Berwick Heights

As a young boy, i was rather precocious. I liked adventure. I liked the thrill of doing things that you just weren't supposed to do. I was a good kid though. I always completed my chores, kept myself quiet when there were adults around. These were the days of children being seen but not heard.

Well, i wanted to be heard.

At nine years old i was pushing back, pushing boundaries, testing the limits as to what was acceptable behaviour. Subtly, one misdemeanor at a time. First I stayed up after bedtime, then staying out later than i said i would be, hanging around with the wrong kids. Sure, i wasn't a rebel at nine, but I wanted to be.

This rail against authority though, was to be my last.

My Grandparents didnt go on holiday all that often from what I remember. Their health wasn't the best, all those ailments that older people tend to get. Well, my mum convinced them that they needed a break, and that a caravan holiday in Berwick Upon Tweed was the answer. The little town straddling the border between Scotland and England deemed the perfect place for two seventy somethings to spend a bit of time away from the hustle and bustle of city life in Glasgow, with the added bonus and the stress of a blisteringly active nine year old (me) and a moody Garfield loving nineteen year old (my Auntie).

Anyway, they invited me and my Auntie Anne (Annie she preferred), also bringing Suzie, my Grandads Jack Russell. She was a vicious little thing. A yappy, snappy dog if ever there was one. Stuck to the old man like glue though, and the bond between them was solid.

We drove down, my Dad being volunteered as nobody else could/ would/ be bothered to drive.

Thinking about being in a car with Grandad always reminds me of a particular story; There was a time where Dad drove me, Mum and Grandad up to Campbeltown on the west coast of Scotland to go and see Grandad's sister. It was a long drive, on one of those winding, bumpy roads that seemed to go on forever. We had stopped off for a spot of lunch on the way, stretched our legs and took some photos.

For some reason i thought it would be a good idea to have the pancakes dripping with maple syrup. They were delicious, but absolutely not the right food for a journey on that road. Well, we weren't all that far from Campbeltown where i started having the urge to be sick. The feeling started to rise deep in my gut, the queasy feeling, light headedness. Then the dry heaving started. My Grandad was sitting to the left of me, Dad driving the car in the seat directly in front, Mum sat diagonally. The feeling was building like a pressure cooker. I mumbled that i was going to be sick. Mum of course asked if i could hold it in until we were able to stop. Well, at that, the vomiting commenced. No, not over my Dad, or my Grandad (I knew exactly what would be headed my way if i did), but diagonally right over my poor Mum. I tell you, that scene from the Exorcist had nothing on me that day.

My lasting memory of that incident is the four of us standing at the road side, Dad and Grandad completely untouched, the car relatively sick free, but my mum covered, and my Grandad trying to comb Mum's hair straight.

Anyway, I digress...

We made it to the caravan site unscathed and with no stops for pancakes. We settled in and started to enjoy the holiday, with Dad having dropped us off. I went off to explore the camp, and got involved in the activities that were organised by the site.

I made a few friends as you do at that age. We went to the events organised, played in the on site arcade and occasionally wandered off site to the nearby town. Everything at that age seemed like an adventure.

The caravan park was situated with a beach nearby, at the top of a cliff. We were told by our families not to venture out that far and to stick to this side of the park.

But no, I wanted to explore, to push boundaries.

I wanted to be heard.

Me and my new friend David decided that is exactly what we would do. We went down the long, winding steel armed set of stairs onto the beach, where we ran about playing and pretending that the beach was being invaded by some unknown private army.

Eventually the tide started to come in and the daylight started to fade a little, our bellies telling us that it was probably getting close to dinner time and we would be getting shouted on to come back in soon.

The choice was simple. Take the stairs back up that we came down, or climb the cliff face. Well, with us playing on the beach, the stairs were quite a fair bit away, so the obvious choice was to climb up the cliff face!

We started our ascent, David quickly and confidently climbed up, grabbing at the jagged edges, gaining a foothold and easing up to safety. The climb was long and arduous (for nine year olds), and I wasn't all that far behind him.

I managed the climb well enough, but right near the top I made the fatal error of looking down. Down the height that I later found out had been estimated at fifty feet, I remember the figures milling about on the beach looked so small.

I panicked.

I started grasping desperately for anything that I could, the grass at the top of the cliff came away in clumps, the muddy edge of the cliff face disintegrating to be replaced by air. Light, empty nothingness.

I fell.

My thoughts were of family, friends and moments of my life until that point. My fifth birthday party, where i played with my new He-Man figures. Riding on my Dad's back as he cycled from my school back home, the way my Gran smelled when I cuddled in to her, and that I dearly wanted to experience those things again. The Campbeltown incident too, and my cat Dusty, his little black and white face appearing in my mind.

I remember that lightness in my chest, the feeling you get when you get a fright. I hit a piece of rock jutting out from the cliff edge, my sight blurring, the noise of the wind around me quietening, the light dimming and starting to fade. I could see land approaching quickly.

I landed.

I hit the ground violently, my body twisting and bending, arms and legs in an un-natural position. I couldn't feel or remember a thing, I remember it being interpreted by my brain as a somewhat religious experience.

My eyes were closed but my mind was awake, and alive.

Brighness, a blinding, brilliant light. My eyes focussed and I was travelling through a tunnel of some sort, a voice in my head telling me that it was not yet my time.

I awoke in an ambulance, travelling up towards Edinburgh, with my Auntie Annie sat beside me, tears in her eyes, thanking God i was alive.

Fifty feet they told me. That was the distance i fell, and that I was a lucky boy that I landed upon my face. Strange as that sounds, and with a broken nose and a broken jaw, I got off lightly. They told me that if I had landed in any other way and on any other part of my body I would not have survived.

David ran to get help, and met my Grandad who was out walking Suzie. Grandad came to the top of the cliff, looked down and saw my lifeless body. He went the short distance back to the caravan, took off his coat, took Suzie off of her lead and pronounced to my Gran "Mary, I think the Grandson's deid" and proceeded to sit down! I do miss him dearly.

I like to think that I had someone looking out for me that day, watching over me.

That day and that experience taught me a lesson. Explore, be adventurous, live life but don't be reckless with it.