23Oct2003
I don’t know whether you agree with me – it really doesn’t matter but my theory is that some people from birth are pre-destined to what they’re going to become in later life.
Take dairy farmers. In years gone by before herringbone sheds and milking machines, the children of dairy farmers were born with the biggest hands you’ve ever seen. Hands predestined to milk. With today’s mechanization dairy farmers’ children are born with hands of almost normal size.
In my case I was born to be a navigator. Most kids from birth know right from wrong. I not only had this attribute but I was given another gift. I had a keen sense of knowing right from left. And in addition north from south. From birth therefore I was pre-destined to be a navigator. It’s not everyone who recognises this birth right skill. How often have you set off on a journey to foreign climes. Places as remote as Westport or Inungahua. You’ve got a map. But before you’ve gone 10km you and your companion (usually a close member of your family) are involved in a heated argument as to whether you’re going in the right direction. The very fact of knowing you are a navigator is, as I suggest, one of the greatest skills in life. It’s a skill which keeps travelling families together. There’d be fewer broken marriages if there were more navigators.
So it was two weeks ago I set out on a journey with my youngest son and his delightful wife. Bent on journeying from San Sebastian in the north of Spain for the southern wine region of Rioja. I was sitting in the back of the hired diesel Citroen keeping my mouth shut. My son thought he knew where he was going. My daughter-in-law had a like strong opinion. But it became very apparent to me that neither of them had a clue. Neither of them had my god given gift of navigation. I let them go. Well I let them go for about 30km’s. “I think we should have taken the N21” I meekly suggested breaking the silence. “If we want directions we won’t be asking you” my son responded. “We know where we’re going”. “So be it” I replied from the back seat. “But I still think we should have taken the N21”. We were in fact heading due west instead of south.
The scenery was rapidly changing. Instead of a motorway - the broad auto pistras we were on a carretera nacional – a winding country road, the Spanish equivalent of the Manawatu Gorge and the Whangamoas combined. I continued to say nothing. We were going to Erehwon. My son pulled over. “Dad how would you like to navigate?” I didn’t gloat. There were no “I told you so’s”. I got my map and compass out and moved into the front seat.
“How you’d like to side track to Pampalona?” I suggested with the air of confidence of one who knows where he’s going. “I could have you there in an hour. It’s the place where they run the bulls. There’ll be no bulls today but it might be worth looking at.
In July Pampalona explodes as they run the bulls through narrow streets. Apparently they let a herd of bulls loose. Chasing young men through a labyrinth of narrow streets to the Plaza de Toras – the bull ring. Apparently many young Kiwis go there every year. Most get trampled under foot. Fortunately they don’t get ACC. The young Spaniards are more sprightly. They somehow manage to scale the walls of the narrow lanes. They come away unscathed.
My navigational skills had now bought us into the centre of the city – the Plaza del Castillo. Sighs of relief from my fellow travelers. “Great navigation Dad” says my son as we prop ourselves up outside a bar and indulge in a glass of wine and the delightful Spanish nibbles known as tapas. My daughter-in-law smiles indulgently at me. I knew what she was thinking. “How fortunate I am to have such an oriented father-in-law. One that could bring us out of the wilderness and into a place like this.” I modestly had to agree. The wine was drunk. The tapas consumed. We were about to get on our way again. My son reached down for the bag containing he and his wife’s passports, credit cards, 100 euros and other sentimental nic nacs. Although he had been keeping a close eye on it somehow it had been snatched from under our noses. Like the bulls of Pampalona, the thief had bolted. No bull. No passport. I’d navigated them into this. I was going to have to navigate out of it.
Definitely no bull.
Take dairy farmers. In years gone by before herringbone sheds and milking machines, the children of dairy farmers were born with the biggest hands you’ve ever seen. Hands predestined to milk. With today’s mechanization dairy farmers’ children are born with hands of almost normal size.
In my case I was born to be a navigator. Most kids from birth know right from wrong. I not only had this attribute but I was given another gift. I had a keen sense of knowing right from left. And in addition north from south. From birth therefore I was pre-destined to be a navigator. It’s not everyone who recognises this birth right skill. How often have you set off on a journey to foreign climes. Places as remote as Westport or Inungahua. You’ve got a map. But before you’ve gone 10km you and your companion (usually a close member of your family) are involved in a heated argument as to whether you’re going in the right direction. The very fact of knowing you are a navigator is, as I suggest, one of the greatest skills in life. It’s a skill which keeps travelling families together. There’d be fewer broken marriages if there were more navigators.
So it was two weeks ago I set out on a journey with my youngest son and his delightful wife. Bent on journeying from San Sebastian in the north of Spain for the southern wine region of Rioja. I was sitting in the back of the hired diesel Citroen keeping my mouth shut. My son thought he knew where he was going. My daughter-in-law had a like strong opinion. But it became very apparent to me that neither of them had a clue. Neither of them had my god given gift of navigation. I let them go. Well I let them go for about 30km’s. “I think we should have taken the N21” I meekly suggested breaking the silence. “If we want directions we won’t be asking you” my son responded. “We know where we’re going”. “So be it” I replied from the back seat. “But I still think we should have taken the N21”. We were in fact heading due west instead of south.
The scenery was rapidly changing. Instead of a motorway - the broad auto pistras we were on a carretera nacional – a winding country road, the Spanish equivalent of the Manawatu Gorge and the Whangamoas combined. I continued to say nothing. We were going to Erehwon. My son pulled over. “Dad how would you like to navigate?” I didn’t gloat. There were no “I told you so’s”. I got my map and compass out and moved into the front seat.
“How you’d like to side track to Pampalona?” I suggested with the air of confidence of one who knows where he’s going. “I could have you there in an hour. It’s the place where they run the bulls. There’ll be no bulls today but it might be worth looking at.
In July Pampalona explodes as they run the bulls through narrow streets. Apparently they let a herd of bulls loose. Chasing young men through a labyrinth of narrow streets to the Plaza de Toras – the bull ring. Apparently many young Kiwis go there every year. Most get trampled under foot. Fortunately they don’t get ACC. The young Spaniards are more sprightly. They somehow manage to scale the walls of the narrow lanes. They come away unscathed.
My navigational skills had now bought us into the centre of the city – the Plaza del Castillo. Sighs of relief from my fellow travelers. “Great navigation Dad” says my son as we prop ourselves up outside a bar and indulge in a glass of wine and the delightful Spanish nibbles known as tapas. My daughter-in-law smiles indulgently at me. I knew what she was thinking. “How fortunate I am to have such an oriented father-in-law. One that could bring us out of the wilderness and into a place like this.” I modestly had to agree. The wine was drunk. The tapas consumed. We were about to get on our way again. My son reached down for the bag containing he and his wife’s passports, credit cards, 100 euros and other sentimental nic nacs. Although he had been keeping a close eye on it somehow it had been snatched from under our noses. Like the bulls of Pampalona, the thief had bolted. No bull. No passport. I’d navigated them into this. I was going to have to navigate out of it.
Definitely no bull.
posted by Lundon at 1:38 PM
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