Going out on a limb in the quest for some peace and some quiet

IT can be hard to find the time to meditate. The time to contemplate. The time for soul-searching and self-examination. But today I find that an extended opportunity to sit and think has arisen… My late father’s brother – Uncle Rob – was never held up as a role model in our house when I was growing up, if only because he was not around. While my father stayed close to the family nest, Rob packed his suitcase at the earliest opportunity and headed off on the Mail Boat to seek his fortune in the UK.

Even had he lived next door, my parents would have pointed to him as a man whose example was to be followed in every particular. Dad and Rob were just about as contrasting a pair of siblings as it was possible to be. Rob wore his cap straight while Dad affected a rakish angle with his headgear. Rob lined out at rugby while Dad was better known as a tennis player. Rob took up an apprenticeship as soon as he could while Dad stayed in school as long as the school would have him on the roll.

With the Irish Sea between them and visits home a rarity, a perfunctory exchange of Christmas cards was more or less the extent of the relationship for many years. I grew up only vaguely aware of Rob in Northampton and of whatever he might be up to.

Then another factor in the many differences between the two brothers emerged as significant: Rob never smoked while Dad was a divil for his cigarettes. So though Rob is still very much with us at the age of 90-plus, Dad died suddenly and unexpectedly in his early fifties.

The migrant, complete with his English Midlands accent and ‘Daily Mail’ views, was home for the funeral. With the advent of cheap air travel he gradually became a more frequent visitor. Once retired and widowed Rob had yet more time on his hands, turning up regularly for a summer trip to the old country, whether invited or not, which has become an annual event.

The last time this grand old man was over, Hermione responded in advance to his imminent arrival at Medders Manor by attempting to remove every potential trip hazard from the house and yard. Rugs were nailed down. Shoes normally left strewn in chaotic abandon were tidied. And The Pooch was exiled to a neighbour’s kennel for the duration.

She reckoned that a man of his advanced years needed to be protected from perils which are not otherwise viewed as remotely dangerous. Rob reckoned otherwise.

He trotted up and down the stairs at every opportunity in umbrage at being allocated a ground floor bedroom. He insisted on giving young Eldrick a hands-on lesson in the art of scrummaging, though our son has given up rugby, complete with tales of how he scored three tries in a match at Nuneaton. Or was it Sutton Coldfield?

Then he lent a hand with push-starting the car when the battery ran down. When we finally persuaded him to sit down, he produced an album of photos from his recent skiing vacation in the Alps. Or was it the Urals?

I thought of Rob, now back in England, and his don’t-makeany-allowances-for-me attitude this morning after I waved Hermione off to work and contemplated what to do with my day. I could weed the flower-bed. Or sweep out the barn. Or the roses could use a prune.

Or I could attack that ash tree which has been casting a long shadow over the Side Garden. That’s what Rob would do surely. So out with the ladder. And out with the old bush saw. And up with me.

I heaved myself on to a bough – kicking the ladder away in the effort. Now I find myself 20 scary feet off the ground with no one in sight and no one likely to be in sight until tea time. I am hoarse with calling out for help and my phone lies useless on the kitchen table.

All I can do for the next six hours is (1) admire the view of the Rolling Acres from this precariously elevated vantage point, (2) enjoy some unscheduled meditation and (3) curse my hyperactive uncle.