Firewater

We don't take singles. Too much trouble.” A charming lady at the second, after an amused inspection, offered to take the bedraggled foreigner in for a little more than six pounds a night, with full breakfast thrown in. I was in no mood to quibble. Never mind that the carpet was badly worn and the wash basin stank of stale urine; the linen looked clean and the price was right. I would have settled for worse. In fact, my choice turned out quite well. A brief nap and a quick scrub had me almost ready to explore my surroundings. Perhaps I should explain that, as a result of many long, boring and uncomfortable journeys by air, I have discovered that the best way to endure such travel is in a state of oblivion. Air hostesses, flight attendants, or “stews” as we used to call them before it became hazardous to do so, cannot be relied upon for appropriate anaesthesia, so I provide my own. My service flight-jacket, being equipped with several zippered pockets, was the ideal garment in which to stow some miniatures of fine single-malt whiskey. I had originally intended to consume them during the transatlantic flight. To my gratification, however, the Air Canada flight attendant had been most understanding, or possibly just forgetful, responding to my pleas with three good double shots which had left my own supply almost intact. Authorities will, no doubt, frown on the practice, citing all kinds of woeful effects from airborne consumption of alcohol. They lie. Take it from one who has spent many desiccated hours seated behind the guiding hands of callow pilots, many of whom would find operation of an automatic dishwasher challenging and few of whom I would trust with my car. The knowledge that quite a few of those same pilots have left military service for more lucrative employment with the airlines of the world heightens my conviction that the only way to fly is as high as you can get. Before setting out to explore Southampton, I scribbled a letter home to my brother to bring him up to date on my address and progress. While doing so, as a source of inspiration, I consumed my remaining miniatures of whisky. With the pain from my fall assuaged and my spirit fired by the fumes of the barley, I then set out to mail my letter and explore the city. Unburdened by my heavy pack, my stride was jaunty although possibly not rectilinear. When I had gone a few blocks I came to the edge of a large park at the intersection of Dunsmuir and Above Bar Street. A peculiar name that, I was musing, when I was startled by an outburst of screaming. A glance revealed its source to be an enclosure covered with chicken-wire, set beneath the spreading limbs of an ancient oak. Dappled light from the feeble autumn sun revealed within it a number of exotic fowls with gaudy plumage, shrieking and twittering in vociferous outrage. As a former aviator I felt great sympathy for the prisoners. On perceiving the steely gaze of a great, goggle-eyed owl ricochet from my benign, glowing countenance, I could not refrain from commenting in my best Scotch accent, “Hoot, mon, is it no a braw day?” Unimpressed, it continued to glare hostility, while finches and warblers chorused a prisoner’s lament. A pheasant of some kind, just then, stretched its neck, fluttered its wings and stamped the dirt with tawny feet. My glance toward the uneasy bird was distracted by the sight of a padlock hanging open, its tang still fixed in the hasp of a door. Struck by an impulse, I made a quick scan of the area. No keeper in sight – although there was a rather curious dark mound, like a pile of old rags, in the bushes off to my right. It was the work of a moment to remove the lock and fling wide the gate. Feeling a bit like St. Francis of Assisi, I invited my feathered friends to reclaim their freedom. “You are all cleared for immediate takeoff!” I announced in my most commanding voice. The response was unexpectedly violent. The dark mound, which I had identified as refuse, reared up suddenly and thrust me roughly aside, so that I fell once again onto bruised ribs. On raising my head, I was in time to see a huge man in an army greatcoat dart into the cage. A large dirty hand shot from a torn sleeve to snatch the jittery pheasant by the neck. By the time I had regained my feet, the back of the khaki greatcoat, beneath a tangled mass of dark-red hair, was disappearing with great, but deliberate, haste, propelled by the long strides of teen-sized army boots which, despite grimy leather, appeared to be almost new and in excellent condition, curiously at variance with the rest of the vagrant’s tatterdemalion attire. My last glimpse of the hapless pheasant was a blur of colour spewing feathers like a torn pillow, as the brawny arm of its raptor swung it in a practised, neck-breaking twirl. Having no wish to be involved as an accomplice to murder, I about-faced and initiated a speedy departure. On my way out of the park I almost tripped over a small plaque inscribed with a commemoration to the victims of the Titanic, lost on her maiden voyage from this city. Not, I reflected, an auspicious beginning for my journey. I tucked my head lower and quickened my pace on becoming aware of an intense scrutiny from beneath a checkered uniform cap in the front seat of a police cruiser parked across the street. A cooler, more cautious, mood began to assert itself as the warm glow of the malt slowly dissipated. Further on, I was struck by the similarity of the town centre to that of a typical Canadian city. It was not until later, upon observing the shell of a stone church, that I connected the modern construction with the wartime devastation inflicted by the Luftwaffe. Southampton had absorbed more than its share of collateral damage from raids on the city docks. Near the far end of the ravaged core, I passed close by the remains of a massive ancient stone archway which, I was informed by my landlady after my return, is called the “Bar,” or more properly, the “Bar Gate,” hence the name “Above Bar” for the street. The Bar Gate had, in mediaeval times, been the passage through a wall which surrounded the entire city. I have vague recollections from my grade ten British History that Southampton had figured in several assaults prior to becoming the principal sally port for the D Day invasion of Normandy. Wasn't King Henry or someone like that, in the habit of setting out from here to harry the French? . . . This must be familiar ground to you, Odysseus. You probably launched from here during the war when you went to Holland . . . I did not voice the question to my landlady lest it reveal my ignorance; I did, however, make inquiries as to where might be a good starting point for my search. “Oh you’ve come to a good place to begin,” I was informed enthusiastically by my dark-haired hostess, as she prepared to serve breakfast. A medium maple-syrup tint to her complexion, high cheek bones and something about the tawny eyes, suggested that her Dutch forebears may have spent some time in one of their East Indian colonies cooking up the genes of that tasty well-tanned waffle. “There are a number of boat yards nearby. But I’m afraid most of them will be closed for the weekend. Why don't you start by taking a trip to Cowes? There are plenty of yachts there, and it makes a nice trip on the ferry.” Accordingly, the following morning saw me trudging down to the ferry dock, a mile away on Southampton water, to catch the first trip in the Morris Castle's daily shuttle. As she pulled away from the dock with her load of tourists in the pleasant sunshine, with a score or more of small craft, mostly sailboats, frolicking in the light breeze, I saw a few hints of the burden of history borne on this tiny patch of ocean. On my left hand the liner Canberra, not