Mud Sweat & Tears - Bear Grylls [11]
We would often catch her wandering around the garden with a copper rod, assuring us that she needed ‘earthing’ against the excessive electricity in the house. (Considering that we never had the heating on, and mainly burnt candles instead of switching on lights, this kind of led us to suspect something wasn’t entirely normal about our mother.)
But that was Mum for you; and with only the rare exceptions, my childhood was blessed with love and fun, both of which have remained driving forces for me in my life with my own family.
CHAPTER 9
My mother and father had met when Mum was twenty-one and Dad was twenty-nine. Theirs was a pretty crazy love affair, involving endless break-ups and reunions, until eventually they eloped to Barbados and got married.
Their relationship remained one full of love, although in many ways, Mum was a product of her parents’ divorce. She had a deep-rooted fear of being left, and that often made her overly protective of Dad.
So, for us to go out climbing or sailing, involved Dad and me having to sneak out. (Which, of course, we both loved.) I guess it made every outing a mission. And we had masses of those missions in my early years.
But as I got older and could start to plan my own expeditions, however small they were, I felt sad that I didn’t get to do more with my dad, just us two alone. I just know how much he loved our adventures, but he did feel that his loyalty was split between Mum and me.
Dad had never really experienced much intimacy with his own parents, growing up.
His father was a hard-working, dedicated, but pretty stern army officer, who reached the rank of brigadier. Maybe his rank was gained at the expense of a cosy family life; I know for certain that Dad struggled with his father’s coldness.
As a kid, I was always a little scared of Grandpa Ted. (Almost entirely unfounded, as it happened. Yes, he was stern, but with hindsight, he was a kind, loyal man, loved by many.)
The scariest thing about Grandpa Ted was his big dogs.
On one occasion, when I was aged six, one mauled me as I sat on the floor trying to play with it. The dog bit me straight down the centre of my face, and my flesh split down my nose and lips.
I was raced to hospital for emergency suturing, where my mother decided the duty nurse was taking too long, so took the matter into her own hands and did the stitches herself.
She did a great job, by the way, and unless you look closely at my face you wouldn’t notice the scars – although my nose does actually look pretty wonky. In fact, the editor of Men’s Journal magazine in America, when I did the close up for their cover, asked me laughingly if I had lost a lot of boxing matches when young. But the truth is that ever since the dog attack my nose has always been kind of squiffy.
If Grandpa Ted was very stern with my own father when he was growing up, then Dad’s mother was even sterner still. She had a fierce reputation not only as a great character, but also as someone who did not tolerate foolhardiness – and foolhardiness was my own father’s middle name. So Dad grew up with an equally fierce reaction to this serious, firm upbringing – and became a practical joker from day one.
I remember hearing endless stories: such as him pouring buckets of water over his elder sister and her new boyfriend as he peered down on them from his bedroom window above.
In many ways Dad never really grew up. It is what made him such a wonderful father, gentleman and friend. And, in turn, I never had the ambition to grow up too fast, either.
I remember once, on a family skiing trip to the Alps, Dad’s practical joking got all of us into a particularly tight spot.
I must have been aged about ten at the time, and was quietly excited when Dad spotted a gag that was begging to be played out on the very serious-looking Swiss-German