A Salmagundi of Memories

Salmagundi; A mixture, an assortment, a pot pourri. by Sara John

I came across an interesting word recently, salmagundi, and, on checking up on the correct spelling and on its meaning decided it was a good title for this article.

Memories of experiences long past, nowadays often triggered by long conversations with old school friends (the old refers of course to the length of the friendships, not the age of the chums), or a movie from the past on television that reminds you of a cinema, a film, or leading actor, and maybe also a companion from that time now long gone, can send you into a reverie of long ago.

For people lucky enough to be blessed with a good memory and reasonable recall, and I put myself in that category, there is a price to pay. For me, especially after a visit to any large electronics outlet, often so big that on entering you cannot see the back of the shop, selling a wide range of clearly popular items just short of an actual spaceship, I am made aware of being out of kilter with the world around me. The shops these days, for me anyway, are often well stacked with goods I cannot identify and do not require, or do not think I want, particularly if I do not know what they are. We know none will have an instruction booklet. Often abandoning a shopping trip empty handed, and disappointed. I recall recently that I could not buy the printer clearly on display for sale (and it was the one I had already decided on), because it was the last one they had!

I had to face reality. I have not been paying attention to what has been happening in the world, probably since decimalisation.

In the meantime I can daydream. I can remember and share so many magic moments from the past events and occurrences from life, work, and travel.

Many of these fondly remembered moments and warm memories will be familiar. Those moments in time which were never actively sought, but just happened when you were ‘there’ at that spot on

Earth when something you will “always remember” took place.

We were walking across a quiet beach on the south coast of Pembrokeshire one summer evening when we were living in Manorbier. Down at the water’s edge we heard shouting and squealing from, what seemed at a distance, young voices. Looking behind us and up the beach we saw and heard not panic, danger or an emergency, thank goodness! It was a scene that could have illustrated a children’s story book in the 1930’s. The tide which was going out quite rapidly had, with the aid of a stiff breeze, cut a long, fairly deep broad pond from well up the beach down almost to where the tide was at that moment. The pond dip, which had been hidden under the sea earlier in the day was full of retained sea water.

A family or two had exploited this natural occurrence and had brought with them a jolly large, serious looking dingy full of assorted sized children who were shrieking with glee. Why? They were being towed around in circles by a very serious large black Newfoundland dog who had taken the loose ropes that were around the dingy in his mouth and, by the look of sheer determination on his handsome face had no intention of letting go. If he could have shouted over to, by now, a large group of onlookers he would have explained in a dark and growly voice, “It’s what we do!”

The sea, the setting sun, the sand, the children and the star of the whole event, the Newfoundland dog, all remain in a perfect picture book memory. That same year, as I was making our porridge, one morning I heard strange noises outside. Although we were living on the road down to the beach, it was always very quiet. The most traffic it carried was the single decker occasional bus going to either Tenby or Pembroke depending which way it was facing. Like the Circle line in London, but we only had the one bus! Close to Bank Holidays there were frequently visitors ‘From Away’ in their cars who were utilising sat navs to find their holiday destinations. Frequently they would find themselves in a dead end, often in field facing a large herd of cattle with other ‘strangers’ following them because they had been travelling along the country roads as if they knew what they were about.

Anyway, these noises were quite different.

We went outside to be greeted by the most wonderful sight imaginable.

About thirty or so glossy jet-black horses of the Household Cavalry clearly on their holidays, and ridden bareback by their grooms were heading towards the beach. We, us, the neighbours, customers at the shop (there was only one shop) and passing on-foot visitors spontaneously started clapping. What a sight. It moved many of us to tears. It was sheer beauty, all the more so as both riders and horses were out of uniform, and so clearly enjoying themselves.

They all stopped to say good morning. They had come from London and were staying at the Military Camp on the promontory at Manorbier. Normally it was empty, locked, and secure. For some of the younger horses this would be their first sight of the sea, the grooms explained, the younger ones would wait back and follow the older horses who had enjoyed seaside holidays previously. The grooms explained that they were bareback because experience showed in the past that once the horses were in the sea they would rather expertly, apparently, tip their grooms off their backs. We admired the condition of the horses and how immaculate their coats were. One of the lady grooms explained it would take about two weeks back in the stables in Kensington when their holidays were over, to get the horses looking ‘perfect’ again. They would not be seen by the public during that time! One of our neighbours organised a whip round so horses and grooms could have ice creams from the Manorbier

Beach Cafe after their games and sea bathing.

We followed the Troop down to the beach and watched enviously as horses and soldiers enjoyed wonderful time disporting themselves in the sea.

All the village were invited to their holiday stables, on the promontory, on the last day of their holidays for ‘A HORSE SHOW’ for us, only us, from the village, and we could meet all the staff who cared for the horses, and most importantly the horses themselves. A very special treat. We all hoped the horses enjoyed their hols as much as we enjoyed meeting them.

When I was working in television in Cardiff, years ago, staff were told that a new series of Animal Magic with Johnny Morris would be recorded over the next few weeks on site. We were told that, “on no account should ANYONE not connected with the production go anywhere near Studio C1, as there would be a number of young animals there”. As I had responsibility for staff working on the show, I reckoned that I would be failing in my duties not to go and make sure everything was alright. (I wrote that down and learnt it off by heart in case I was apprehended, told I had to obey orders and instructions and then dismissed).

I had, shall we say, an indirect route from my office around to an entrance to the back doors of the big studio. Off I went at the first chance. I passed a large van with two gentlemen, a lot of luggage and a baby in a cosy blanket. They were clearly heading into a dressing room to get ready for programme rehearsals. They did not know the way and there was no one else around so I offered to help. When we arrived at the dressing room allocated to them, I asked if I could peep at the baby. “Yes of course” they said, “do you want to hold him?” The other gentleman was busy unpacking, but I had already seen Boots bags, disposable napkins, tissues galore, baby foods, rattles and so on being set up on the table. In those days seeing two men and a baby was unusual but far from out of the question and I assumed one of the gentlemen was going to be interviewed for the programme.

I was handed the baby. It was a six-week-old gorilla. From Bristol Zoological Gardens His name was Sacha, short for Alexander.

His mother had abandoned him and he was being hand reared, night and day by these two devoted keepers. Sacha opened his dark brown eyes. If he could have spoken, he would have said, “I am ready for my close up, Mr de Mille.”

The following week I was on location in Barry, we were filming some inserts for a new comedy series at Barry Zoo. The two gentlemen who owned and ran the enterprise showed some of us around

during our lunch break. We were taken to a peaceful verdant meadow with lots of wildflowers. And a lioness! She, safely on the other side of the fence, came over at once when she saw the two owners. They spoke to her, and she was very responsive. Her name was Cara and six weeks previously she had given birth.

By this time my colleagues had returned to adjacent fields to prepare for the next scenes to be filmed. I was asked if I wanted to see the new arrival of which everyone employed there, was very very proud. One of the owners went into a small cabin in Cara’s field and emerged with a bundle in a blanket. He called to me to come in and meet the cub. Cara also made her way over to where we were standing to check up on her baby. Cuddled up in a snow-white woollen blanket was a golden miniature lion, the same size just about as six-week-old baby. She was fast asleep; I was transfixed to the spot. I was in another world, Paradise. Until I realised that I was standing admiring a lion cub with her mother, Cara, a fullgrown lion two feet away.

On another memorable occasion I had read in the paper that an important visitor was coming to Cardiff the following Saturday to open a new Bookmakers on Queen Street. I wondered who that could be? Not the sort of thing the BIG names would be involved in. How wrong could I be? Very, as it turned out.

The following day a new Bookmakers business was going to be opened by one of the best looking, truly handsome, athletic, and famous of male persons at that time. I had to go. Husband said, “Yes. Of course I will come along.” (“Anything for a quiet life” was left silently hanging in the air).

When we arrived in Queen Street the following Saturday morning a very large crowd had assembled. And there in the centre, looking like an equine version of every handsome film star ever was the most beautiful, serene, gentle racehorse, RED RUM.

The most famous racehorse of all time. The prize money he generated during his career amounted to hundreds of thousands of pounds. With such a warm and loving personality and an eagerness to participate in all these exciting events he was always surrounded by adoring crowds of fans. wiped with a damp towel because he was covered with kisses, including those of an elderly Irish gentleman who hugged him saying in the direction of his ears, “tanks for everything”.

Red Rum had only recently retired and had been overwhelmed by invitations for guest appearances, openings, and garden parties. He was, it would appear pleased to be The Winner wherever he went.

Later on that year he won The Sports Personality of the Year 1977. In 1978 he retired but as it said in the many, many articles written about him, he loved people and people loved him. So, he built a new career opening supermarkets, schools, and took part in many, many events including going to Blackpool to switch on the lights.

He died in October 1995 aged 30. That sad news was the lead story on the BBC News that evening. He was buried at the Winning Post at Aintree.

These memories not only bring back moments of joy but can be useful tools when coping with some of today’s challenges, particularly when we hear so much about the problems of stress and anxiety in these troubled times. A retrospective look at life. Remembering a moment which always makes you smile. This often eases moments of difficulty and relaxes the mind and body.

These memories may be sufficient to help you to fall asleep.

And dream some more.