guns drawn, jumped behind the counter with much yelling, threw Boris on the floor, pinned him there, forced his hands violently behind his back and handcuffed him. They then dragged him off to the cars outside.

Boris was about to start his jail sentence.

The arrest was the American way of saying ‘Can you please accompany us to the station, sir.’

It left us in the Delihaus with a restaurant (I use the term lightly) of customers, who seemed to take it all in their stride and had watched the loud and violent arrest with interest and now were busy eating their meals or waiting to be served as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and no chef.

We all muddled through. One of the waitresses stood in until our other chef arrived.

I was discussing it with Little Wolf, the other dishwasher who just happened to be a Native American, and he told me he’d shot someone too. But that’s a different story.

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A Bedford van around Europe – anecdote

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A Bedford van around Europe

 

There were four of us: my wife Liz, my friend Pete and his new wife Julia. We aimed to travel round Europe for the summer. Pete had bought an old Bedford Van and we worked out a loose itinerary.

We set off in our beat-up van with four bunks and basic stove much to the bemusement of Julia’s parents. We gathered that it wasn’t quite their idea of a honeymoon.

All went well. We caught the ferry and toodled around France, Switzerland, Austria and Germany. In Paris we discovered the disadvantages of not having a toilet on board. The cafés wouldn’t let you use the toilet unless you bought something. First thing in the morning was fun – ordering coffee cross-legged.

The plan was then to head down to the tip of Italy, ferry across to Greece and work our way back through Yugoslavia. That did not work quite to plan.

Italy was great. We took the scenic route on the old road, up and down mountains on the windy road. We had time and saw all the little villages. Besides, we did not have money for the tolls.

At the top of a mountain the van would not start. We tried rolling it down and bump-starting it but it still would not catch. In the end we free-wheeled it down the mountain to the little village at the bottom. It was a bit hairy hurtling round the corners with no engine engaged. The van veered around a little and leaned rather precariously. But we got down in one piece, free-wheeled as far as possible and pushed it to a little garage in the centre of the village fronting on to the sea.

The mechanics, who could not speak a word of English, seemed quite amused at the sight of a quaint old Bedford van with its four colourfully attired, long-haired characters. The sixties had not yet arrived in this part of Italy. But they were very friendly. They helped push the van on to the ramp and began pulling the engine to bits.

In the afternoon, with bits of engine all over the place, one of the mechanics managed to explain that we had burnt a valve out and that they would have to order a part from England. That would take a week.

That was a bit of a bummer. That was our home he was talking about.

We were homeless.

We managed to convey this to the mechanics who kept smiling and shaking their heads.

It seemed that they were happy for us to live in the van up on the ramp in their garage. They let us use their toilet and sink.

All was good. We had our home back.

For a week we lived on a ramp in an Italian garage. All day we’d mess about on the beach and in the sea and at night they’d wave to us and lock us in for the night.

I can imagine the tales and gossip concerning the four British Hippies living in their garage. They found it very amusing.

The part duly arrived. The van was mended and we resumed our adventure. Pisa, Venice, Rome and Florence were all, strangely, extremely Italian and different. We couldn’t afford to eat much, even the starters in the restaurants were beyond our means, but feasted on melon and fruit.

There was no time to go to Greece though.

We saved that for another day and headed back to spend a few days in Paris.

 

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Wedding Number Three – The Pagan Maypole Fiasco – anecdote

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Wedding Number Three – The Pagan Maypole Fiasco

 

As it was May 1st and Liz’s twenty first birthday we decided to get a Maypole fertility symbol and do our own Woodstock gathering/pagan ceremony.

We invited all our friends and family.

Liz’s parents boycotted it. It was becoming a pattern.

Richmond Park would not let us put up a Maypole.

We couldn’t get a Maypole.

We had no money, food, drink or sounds.

So we sent out an invite (a photo of us with handwritten invite on the back) to a Pagan wedding ceremony in Oxshot Woods.

In true sixties fashion everyone had to bring food and drink to share and perform something – A poem, song, mime, dance – we got the lot. Without much preparation from us the thing just happened. We brought some French baguettes cut into pieces, some diced butter and diced cheese and I think that was it. The rest was down to chance.

We found a clearing in among the trees, a friend miraculously set up a sound system from his van and everyone gathered- they somehow found us! (apart from one couple who spent the afternoon wandering around Oxshot Woods looking for us).

We had been a little concerned as the week before the heavens had opened and it had snowed. What would we have done then? We had no plans. But it shined on us and was warm and pleasant. We set the woods alight with laughter, dancing, guitars, Rock, mime (? – yes mime), drama, singing and had fun. There was food and drink aplenty. Everybody had come up trumps. There was food, drink and entertainment aplenty.

We’d collected these ice-cream tubs from cinemas which were like Greek goblets. We used them for drinks. They worked well.

It went like magic. It was magic. My parents sat serenely in the middle while everyone, long-haired and in the brightest colours, cavorted around. I have a mental picture of them sitting there enjoying it – my Dad with pipe in mouth and my Mum smiling.

Instead of a maypole we had a living tree. We had a big circle dance. It was crazy and mad. It was a fiasco that all went to plan! Whatever plan that was!

That was the best Wedding of the three!

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Our Second Wedding – Anecdote

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Wedding Number Two

I enjoyed Wedding Number One. It was all up in the air and interesting. Nobody quite knew what was going to happen next, least of all us.
Wedding Number Two was scheduled for the next week in the morning. We were going to make the whole thing legal, bring all the family into harmonious rapport, bring world peace and solve the Vietnam War. We decided to only invite parents and brothers and sisters to this one. We wanted it to be as perfunctory as we could make it.
Liz’s father rang up the night before and begged her to call it off. Liz’s Mum boycotted this one as well. We were off to a good start – I still had hopes for world peace and Vietnam.
As Wedding Number Three – The Pagan ceremony – was in the afternoon we brought all the food in the back of the car. Liz had diced Cheese and butter, which was in plastic bowls, and cut French Sticks into slices. They adorned the back seat.
Unfortunately the car wouldn’t go. We were pushing it up and down the road in our wedding gear. Some guy offered to fix it for a fiver so we paid him – and he did.
We set off very late and hurtled round the North Circular – at that time unbeset by Speed Cameras. I was desperate to make up time as we were three weddings late.
We got cut up by some idiot and I had to slam on the brakes. We got deluged with cheese and butter and were picking lumps out of our hair. I think nerves were a little fraught and we found ourselves having our first (but not last) blazing row. I should not have jammed the brakes on!
We arrived only two weddings late.
Liz’s Dad was looking rather pleased. He thought we weren’t coming.
But we’d missed our slot. It looked as if we couldn’t go ahead.
Fortunately an old girlfriend of mine inadvertently helped us out. She was supposed to be getting married in the next slot and had forgotten to pick up the banns. So, much to the dismay of Liz’s Dad, we slyly slotted in to her space as if it was meant to be.
It was rather a sober affair. We went in with just our family (minus Liz’s Mum) and said our words, signed the certificate and went out.
My Mum tried to add a wedding atmosphere by giving my little sister a little silver horseshoe to give to us. She may even have thrown a little bit of confetti.
A strange day.
Wedding Two was done and dusted!

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Wedding Number One.

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Wedding Number One.

 

Wedding number one was A Buddhist wedding in the Temple at Sheen, Richmond. In true sixties fashion we had been going along there regularly to meditate. It was very pleasant. We had a friend called Gary Turp, who I haven’t seen for forty years, who was very into the Incredible String Band and Buddhism. He got us interested. I enjoyed it and learnt a lot.

We also made friends with a very wise monk by the name of Vorasak Candamitto. He was one of the happiest people I’ve ever met – must say something.

So we organised for a wedding ceremony and received a verbal okay.

Then we had to decide who to invite. We couldn’t fit all our friends in so we decided this was one for the relatives. It left them a little bemused so that was also okay.

On the day Liz and I got into our wedding gear. Liz had made it all. She had a dress in yellow, orange and red check which looked rather nice. She made me a top out of the same material so that we matched. She also made me this trousers of red velvet. We looked very colourful in our orange and red.

We arrived at the temple still not quite sure what, if anything was going to happen. The relatives all trooped in and we were shown to the front where we sat on cushions.

Much to our surprise the whole place was decorated with red and orange with lots of red and orange tulips. We matched!

Then a dozen monks came in. I did not know there were that many!

The ceremony was wonderful. The monks chanted and made this incredible sonorous sound. We lit candles and incense and got splashed with water. The monks’ chanting was intended to create Loving Kindness which was focused on that water. When the congregation and our good selves were splashed they were spreading the Loving Kindness around. I’m all in favour of Loving Kindness. We recited some words in Sanskrit. I’m not sure what we said. We could have been signing up to some Thai cult. It was probably about staying true to the path of goodness.

Then it was over.

The temple had arranged for someone to take a few photos and we ended up with three hazy black and white prints.

It wasn’t the usual wedding.

Liz’s parents boycotted it. I don’t think they approved of me.

I’m not sure what the relatives made of it. Some of them were very staid. We probably blew a few minds and sent a few tongues wagging.

One point of contention seemed to focus around whether we were actually married or not? Was it recognised?

Well that didn’t matter to us. But it seemed to matter to some. Particularly as Wedding two – The Registry Office  – was not until the following week.

Were we living in sin for the week?

Well as we had been doing for a year we thought that was quite amusing. How times change.

 

In the UK – paperback and digital:

https://read.amazon.co.uk/kp/card?preview=inline&linkCode=kpd&ref_=k4w_oembed_bwZ4eDYWobfMOo&asin=B018YJBYWG&tag=kpembed-20

In the USA in both paperback and digital:

https://read.amazon.com/kp/card?preview=inline&linkCode=kpd&ref_=k4w_oembed_N8zhRVPTSwhHwz&asin=B018YJBYWG&tag=kpembed-20

Our Three Weddings – anecdote

Posted on by Opher

Our three weddings.

 

Marriage was not something either of us believed in – so we had three.

 

We believed that the only real commitment was our love for each other. We had no need for a wedding.

However, we were aware that our parents did not quite share the same view. As Liz’s parents were not talking to me we thought a marriage might break the ice, build the bridges, douse the fire, patch things up and a host of other clichés.

Needless to say it failed spectacularly on the friendly repair side.

I can’t think why?

So we organised a Buddhist wedding, a registry office wedding and a Pagan Wedding in Windsor Park complete with Maypole on May 1st. Mayday was Liz’s 21st birthday. It felt appropriate. It seemed a bit of a laugh, an excuse to bring all our friends together and a way of appeasing parents and relatives.

Two out of three’s not bad!

In the UK – paperback and digital:

https://read.amazon.co.uk/kp/card?preview=inline&linkCode=kpd&ref_=k4w_oembed_bwZ4eDYWobfMOo&asin=B018YJBYWG&tag=kpembed-20

In the USA in both paperback and digital:

https://read.amazon.com/kp/card?preview=inline&linkCode=kpd&ref_=k4w_oembed_N8zhRVPTSwhHwz&asin=B018YJBYWG&tag=kpembed-20