'Uisce Beatha' , the wonder well

Wells are a source of some debate. Their properties expounded and claimed by different factions. On a website called www.megalithomania.com

they are held in different regard by many. Personally, I feel that they were always treated

by our young ancestors,

as a wonderful source of natural nourishment. The only magic being where they sprung

from and their life-giving waters. Springing out of the earth, they sustained

travellers and their beasts, a restful feeding station. They were to play an essential part in

the Megalithic tradition which grew up alongside them. Long before the arrival of the

'holy ' men who usurped, assimilated and converted them to their cause, they were

nature's miracle.

The one shown above is, to me, the Queen of them all. Well hidden away in a quiet valley,

it's attendant fruit trees and berry bushes are carefully protected by a skillfully built high

limestone and granite wall. The perfect oval shape carefully frames the venerated pool of

ancient origin. Peering through the iron gates, the still pool surface

shimmers in the shaded sunlight. A veritable 'Garden of Eden'.

This one is very, very old--thousand's of years. The walls are just man's modern effort to

preserve it.

A fitting tribute to Uisce Beatha, a wonder well.

Carlo, Cannes, and the Croupier

I still have a friend called Carlo. He would dress up as a very good imitation of Charlie Chaplin and ply his trade as a whizz-a-round flower seller on wheels. From early evening 'til early dawn he would skate up and down the Croissette in Cannes, a bunch of red roses, each individually wrapped in cellophane, in the crook of his arm. In and out of the clubs and cafes, skillfully skirting staff and tables in his quest for potential targets. Twirling his cane, doffing his tattered bowler hat, and batting his mascara'd eye lashes, he would swoop on the courting couples, swerve to a stop and profer a bloom. The pleading expression on the ruby-red lips, the chalk-white face, could not be resisted. No man dare deny his love this age-old offering of scented pleasure. He made a killing all season long. On his day off he could be spotted, minus make-up, cruising the promenade in his classic Mercedes convertible, roof down, pecker up.

As a casino croupier I was making a good living there too. Night-clubbing was a neccessity as normal bars were closed by the time our shifts were over. So it was a swirl of champagne and chicas, dancing and drinking, seeing in sunrises. Tough going but that was the life.
On one memorable night I found myself holding court in the middle of a quartet of blonde, freshly tanned, Swedish beauties. I was dizzy trying to decide which one was the more stunning. And I was wrecking myself trying to keep up dancing with them all in turn. So I called for more champagne and took a booth near the open windows for a much needed air break. To this day I don't know how it happened but somehow the conversation turned to flowers. Cue me to launch off on one of my hot topics of that time. I didn't like flowers, or to be more precise, I didn't like cut flowers. Of course immediately there were howls of protest and a cold breeze started blowing from the Nordic regions. But I raised my hand and demanded to be given my say. And as I explained things the way I saw them, and why I felt as I did, the atmosphere warmed up again and the embraces got tighter and I was back with the dilemma of decision.-----Then, the door opened, Carlo swept in and barely stopping to throw back a quick Pastis at the bar, spying a quick multi-sale, he skated across the dance-floor. In one sweeping gesture, he dropped to his knees while at the same time extending his blood-red bouquet as he slid towards us. Very professional and would normally get him a ripple of applause. But not this time. He should have known better than to hustle a friend. For an instant, there was an open-eyed shocked silence. Then a look of total confusion on Carlos painted face as my Valkyrian Goddesses rose up as one shrieking entity and launched themselves at him. Fortunately the bouncers were quick to react and Carlo was hoisted up and wheeled away with only his blooms and pride wilted. He cast a hurt and quizzical look back at me over his shoulder as if to say "what was that all about"? And the next time I saw him, I told him.

Only a few moments before his grand entrance, I had explained to the bevy of blonde bombshells----"When you cut down a flower, it starts to wilt and die. They even say they scream silently. What was once a living expression of natures beauty, now becomes a corpse exhaling its last scented breath. When we offer a bunch of these to our beloved, what are we really saying ? "Like these, your beauty will not last, a momentary pleasure to be used and cast aside" ".

He didn't stand a chance.

The Titular Theory

If there is one place in the world that can lay claim to having "The Most Famous" Film Festival, then Cannes can.

It just had to be the place where this story would begin.

To those of us who lived and worked there while the madness took hold, getting up , out, and away on our time off was a priority. For many months of the year, Cannes was a relatively quiet village. Actually a conglomeration of small village-type districts with Cannes as its centre. Come festival season and the normal population of about 10,000 regulars would swell to well over 60,000, plus a daily flow and ebb of stars and stargazers. So leaving the Fame, Fantasy & fun far behind us, we headed up to Le Cannet where we could look back down on the glittering glamour of the showbiz stars.

All Paul, a Scottish scriptwriter friend, needed for his inspiration was a few Pastis and his roll-up tobacco. "Writing is easy, you just sit down quietly with glass in hand, slit open a vein, and let it flow ". Juggling a bottle of 'vin d'maison' in one hand, glass and plate of tapas-type tit-bits in the other and a magazine which I had, fatefully, picked up from the counter, tucked under my arm, we settled down out on the shady veranda of a quiet bistro. The view down over the bay of Cannes-Mandelieu was impressive from way up here, but we were a little blase after our years here, so instead got into our pleasant separate tasks, his to write, mine to read, and let the evening hours ebb.

It wasn't too surprising that one of these showbiz mags had found its way up here, the Festival had a way of permeating all local life-style. As I flipped idly through its glossy pages, I came face-to-face with the 2 men that were to start a chain reaction in my life that is still echoing around me now. Curiosity is a wonderful incentive to learn some things new, but this one was to take over for a while, and I'm still adding to it, many years later.

The next big event after the Cannes extravaganza has reached its dazzling conclusion is the Monaco Grand Prix. Even while the Festival is going on, hectic preparations are being made to the streets of the Principality's capital. Temporary stands rise up at all the most advantageous spots on the circuit. Huge expense is lavished on getting all the details just right for the moment when the whole circus moves "en masse" those few kilometres down the coast, to where the various enterprises lie in wait for their turn to milk the yearly bonanza. Even as the final fireworks are fizzling out over the famous festival, the flotilla of skippered super-yachts are upping anchor and cruising down to their pre-designated berths in and around Monaco's famous bay. Grandstand viewing for any incidents and accidents that might happen, and happen they certainly do.


Alberto Ascari, the Most Famous Grand Prix driver of his era, shooting out of the tunnel, drove straight off the track, through the straw bales, missing a steel bollard by inches and out into the magnificent bay while in the lead in 1955. A few heart-stopping moments later his light blue crash helmet came bobbing to the service. Seat belts were unknown in those days and he was probably saved by not wearing one. It wasn't his time yet. It didn't kill him, but a practice round 4 days later at Monza, did. Which finally and enigmatically, brought to a close a strange series of coincidences involving Alberto and his father, Antonio Ascari.

I was so mesmerised by this unfolding story that Paul had to bang the table to remind me it was time to eat. This being France and food having its rightful priority in the grand scheme of things, we moved on in search of yet another gastronomic experience. Even all these years later we were still discovering little family-run places where their priority was that you enjoy their cooking and company, cost being a Gallic shrug of inevitability. Probably one of the best and most reliable pointers is to go in search of the famous Relais Routiers. This group of nationwide restaurants came into being through a network of lorry drivers word-of-mouth. What we in less fortunate countries would call Truck-stops or 'greasy spooners', the French have elevated to pleasant and sometimes superb eating experiences. One of the most memorable I have ever come across was 'by accident' in Brittany. If you ever have the good fortune to find "le Kenyah" near Carnac, tell me all about it. But that is for another day.

This time we found ourselves up on a mezzanine style roof-top restaurant, a slight breeze rustling the leaves of the trees. As we sat out on yet another balmy evening, watching the flaming sun sizzle into the sea, and course after delicious course disappeared down our appreciative gullets, I posed the question that had started to form in my inquisitive brain, "what is a coincidence ? An accidental group of events, or something with a purpose, something above and beyond rhyme and reason ?". We batted it around for a while, with all the clarity that a good claret provides. Of course we didn't find the answer then but Paul was now motivated to find some more detail on the amazing Ascaris. In his line of work he had access to the innovative Internet, or World Wide Web, as it was fully called then. The title has shortened but the content has exploded way beyond anything imagined back then.

Weeks later and my imagination was tussling with the repercussions of Paul's research. Not only had we become engrossed with the Ascari family fortunes, the strands of our own web research were radiating out and catching unsuspecting fall-out from the initial flash of inspiration. I was relying more on conventional methods and was a daily library prowler. More and more layers of apparently unrelated detail began to click into laterally thinking places. What had started out as idle curiosity, would now pop up in most of our conversations and led to carrying a pocket note-book, just in case another example came to mind. Then one note-book became two, then four, and the exponential expansion took on a life of its own. Friends started to get a wee bit irritated as we would interrupt, nod and wink at each other, and duly whip out the jotters to make yet another entry.

But before I go on too far, let's go back to the mezzanine and that damn magazine.

Even Paul, who was well used to odd and unusual storylines, shook his head slowly in disbelief as I outlined the details of the Ascaris. You just could not make this up.

Antonio Ascari, the father, a well known Grand Prix driver in his own right, won 13 G.P. races in his short career. So did Alberto, making a total of 26 between them. They both drove cars numbered 26. Both of them were killed on the 26th of the month. Odd but nothing extraordinary. As we swirled and sipped our 'digestiv', 2 large Cognacs, I read on.
Antonio was 30yrs old when his son was born. Alberto died 30 years after his father.
Both crashed on G.P. circuits going round fast, but safe, left-hand bends.
Both were thrown out of their cars.
The cause of both accidents is unknown.
They each had survived serious accidents 4 days beforehand.
Both were 36 years of age.


That was the first story in that magasine. Over another page was one about Marilyn Monroe. Then one about Cassius Clay.
Then Federico Fellini.
And that years Film Festival chairman, Steven Spielberg.

And so it began, The Titular Theory.