Eulogy to dear friend and the joys of Poland
THERE has been a bit of a clamour to hear some more ‘Oaf’ stories since the untimely passing of my great friend, Peter Bromhall, in December - so here goes with the first regarding a trip we made to Poland 10 years ago.
I alluded to this story in the eulogy I gave at the 1,000 strong funeral at St Mary’s Catholic Church in Glossop, a wonderful celebration of Peter’s life. It was like the biggest and best wedding you had ever been to and my eulogy was more like a Best Man’s speech. Oaf would have loved it.
It was early April 2007 and we, as usual, had stuck the proverbial pin in the map and pricked Poznan. Within five minutes of arriving at our hotel, on the edge of a forest, we had been graced with a lesserspotted eagle, a male Montagu’s harrier and a gaggle of impertinent jays, normally so shy but in the wilds of Wielkopolska quite brash. The eagle was just returned from Africa and a winter diet of swarming termites.
Hotel Solei, until two years before, was nothing more than the remains of a farm building which had been flattened in the Second World War, but thanks to some imaginative thinking and hard cash, the owners had created a stunning haven, only half-an-hour from town but light years away in terms of ‘feel’ and surroundings. I especially liked the way that all mature trees were left in place around the grounds.
The bar did not open for half-an-hour, so I dragged my wildlife buddy along an ancient cart track which dissected a huge expanse of dusty-brown arable farmland bordering the pines. In the distance an old green diesel engine grumbled noisily as it pulled 25 goods trucks, while closer in a corn bunting ensured it was being heard, with its song reminiscent of a shaken bunch of keys.
When the train passed silence reigned and the glorious sunshine beat down as we discarded fleeces and jumpers.
Just as I was thinking that the fields reminded me of Leicestershire, I heard something. I couldn’t see them at that point, but the characteristic ‘kerr-r-r-ick’ of the grey partridge, often likened to a swinging rusty gate, was unmistakable. With the help of binoculars I soon spotted the robin-red face of a male, before two females came into view.
I asked Oaf to stand in front of a 30-foot high Blackthorn bush gone wild and white with blossom. A sea of white blossom dwarfed my friend, a truly beautiful spectacle (the flowers and the humming of bees that is!) and we were only distracted by an even better sighting of a bright sulphur-yellow male brimstone butterfly.
It was said that the devil pricked those who had given their souls to him in the finger with a Blackthorn as a sign of initiation. So, after checking Oaf’s fingers, I explained that some so-called witches were burned alive because the inquisition had found a mark on their fingers. To add insult to injury, the Blackthorn was often used to build the fires.
It was ‘beer-o-clock’ at noon and, in the best tradition of this column, imagine the scene. With our backs to the forest, beers in hand, drumming woodpeckers and glorious skylarks competing for attention, we tucked into the traditional sour rye, sausage and egg soup, which came in its own rye loaf bowl. And yes, it’s true, Oaf ate the bowl much to the waitress’s amusement. Next week hear how we tracked wild boar.