Seize the Day (16 page)

Every time I read those words, the Master reaches out across the years and tweaks the tear-ducts. Now that's powerful writing.

I also visited Goldeneye, Ian Fleming's house where he wrote his James Bond novels. It occupies an idyllic spot with the garden dropping dramatically away to the sea and boasts unusual ablutionary arrangements. Each of the three bedrooms has an outside wash basin and a yard further along, a shower. OK as long as the weather holds, or maybe they just don't shower when it rains. At the bottom of each section of private garden is a fully plumbed old-style bath. One might imagine a summer's night, with Fleming, Coward
and Flynn holding forth at volume from their respective tubs, Fleming's lover Lady Rothermere tut-tutting in the house that ‘boys will be boys'. Many of the trees in the garden were given and planted by Fleming's guests, among the most notable being healthy specimens from Princess Margaret and Sir Anthony and Lady Eden. Ian Fleming invited the then Prime Minister for a holiday to escape the stress he was under from the Suez Crisis and the impending failure of the government's Middle East policy. I suppose planting the tree might have afforded a cathartic moment, away from the enormous pressure under which he found himself. His premiership lasted less than two years, but the tree still grows with the plaque to the Edens at its base. So now you know, the Garden of Eden is in Jamaica.

I couldn't miss out the ranch of Johnny Cash and June Carter up the hill from Rose Hall, home of the ‘white witch', more of whom in a moment. Like Noel Coward's retreat from the world, the Cashes' ranch, when I saw it, was just as they left it, little knowing they wouldn't be coming back as they would both pass away in the States. There was toothpaste in the bathroom, books they were reading by the bed and Johnny's boots behind the door. The house was once owned by the family of the poet, Elizabeth Barrett Browning and was part of the Rose Hall estate.

They say the ghost of Annie Palmer still haunts the great house at Rose Hall and having spent some time there, it's not a place I'd like to stay the night. Many have tried but virtually all have failed to last the course. Legend has it that she was versed in the ways of witchcraft and voodoo by her adopted nanny on the island of Haiti. Said to be a beauty, she married plantation owner John Palmer, who she murdered. She married twice more and murdered them as well. It was also said that she took slave lovers from the plantation. Maybe we'll never know the real story, but the place is pretty spooky and the imagination can run riot. Johnny Cash wrote a song about her, ‘The Ballad of Annie Palmer'.

One of the few waterfalls in the world that tumbles straight
into the sea is the Dunn's River Falls. It rises (or falls, depending on which way you're heading) 180 feet in a series of terraces 600 feet long and empties into the Caribbean. Bursting with powerful cascades and dotted with micro-lagoons, it's a fascinating climb. The normal practice recommended to tourists is that they hold hands in a chain and are guided by tour guides, but where's the excitement in that? I went alone and it was exhilarating. The force of the water is so powerful you need to keep your base low and your wits sharp. You have no idea of the depth of your next step. What an obstacle course.

I had to do the tourist thing with the dolphins of course, and have the photograph of one of the creatures kissing me to prove it. But as for having an affinity with humans, forget it. I have the happy snap of our tender moment, but she never wrote. Not a postcard or a phone call. Not even a text. Dolphins, eh?

A more dramatic escapade was the ‘cool runnings' afternoon. No snow of course, but they had the dogs, all rescue dogs, and the sleds were on wheels. The tricky bit was choosing the pack. The dogs knew. They sensed a good run. They all wanted some action: ‘Pick me, pick me.' (I speak fluent canine.) I knew if they could they'd all have had their paws in the air.

Harnessed in twos, the dogs couldn't wait to get started. This was going to be one hell of a ‘walkies' and at 40 mph I could hardly be community minded and stop to pick anything up in a plastic bag. I was given the commands that I had to use, in patois. So not only was my life in the hands of a dozen unruly curs, but I had to learn a new language in under two minutes. I had no idea how ‘dogpower' would feel. They went off at a hell of a lick, with me groping at the Jamaican for ‘right' and ‘left'. Not easy when you're being bounced around on a buckboard and fighting to keep your balance. My team and I came through like heroes. The hounds got a thorough hosing down and gallons of water, while I made a quick getaway for a tennis match with one of the top Jamaican players. I slept well that night. Mind you, I sleep well every night.

Don't run away with the idea that I only work in countries with an average winter temperature of 75 degrees. I've done my share of the Arctic Circle and nights that last under an hour. I've sat with reindeer, watched the sun decide to rise again when we know, by rights, it should be sinking, and stood with arms outstretched Leonardo DiCaprio style at North Cape. I've stared towards that moveable feast the North Pole and gazed over the Barents Sea. Why do I feel strangely English in this Norwegian landscape that is the northernmost tip of Europe? Because North Cape was named by Steven Borough, skipper of the
Edward Bonaventure
, which came this way in the mid-1500s looking for the Northeast Passage. Those were the days, when you could scoot around the globe in ships, naming places on a whim. Many egotistically named towns, mountains and waterways after themselves, not considering for a moment that the people who lived there probably already had names for them. Then there were the nautical toadies, who named anything they saw after their monarch, in the hope of some tawdry title or an acre or two in Wiltshire. North Cape was where the
Scharnhorst
was sunk in 1943, by the British and Norwegian navies.

Closer to home, I did tours of Northern Ireland, where many refused to venture. I found everyone charming, friendly and welcoming. Of course the Troubles were rife, but people were still going about their everyday lives. Yes, there were soldiers on patrol, and no, everything wasn't ideal, but things carried on and folk wanted entertainment to give them a lift. Before my first trip crossing the border, I'd imagined it would be a blaze of light and a flurry of activity. It was no such thing. Complete darkness was the order of the day with shapes approaching from the shadows to check your identity. I would end up with a pocketful of requests for the radio, from both checkpoints. Saracen tanks were also fairly common on the streets and were often present at non-border checkpoints, where the only signal for you to stop was a small red light swung by a soldier as your car approached. You ignored or missed it at your peril. It was always slightly disconcerting to have a 76 mm gun pointing at your windscreen. In Belfast I avoided staying at
the Europa Hotel, ‘the most bombed hotel in the world', and usually managed to get checked in at the Everglades in Derry/Londonderry, with commanding views over the river Foyle to the far hills of Donegal.

The hospitality was so good in Northern Ireland that there were times when it was necessary to accept a spare bed. On one such occasion I woke up to an empty house. There was no clue in the place as to where I was so I wandered into the street, where my question, ‘Where am I?', elicited a few odd responses and narrowing of eyes. Or if they'd had a night like I'd had, maybe their eyes were naturally narrow. It turned out that I was in Portrush, right up on the coast some 30 miles north east of my hotel. How the hell had I got there? I had no idea, and the identity of my hosts remained a mystery.

I arrived early in Belfast for one gig as it was snowing fairly heavily. An arms cache had been discovered in the city. The Army presence and sealed-off roads meant that those that were already in the club stayed there and those that had planned to come couldn't. Instead of 300 or 400 that night, there were no more than a dozen, so we sang songs, had a few drinks and made an intimate evening of it. The Falls Road area was often at the heart of the Troubles, but I was invited to someone's house there for tea, duly trotted along and was given a splendid welcome. It's well known that I'd even tiptoe gingerly through a minefield for a decent afternoon tea, with or without buttered buns.

The island of Malta is a delightful retreat, a part of the British Empire from 1814 until its independence in 1964. Always a strategic island, it fought alongside us during World War Two and was quite rightly awarded the George Cross for the bravery of its population during the siege of 1940–42. I spent some time out there with Robin Gibb when we both received International Music Awards. It was time that Robin remembered fondly and we spoke of it often. His favourite moment was away from the studios and the interviews when we spent a few hours at an outdoor café in Valletta, drinking tea and waffling about music and life. I remember him admitting that ‘Telstar' was a major influence on him. ‘Listen to the end of “Words”,' he said.

‘Can't see the similarity.' I was normally good on stuff like that.

He sang the last sixteen notes of the Bee Gees hit, then sang it again, speeded up, but without the words. He was right, it was ‘Telstar'.

In May 2011 I was back in Malta to receive the country's most prestigious award. Cliff Richard and I were knighted together and given the most fantastic ceremony. We were flown out, with a group of supportive friends for a few days, and learned about the incredible thousand-year history of the Order of St John of Jerusalem, stretching back to 1070. This was the oldest knighthood in the world. On the day, some 100 Brothers and Sisters of the Order were there to watch the ceremony, while we were given our black robes emblazoned with the Maltese cross, and later our beautifully crafted silver crosses to be worn on suitable occasions. Our hands were symbolically tied with cord at one point, prayers were said and singers praised in song, until the moment arrived for the ancient sword to fall on the shoulders. What a moment.

That night, the island gave us a fantastic dinner with a few hundred people present. I did the introductions and Cliff sang for half an hour. Before dinner we decided that it would be fitting to wear our medals that night. It's been tricky since to know when to wear it. On one military occasion at the Honourable Artillery Club, I was rebuked in a friendly manner by some old soldiers who knew I had the award, for not wearing the medal. When I pointed out that they had earned theirs for defending our country and mine was simply for charity work it brought an unusual response: ‘We had no option. Your effort was voluntary. Next time wear it with pride. It's an achievement.'

When you're a child, all things American seemed remote, romantic and almost like a film, so when I entered San Francisco by ship in the mid-2000s despite having had two hours sleep, I had to get up and stand on deck as we cruised under the Golden Gate Bridge. It was magical, better than flying in, as we slid past Alcatraz and Fisherman's Wharf to the city where hippies still hung out and you could buy some great CDs. On another trip around the same time, I flew
into Nicaragua via Houston, to join a ship on which I was giving a couple of talks. The plan was that the agent would meet me at the airport, and drive me to the port. No agent. Two hours later there is still a distinct lack of agent and the airport is shutting down behind me. Armed only with a guitar and case I tried to make a plan, but one simply refused to formulate. There were not too many buildings, let alone hotels. My saviour, in the form of a Nicaraguan taxi driver appeared and agreed to drive me for C$50. My specialist subject has never been the Nicarguan Cordoba, but I figured it sounded about right, although he did agree, at length, to accept American dollars. After forty-five minutes he swerved into an alley and, as if on cue, a man appeared from the shadows (no jokes please, this is potentially heavy stuff). They talked furtively in some indigenous language, and whether Rama or Miskito I knew not, but I prepared to make a dash for it. I figured they may be contriving to steal the guitar and money. The passport would have been a serious problem. My life even more so. After much consultation the ominous chap (anyone who lurks in the shadows is clearly ominous) slid back into the inky blackness and my driver turned on me.

‘Too far … he say where we go too far.'

‘How far?'

‘Too far. No go.'

‘Yes, we go.'

‘No go … turn back.'

Difficult to argue the case. It was his car. He turned round and drove forty-five minutes back, dumped me at the airport, which was not only closed but now appeared to be hermetically sealed and revealing no signs of life. I set off walking and some time later staggered into a rough-hewn hostelry with rooms. As I passed the bar with my cherished key in my hand, I was accosted by welsh voices.

‘Come on then Mike, give us a song.'

‘Get the guitar out.'

A group of welsh fishermen were well alight after a good day at sea,
so out came the guitar and we sang. The day had been a long one and I hadn't even caught any exotic fish that I could dream of. I hadn't realised that I'd be sharing a room with a large family of geckos. At first I assumed it was gecko wallpaper until the wallpaper started moving.

Although I avoided dodgy taxi drivers in Acapulco, I was accosted on one occasion by a rather insistent chap who was keen for me to go with him to meet a ‘nice young girl who in love with you'. While I couldn't argue with her alleged taste, I declined the invitation. No mention of afternoon tea or cake … what sort of woman was she? He trotted beside me for a good few hundred metres or it could even have been yards, upping his selling technique, until he hit what he must have presumed was his marketing zenith. Rubbing his hands on his chest he declared,