Andy and Sandy . . .

Andy is from Leicester, in the Midlands of England. His career was as a prison officer, mostly at Parkhurst, a high security gaol on the Isle of Wight. And where David Icke lives. Also a holiday destination (the island, not the prison). It was "abroad" when I was a child, close enough to home for day trips. It was there, at Shanklin Bay or Sandown, perhaps, where I had my first attempted drowning. I don't remember much about it, only that I was going under for the third time when Dad pulled me out. Useful experience.

Andy had early retirement; arthritis. Damp climate, genes, stress? His pension of £1,600 a month went further in Spain, the lump sum helpful, sale of UK house also. The exchange rate caused some problems and his flirtation with the do nothing expat stereotype caused some more. Liver related. He started offering holidays at his villa in Paraloa, investing the revenue in improvements, offering transport, making friends with his guests. Who return, recommend to friends. Good business and not focused on money making, which comes along because he is doing it right.
An expat with something creative to do. A second life after taking care of criminals and others caught up in a system sometimes more focused on results than justice.

I tell him about the camino, the people living alternative lives there. Start on the story of the ex-policeman and the ex-ETA activist, now both hosts at albergues between walking the pilgrim routes. Start to tell him of my near miss with the prison life back in the 70s. My left wing politics, sympathy with the cause of Irish republicans. Something switches in Andy. Fear, I think. I have heard stories of IRA intimidation of prison officers, threats to their families. He becomes a little hostile, prepares to leave. With Rosie, the dog in the picture. I reflect on my clumsy attempt to relate an interesting story of human separation turning to convergence.

An hour and a half later, wandering off route, I see him again. With his wife Sandra. He has calmed down, invites me into his car, drops me at the track alongside the motorway I should have been on.

Here is the story I started to tell him. It is rather complicated and I am lucky to be here to tell it.

I was at teacher training college at Chalfont St Giles, Buckinghamshire between 1969 and 1972. Nearby was the Joint Services Defence College at Latimer. Wikipaedia says it was bombed by the IRA in 1974. I thought it was earlier. In 1974 or 1975, I was working on an adventure playground in Hornsey, London. I had some calls from people at addresses I had lived, saying the police wanted to talk to me. Eventually they came calling at my workplace. Asked me some questions about my political sympathies, my student activities, invited me to visit their offices in Amersham. It was not exactly an invitation, but they were pleasant enough. In the car, things got more serious. It was well known that IRA bombings were hot political potatoes and people had to be put behind bars. Not necessarily the ones who did the deed. As the two detectives built up their case, I said, "Don't think you can frame me for this." The younger, more aggressive one turned round and said "Son, if we want to fit you up, we will do it, just like that." And snapped his fingers. Which was a little worrying. Back at the station their case against me emerged. The only lead they had from the bombing was a red Audi which had been seen in the vicinity. They were tracing all the red Audis registered in the country. My name was on one of them, although I never had one. I realised that the driving licence I had been tempted to sell to a small time criminal near where I worked (another story for another time), had been used to register the car. I told them I had lost my licence, that it had been used by someone to register the car. The "nice" cop drily observed that there was a market for driving licences. He wasn't interested in that petty crime. They sent a Metropolitan Police Officer to my flat and asked the landlady if they could search it for bomb making equipment. Imagine! Luckily, Mary was a liberal and asked to see the search warrant, which he didn't have. She phoned her solicitor, who said he was coming round. If they came back with a search warrant, they would be planting the evidence. Eventually they bailed me out, though declined to take me home. My small contribution to their effort was to suggest that when they had finished with the red Audis, they might start on all the other colours, which could have been resprayed red after being registered. The young "nasty" cop didn't get it. The older, wiser, "nice" one did. Went rather pale. I could have met Andy in Parkhurst if I'd had Irish ancestry or a more conventional landlady.