My Wishing Rock: April 2013

ARTHUR CHARLES PAULL
My dad.............101 today - and, can you believe it?
IT'S SNOWING!!

Hey, ARTHUR CHARLES, I hope you're doing well......I miss you......and I miss Mum.

A Newlyn lad......

Born 1st May, 1912
Died 1973 (have to check the day - sorry! Will as soon as the construction project in my house is finished and i can get to all my papers again!)

My dad, Arthur Charles Paull, was born in Newlyn, S.E. Cornwall, up Jack lane, close to the harbor. His father, John Paul the Younger, was a fisherman and tin miner...... Grandfather John Paull (he accidentally added the extra L to his name on his wedding day.........he was illiterate and when he scribbled his name, it was recorded as PAULL) died during the Second World War, just before I was born.

Grandmother, Frances, lived with us in Newlyn, and died in 1947, just before we moved to Penzance.
Dad had an older brother, Tom, and two sisters, Evelyn, the oldest, and Katie, the baby of the family.

Uncle Tom ran away from home when he was 11 to be a cabin boy on an ocean liner. Eventually, in true story book fashion, he became a Captain in the Merchant Navy (what a story!), and died in somewhat mysterious circumstances just off the coast of America. Aunty Evelyn and Aunty Katie also passed away in their 60s.

Dad's first home, on Old Paul Hill, overlooked Mounts Bay

and the very beautiful

St. Michael's Mount.

His favorite place to plant his spiller, hoping to catch bass and flatfish, Lariggan Beach, and, later on his life, to help me collect rocks.

A mile or two inland were some of the Cornish the tin mines.......I think I'm correct in writing that his dad worked in one of the mines in St. Just.

I only have one photo of Arthur Charles, when he was a child, taken at Newlyn Board School:

There he is, 4th from the right, back row, taken, I think, around 1920/21...what a wonderful, touching photo!

.......and then the photo I took the last time we were together, when he was 61

He so wanted to go to Hell's Mouth and watch the gannets diving into the deep blue sea.......he was so ill he literally crawled across the grass to his favorite spot.

Beautiful, isn't it? Even though he was riddled with pain, he so wanted to see it once more before......;

I took this photograph of Mum and Dad when we got back home.

They were very close. I have vivid memories of them holding hands when we went on family walks.......and the closeness when Mum trimmed Dad's eyebrows!

Arthur Charles left school at 13 and joined the Western National Bus Company, washing and cleaning the buses. Eventually becoming a driver. He retired in his early 60s through ill health. This photo, on the right, was taken just after he received his gold watch for long and successful service to the bus company.

She was such a dish!

Wedding Day

What I can remember about my dad

I'm a collector.......that is, I love to find and collect anything that catches my eye - whether on the beach, in the woods, or by the river. Anywhere. And that is the biggest thing my dad gave me - the lifelong passion of the collector. Here's how it all started:

The Paull family, Arthur Charles and Hazel Monica, their three sons, Jimmie, John and Charles, lived with Grandma Paull, and Joseph, the black and white tabby cat, in 16, Treveneth Crescent, in a newly built-small low-income housing area in the county of Cornwall, in south-western England. The house overlooked the busy fishing village of Newlyn, Lariggan Beach, which was just beyond Newlyn’s picturesque harbor, and, in the far distance, St. Michael’s Mount, rising out of the beautiful Mount’s Bay.

To supplement the family’s food needs, Dad, a bus driver for the Western National Bus Company, did what all our neighbors did in their small back gardens – grew potatoes, sprouts, carrots and sweet peas.

When he wasn’t driving the big green double-decker buses from village to village, Dad set snare traps for rabbits in the nearby Bejoywan Woods. He'd set them at night and then go back first thing in the morning to see what he'd caught. Each spring and summer, weather permitting, Dad would go to Lariggan Beach and dig in the sand for the brown and red sand lugs, then set and bait his long spiller - a fishing line, holding perhaps 20 or more hooks, tied to tins that were buried in the sand - hoping to catch flounder or bass. These he would sell at the nearest fresh fish shop.

Dad also kept a few chickens in a nearby farmer’s field, selling the eggs to neighbors in our street.

To celebrate the birth of his sons, first for Jimmie in 1938, then, me, in 1942, and finally, Charles, in 1947, dad planted three gooseberry bushes near the back garden fence behind the few rows of vegetables.

When we were in the garden, picking sweet peas, eating goosegogs [1] when they were in season or, more likely, looking for worms and other small creatures, Dad would always say, with a smile and a twinkle in his eye, to my brothers, Jimmie and Charles, and me,

“That’s where the big white stork left the three of you, just there, right under those three gooseberry bushes!”

I had no idea what a stork looked like, but, as it had carried me, I sensed it was much bigger than the herring gulls that perched on our roof.

He’d set aside Sunday afternoons, when he wasn’t driving his bus, to take the family on walks to the beach or to the nearby lanes around the famous painter Stanhope Forbes’ manor house.

It was Dad’s chance to show off what he knew about the hawks, owls, ducks, rabbits, badgers and foxes that lived in the old granite hedgerows around the local farms, and the jelly-fish, sharks, seals and dolphins that swam in the warm currents of Mounts Bay.

Lariggan Beach was, for me. the best place to go, though. I loved going there most of all because you never knew what you might find lying on the pebbly sand - especially after a stormy night.

After the Sunday midday meat and potato pasty dinner, washed down with a cup of hot, steaming tea, if the sun was shining, Mum would pick up her old, scratched black leather bag. She’d fill a big Farley’s Rusks tin with something to eat, perhaps a sliced apple or a pear or small cheese sandwiches with the thick crusts cut off, and drop in two empty ‘OXO’ tins and two of Dad’s used ‘OLD HOLBORN’ tobacco tins. We knew it was time to put on our thick socks and rubber wellies.

Then, with mum pushing Charles’ pram, we’d make our way down the winding lanes, across the harbor, to the pebbly beach.

If the tide was out, we looked to see what had been washed up on the beach, then we’d hunt small green and red crabs or brown bull cods in the rock pools. If we were lucky, we’d find a stranded jellyfish that we could return to the sea. Then we’d collect beautiful black and grey and white pebbles that had been smoothed by the constant rolling motion of the sea.

Pebble collecting was, for me, the most fun. I’d search for heart-shaped pebbles, or, even better, black pebbles with a vein of white quartz running through the middle.

These pebbles with the line of quartz were special. Mum and Dad called them wishing rocks.

Finding a wishing rock that rested comfortably in the palm of your hand made you feel good. You’d pick it up, slowly wrap your fingers around it and squeeze really tight. When your fingers warmed the pebble, you closed your eyes and thought about someone you wanted to send a special wish to. Then, slowly, you uncurled your fingers, knowing that somebody, somewhere, suddenly felt a warm shiver down the spine, just as that lucky person got your wish! I always sent my very best wishes to my mum, my dad and my two brothers, Jimmie and Charles.

When the wish had been sent, you put your wishing rock into what mum called your treasure tin, a small red OXO meat-cube tin. Mum and Dad put theirs into the bigger, yellow OLD HOLBORN tobacco tins she’d carried in her bag.

When we filled our tins with our best finds of the day, ate our snack, we made our way home. If we were really lucky, we’d first visit the corner shop at the bottom of Old Paul Hill, and Dad would buy everyone a thruppeny crispy cone filled with Daniel’s delicious homemade ice cream.

When we got back home, we took off our wellies, sat on the carpet in the front room, and emptied our treasure tins on to a sheet of ‘The Cornishman’ newspaper. Mum boiled the kettle on the gas stove, made a pot of tea, and cut up a couple of scones and a fresh saffron cake.

As we drank tea and munched slices of currant-filled saffron cake, sweetened with thick, yellow margarine, dad, with Joseph the cat curled up on his knees, chose what he thought was the best wishing rock, held it in his hand, looked at us all, and would always ask the same question:

“Who found this one?” “Was it you, Jimmie? You, Hazel?”

“ You, Johnny? Is it yours?” “OK, then you, Johnny, you can make a wish for us all!”

“Then, you make a wish, Jimmie, alright?”

“OH, then me and mum, ok?”

“First, though, we’ll all make a wish for baby Charles.”

After Jimmie and I closed our eyes and made our wishes, dad put five of our best, most beautiful wishing rocks in the old chipped green-glass jar on the small wooden table near the window in the front room. Most of the rest were put into Mum’s bag to return to the beach another day, so, as Mum would say, someone else could find and enjoy them. Then, lighting his hand-rolled cigarette, Dad would take his first deep puff, slowly blow out a circle of white and blue smoke, and then say:

“Ready, now? For a story?”

Collecting wishing rocks was great but this was always the best moment of the day.

We were always ready for one of his stories because he told the best tales about badgers, foxes, stoats, weasels, rabbits, sharks and whales. When you listened to his soft voice, it was as if you could see everything as he had seen it.

“Yes, Dad. We’re ready. ’Onest, we are! Tell us the one about the day you and mum collected wishing rocks. You know, when you found the dead seal! You know, the crabs and stuff that were chompin’ on it!”

“NO, tell us about the man who had his thumb bit off by a conger eel! Then tell us about the weasel.”

“Tell us both stories!”

“OK” he said, shifting Joseph from one knee to another, “here’s the one about the conger eel, THEN, the one about the weasel surrounded by a circle of...............well, first I’ll show you what I found today...”

Leaning back in his chair, dad stubbed out his cigarette, closed his eyes, opened his tobacco tin very slowly, cleared his throat, and, showed us what he’d found on the beach.

Dad’s best find always surprised me. It was always something different and was always something that prompted him to tell a story.

When Dad finished, he’d put his treasure inside his Old Holborn tin and rest it on the side of his chair. Then, with the quietest voice, Dad told us how, when he was out in the woods very early, one bitterly cold morning, he’d seen a family of stoats surround a wounded weasel, waiting to pounce, kill and eat it.

“I waved my arms,” he said, “I shouted really loudly, and the stoats ran off. I saved the injured weasel’s life.”

“When the stoats had gone, the little weasel stood up, shook its head, and hobbled off to the bushes.”

Transfixed, I sat at his feet and stared up at him, sucking in every word.

As his story unfolded, I’d close my eyes, like my dad closed his, really tight. It helped me see the stoats and the weasel and hear the wild sounds that his words drew in my imagination.

When I went to bed, under which was my growing collection of pebbles and shells in an old cardboard box, my head was filled with bright images of pebbles, animals, birds and fish - and filled with hope .–

Was the weasel ok?

Did it get home safely?

On the day of my fifth birthday, Monday, July 14, a week before we broke up for the summer holiday, I was really surprised when my dad, not my grandma, met me at the end of the school day. Dad had never picked me up from school before.

He was in his driver’s uniform so I knew he’d come straight from work. My stomach turned over – was something wrong? Was Grandma ill?

Standing by the rusty iron fence, Dad smiled when he saw some of the children rush out of the school yard, up to the street corner, and turn and slide down back towards school, skidding on the cobble road, sending up a stream of yellow sparks from their hob-nailed boots. Then he took my hand and we walked together in the afternoon sun towards the harbor. Dad said we were going pebbling! Pebbling on Lariggan Beach!

Just my dad and me. Pebbling. On Lariggan Beach. After school! Could it get any better than that?

I felt so special, and knew in my bones that something magical was about to happen. It was, after all, my birthday treat.

And what a memorable and lifetime treat it turned out to be.

We walked hand in hand on the cobbled street to the Fradgan, past Uncle Steve and Aunty Flo Green’s white cottage, past the tall icehouse towering over the small inner harbor, and crossed over to the open fish market. We reached the small stone bridge by the Fisherman’s Institute at the end of Newlyn pier, where the Coombe River ran into the sea.

The sky was bright blue, and the sun a shimmering yellow. St. Michael’s Mount, way off in the distance, looked very majestic, its fairy-tale castle catching the late afternoon sun setting behind the Mousehole granite cliffs.

The tide was out and the large, smooth rocks, black and grey and white, were wet and shining in the late afternoon sun. As the greeny-blue water lapped back and forth, herring gulls squabbled as they looked for food scraps.

We stepped over the pebbles, making sure we didn’t step on the strands of slimy brown and yellow seaweed. Dad reached in his pocket and brought out two of his OLD HOLBORN tobacco tins.

“Here,” he said, giving me one, “take this and fill it!” “Just wishing rocks, mind you!”

I was thrilled. I’d never had an OLD HOLBORN tin before.

With a broad smile and a knowing twinkle in his eye, he said, “Bet I fill mine first!”

The competition was on. We walked slowly along the seashore, and we looked and we touched and we talked and we collected. The beach pebbles were so endearing, small, round, smooth, and warm to the touch.

Soon my tin was full of tiny wishing rocks and heart-shaped pebbles that I wanted to take home to show my mum – and I so wanted to tell her and Jimmie that I filled my OLD HOLBORN tin before Dad filled his.

Just as we were walking towards the granite steps, I spotted something different. There, lying with all the pebbles was a bright yellow object. It didn’t look like any of the other pebbles. It was so different from all the others, more like the picture I’d seen at school of a small slice of pineapple. What was it?

It stared up at me, wanting, I felt, badly to be picked up, wanting to be touched and admired. By me! And that’s what I did..........I bent over, picked it up, held it in the palm of my hand, and touched it. It was a magical moment! It was lighter than a pebble. Wide-eyed, I showed my dad.

Because I knew he knew everything, I asked: "“What’s this, Dad?” He looked down at it, smiled, and then, half-closing his eyes, frowned.

Dad had no idea what I’d found. “Dunno. Never seen anything like that before. Good, though, isn't it?"

Funny, because I thought he had seen everything there was to see! I couldn’t believe that he had never ever seen anything like the yellow thingy before – and he’d been to the beach over a thousand thousand times in his life.

But Dad did know it was different, and, therefore, very, very special.

“Take it home and show your ma. She might know.”

I stared at my orangey-yellow, rock-like, magical find. It looked soft. Not wanting to scratch it, I wrapped it up in my white hanky and put it in my right-hand pocket – it didn’t seem right to mix such a special thingy in the OLD HOLBORN tin with the other pebbles I’d found. My dad took my hand and we made our way back up Old Paul Hill. As I walked up the very steep hill, I kept feeling the OLD HOLBORN treasure tin in one pocket, and checking the lumpy hanky in the other.

I KNEW I’d found something very special. I KNEW it was lying on the beach waiting for me to come along and find it. I KNEW it was a special day. I was excited! My discovery made my head glow. It was something that I KNEW belonged just to me – and would, forever.

When we reached Trevarveneth Street, I quickly skipped up the back garden path, pushed opened the glass door, and ran straight into the kitchen. Mum and grandma were standing by the white enameled cooker, waiting for the kettle to boil. Charles was sleeping in Mum’s arms. I couldn't hold it back any longer and shouted:

“Mum, Mum, Grandma, see what I found! It’s brilliant!”

I took out my OLD HOLBORN tin and showed them what I’d found on the beach. I knew then by the look on my mum’s and my grandma’s faces that the yellow rock I had found was something very special. And I found it on my birthday, too.

“Dad, where’d he find that? Did you give it to him?” asked Grandma. She looked me straight in the eyes.

“Where’d you find THAT? What a birthday surprise!”

Mum said, “THAT beautiful yellow rock was waiting for you. Just for you!”

It’s a treasure! A real treasure. Put it in one of your OXO treasure tins, Johnny, and keep it there, forever.

Forever. You hear me? It’s treasure! Forever and a day!”

I squeezed my treasure tightly in my hand and took it into the kitchen. I had never held treasure before. I held it under the hot water tap and washed off the grainy sand with hand soap, dried it with newspaper, stroked it, and looked at it again. I put it on the dinner table, next to my birthday tea treats - the big blue and white plate of splits, home-made blackberry jam, Cornish cream, sticky treacle, sausage rolls, and yellow saffron buns.

Dad’s story after my birthday tea was about his dad working in the tin mine in St. Just, digging in dark and wet tunnels a mile under under the rolling sea.

“Bet he never found a yellow rock like yours, Johnny,” he said. “If he did, he never showed us kids.”

He looked at grandma.

“No,” she said, “yer grandpop ne’er found nowt like that.”

When I went upstairs to bed, I put the OLD HOLBORN treasure tin containing my special find under my pillow, curled my fingers around it and fell asleep, with a broad smile on my face.

[1] Slang for gooseberries

Dad's second favorite fishing spot: Tregiffian Rocks, difficult to get to but well worth the effort.

A great place for mackerel and pollack.

Isn't it the most beautiful spot? It was hard to get to. We took a bus from near home, got off somewhere in the countryside, then had a long walk through someone's farm,
down the cliff, and finally onto the large moss-covered rocks.

I absolutely loved it there and wopuld love to go again before it's my turn to say goodbye to my world.

A walk around Ding Dong Mine where he showed me a kestrel's nest

I remember the kestrel at Ding Dong so well. Every time I see a kestrel now, I always have a conversation in my head with my dad about that walk........he was so pleased that the bird hovered so close to us.