Trials, Tribulations, and car crashes!

You're trying to imagine the scene that will greet you as you speed along the road to the crash. The first signs suddenly light up in the headlights as they reflect back through the fog, some debris and a bit of wall, some glass, oddly a single shoe, and then the long black line of rubber that terminates at the twisted reck of the car. A person is walking around as if in a dream, small splashes of blood already drying to a crust, speckle his aspirin white face, and he is preoccupied looking for his iphone. Beyond him you can here the screams of people in pain, and other people in shock trying to pull their friend, their brother, their sister,mother, father, son, or daughter, out of the wreckage, not realizing the dangers of spinal injury. What looks like an old sack lies on the road at odd angles with hardly any identifying features save for one hand that lies almost severed in the near perfect round of body fluid. In one of the cars you can see a young man slumped over the steering wheel, his ears are blue, in the other car a young girl is screaming in pain her legs are trapped by the dashboard of the car that has crushed around them and pinned them in, her four year old son lies motionless and quiet, still strapped into his baby seat in the back.
You are in charge of a team of five men, what do you do first?

This is a scenario that fire brigades all round the world sadly have to deal with every day. As more cars are on the roads the number of accidents are on the increase every year. To try and combat the number of deaths that happen to people who become trapped in their vehicles, or suffer serious spinal injury resulting in full paralysis by either improper extrication procedure, or good willed help by the public. The fire brigades of the western world formed an organization dedicated to the standardization of best practice training around the globe in Extrication. Each year the participating countries hold a national team challenge day, where each brigade put forward their best team of five who then compete against each other. The challenge is on two timed scenario's, firstly a twenty minute challenge, one responsive casualty, with spinal injury, the second, a ten minute rapid extraction of an unresponsive, time critical casualty. Each of these are carried out and are assessed by three world assessors who are experts in the three main areas, Medical, Technical, and Leadership. The best three teams then go forward to represent their country in the World Championships, this year the Worlds are being hosted by Cork City here in Ireland. This weekend I took part representing my County.I have been the Waterford County team medic for three years now and managed to compete in one World Championship two years ago. Our team this year was made up of two new recruits to help them gain some valuable experience in RTC (Road Traffic Collision) training that they might not get otherwise, consequently we are not expecting a top three placing this year, but you never know!

I'm not the blonde!

A new season part deux!

I had just sat down to a cup of tea and was about to take the first bite from my sandwich when my alerter did it's job. I could see a column of smoke rising in the north east. It's usual brown was reflecting almost gold from the low winter sun. We were being called to aid the neighboring towns firefighters who were already on their way. The only way to the seat of the fire was through narrow forestry tracks used only by loggers, and the occasional rally car.

The fire engine 'a twenty ton truck' is not the ideal machine for the traversing of such paths and we had to abandon her with the driver and make our way on foot. The fire was on a ridge line above a plantation of Fur, and in the absence of any noticeable wind was making slow but steady progress up the slope. Our way to that slope was guarded by a considerable gorge that had been eroded out by the heavy rain of the winter. The force of which had ground out a scar some twenty foot deep and about the same wide.  Some of the stones which it had tumbled down were as big as pool tables, so god only knows what they weighed! It's hard to imagine the force created by nature even in this small isolated place, let alone on the scale it seems to be unleashing around the world recently.

As we got to the ridge line the flames had gathered strength and were making great in-roads into the heather that was exploding with great efflorescence, the radiant heat of which was causing an endless  cycle of  combustion. The line of fire by this time was about a mile across and was set in deep heather making the task of extinguishing the flames all the more dangerous and unpleasant. As the sun dropped down below the horizon in the west, the smokes golden colour was replaced by the bright orange glow that was fresh in the memory of us all from the other night. The memory that the backs of our legs, and shoulders, and lower backs, were determined to remind us of each time we took a step. We followed a fire break up to the bright orange and began to do battle with the beast. 

  

The flames were so intense that at the slightest puff of wind it would be to hot to be within twenty feet of it, which rendered our beaters and long handled spades useless, we were at the mercy of two of the elements, wind, and fire, and found ourselves wishing for the third. But there was no hope of rain tonight, the sky was clear and the stars were beginning to show their selves above us in the nights sky.

The fire had a life of it's own, the best we could do was attack it's flanks, taking it in turns to spend time at it's head, before retreating from the heat and allowing two more in your place. The flames danced upwards in a mesmerizing hypnotic dance which if allowed would send you too sleep. All was quiet, save for the noise of the exploding heather, and the rhythmic 'whack' of the beaters, as they sent burning embers floating on the breeze.

It was late in the evening when the last of the flames were put out. I had missed my fathers Birthday retirement bash that was being held at my sisters house. Ironically from where we were on the mountain we could make out the lights of her house, and as I sucked from the small carton of warm orange juice, and took a bite from a melted chocolate bar, I thought of the roast venison, and wine that was being consumed in his honour. It was then that his words from my childhood reverberated through me like a drum beat,

"duty before pleasure" 

"duty before pleasure".

River side Walk.

Today the sun came out! it glowed orange through the mist that shrouded the river in the valley. Towards midday it had burnt away all but the most persistent of it, that stuck to the river banks obscuring all behind with nature's own smoke screen. I started my walk along an ancient track that traversed the lower earth walls of the 'Lios' (fort) that the town is named after. It made it's way down to the banks of the river and by the time I got to the waters edge the last of the mist was steaming from the vegetation. Across the way two swans made their way up stream against the current, their heads bobbing up and down like an unfit cyclist coming up against an incline. The current surged against their slender bodies forming a wave that would every now and then break over their downy backs as they made their slow and purposeful way towards a quiet tributary and away from the relentless pull of the river.

All along the banks were signs of the resent floods and mans impact on nature, plastic bags hung in trees and shrubs caught on briar or blackthorn like Grey shrike offerings. Uprooted grass and shrub formed the woven warp and weft of an intricate tapestry that hung on barbed wire and wrapped intricately around the lower branches and stems of willow that bent into the breeze of the day, as plastic bottles lie half submerged, suspended, caught like fish in pools left by the receding water of the floods.
I stood for a while to listen, above the noise of the traffic coming from the road on the northern banks, I could make out the familiar 'tick-ick-ick-ick' of a robin that made up the first of three such encounters on this walk as I passed from ones territory into the next. Each one seemed to meet me at his boarder, then hand over the responsibility of escorting me onto the next, and so on, and so on!

The ancient path passes from open marsh and willow into steep sided wood and becomes dark and foreboding, ancient trees cling to the almost shear bed rock laid down and chiseled out by the last great ice age. The path hear was used by the first Christian settlers as a means to their fishing grounds, and forms a link with the ancient settlement and the monasteries that were formed hear by St. Carthage. The water of the river lies deep and malevolent hear, it swirls in black unseen currents around the submerged forrest of fallen trees. Time seems to work differently in this dark place, we pass through it largely unnoticed by the river or trees, for they are working to a different pace measured in millennia. The landscape hear has seen man come, and will know doubt see us go, as the dark waters continue their way downstream carving out new channels. As I made my way out of the wood and back into the marsh I looked up to see the vapor trail of a plane mirroring the bend in the river, as it made it's way to america, a migration of humans. The marsh is made up of straw colored reeds that have been laid low by the flood water, you can see the patterns of flow that the water took as it surged over the land. Every now and then a run off had formed mud channels deep into the flood plain. It was in one of these that I saw the tracks of an otter who had recently made his way into one of the many pools left high and stranded. I have often seen the otters here their graceful elegance, matched only by there skill at fishing. Sadly though their numbers are dwindling again due too the netting of salmon and sea trout that takes place each year at the confluence of the river and sea, where the fresh water of the mountains and valleys mix and mingle with the salt of the estuary. This effectively stops the natural migration of the spawning fish upstream and has a hugh impact on the fish numbers. Ironically the otters who are so greatly effected by this man made problem, have an unlikely alliey in the local fishermen who are fighting for a ban on netting. My walk was nearing it's end, the path once again winds it's way up into the steep sided woods as it makes it's way to the ramparts of the castle, who's walls stand on a sharp vertical bastion of rock over the water. The sight of which was chosen to house the first Monastery in the area, however after three raids by the Vikings the Monastery and town had to defend it's self and built fortifications. The castle today bares no resemblance to the old, and is a 18th century rebuild.   Where the marshland meets this path is an old stone wall with a turn style gate made of iron. this marks the start of a walk named after one of the daughters of the owners of the castle who liked to open up trails in the lands that belonged to her father. Most of these trails have been lost to nature, but this one is maintained by the local fishermen and town council and is a favorite for dog walkers or tourists. The later rarely venture out into the more rugged and wild of the marshland and miss out on a land largely untouched by modern man.

The Barn Fire.

Once water from the thirty foot jet seeps down your arm and the errant spray makes its way down your back through the layers of your tunic, it matters not if it rains, for you are already wet. The thrust of ten bars of pressure adds weight to the cold steel of the branch as you and your number two lean into each other for support, and after the initial adrenalin rush of the fire, tediousness sets in. The first hour soon passes into the second, and the second into the third, and soon you are caught in a silent fight. Just you and the flames, all thoughts are gone from your head, brainwashed in a back numbing, arm aching battle. A battle which sees flame turn into smoke, smoke into steam, steam into sweat, and as night turns into day, barn into twisted iron and blackened beam. Pools of hideous black water form behind dams of debris and lap around your boots, and your water logged gloves add a cold shower of drips as you flex your cramped hands, wrinkled and sore with constant immersion. Under your smoked tunic the once flame warmed sweat turns cold and the now soaked material of your under shirt sticks to your skin, constricting all warmth from your tired torso as every movement sends clandestine shivers circulating malevolently around every inch of your body. Embers dance upwards in the morning breeze as the last remnants of the fire drift into nothingness. The deflated hoses lay like licentious red contours snaking their way around the smouldering detritus of the hay barn, their very life blood, freely spilt in the fight lays spent in muddy puddles all around. Reflections flash red and blue in the frigid water and for the first time you hear the birds come alive in the breaking light.
Across the way a vixen slinks her way home to her cubs as the rooks jostle noisily in their high trees, and a blanket of mist hangs low in the valley. It glows a soft orange, as the rest of the town wakes up to a new day, unaware of the fight that had taken place. Unaware of the flames that engulfed the barn, unaware of the twisted steel and grotesque galvanised that now hangs metamorphic from irrecoverable stanchions swaying in the breeze. On the way back to the station house the first signs of life are beginning to stir, the milk herd ambling towards the parlour, the steely tom cat scratching at the door, the bakers van on the morning delivery, and the newsagent opening up to today's news waiting in piles on the doorstep. The promise of warm tea and a shower awaits but not before the hoses are washed and stowed away, not before all the equipment is cleaned and counted, and radios put on charge. You go about your tasks rendered silent by lack of sleep, rolling hose after hose like an automaton devoid of any thought or feeling other than that of that tea, that shower, that warm bed.
The fire fight is already just another memory as you walk home, but the smell of soot and smoke still persists about your very skin and hair, and despite your best efforts in the shower it still betrays your presence as you silently make your way up the stairs and slip into bed.

A new season begins.

The dark of the mountain rose up out of the moor silhouetted by the fading light of the northern sky. Above us we could clearly see the orange blinking eye of the fire crying a Vail of brackish smoke that chocked the lower Valleys as the flames skipped and danced in the wind. This time of year any cold dry period always brings out those who seem intent on doing harm in the name of spring grazing for dwindling numbers of sheep. The Mountain in question this time was Mt. Knockmealdown, the highest in the Knockmealdown range that lies just north of our town, and bridges Co Waterford and Co Tipperary. The gentle slopes are covered in Gorse and heather that blooms yellow and pink and paints her flanks with a soft pastel hue in the low spring sun.
The high road that runs parallel hangs to her lower slopes and crosses the Tipperary boarder near an ancient Ice age tarn called Bay Lock. It's steep flanked sides will in a few months time be bathed in the resplendent pink of the native wild rhododendron that adorns her like a bridesmaids dress, the lock it's self will appear dark and round like a bullet hole in an otherwise perfect picture. Below the tarn the road follows the contours of the land and runs steeply and zig zac'adly down hill through a gap in the mountains called the Vee and disappears into the wooded slopes and on into Tipperary.
On this night though there was no time to enjoy the view that the last shreds of light afforded us, the fire was growing expansively, and racing down the slopes towards the road like molten lava, engulfing all in it's path. Gorse, heather, and rhododendron, all fell to it's unrelenting advances. All have waxy leaves that explode when touched by fire that send great sheets of tea coloured smoke down into the valley already heady with the all encompassing choking stain of smoke. Our crew split in two, I was to take the two new young recruits to the highest point of the fire, approx 200 meters from the summit, while the station officer tackled the lower slopes, aided by two others. Having family living on the mountain I know the slopes quite well, I know the tracks, and hidden valleys, the false peaks, and rocky out-crops, all of which must of seemed like an endless path upwards to these two Wild fire virgins. Once on top of the fire with the smoke blowing away and down hill from us we set about the fire. The two young guns were eager at first and set upon the bright orange with there beaters like demented demons, or witches dancing around there bubbling cauldrons, broom sticks in hand, silhouetted against the ever present flames. However once we climbed over a ridge line and they saw a line of fire stretching out for about a mile along a small valley below us there enthusiasm began to wain, as the reality of these types of fires is that they are bloody had work, and difficult to put out, especially if the wind keeps reigniting the embers that you have left behind. The hours ticked by as the constellations of stars moved across us in the clear night sky. It was past midnight when the last of the fire was put down, just as the forward edges of rain clouds enveloped the peak where hours before we had fought the good fight!

Just another Sunday.

Well after a quiet period in the amount of call outs we have been getting, Sunday morning came as violent shock as our alerts got us out of our lazy lay in beds, as a screaming child would a mother! only with a little more urgency. The shout was every fireman's worse case scenario 'House Fire Persons Reported' Being in a rural area especially here in Ireland where there are no postcodes or zip codes, trying to locate a farm house by only an ancient town land name becomes difficult and you have to rely on good local knowledge an experience. The house in question was so far of the beaten track that we had difficulty locating it and difficulty reaching it in a twenty ton fire truck.
Because of it's location and the fact that it was so remote the fire was reported along time after it had started, in fact the thatched roofed traditional mud walled long farm house was completely burnt out when we arrived, we estimate that it had been burning all night, it was only the fact that the young farm hand who helped milk the cows came in the morning that it was noticed at all.
Well the first question an Officer asks is how many people? Thankfully but at the same time sadly one was the answer.
Second question, where is the bedroom that he slept in? At the end of the house.
Along with a load more questions to do with the safety aspect with regards the state of the building etc, this gives you a picture of how we can best go about a search for, and ultimately retrieve that person.
The room he was in had partially collapsed and burning thatch had covered over the rubble and clay of the walls. The first thing to find was the old fashion brass metal bed ends which gave us likely location of the body, then as an officer but more importantly a medic it was my job to carefully remove by hand the debris, so as to identify any part of a body. We found his chest first still wrapped in a woolen blanket, from their we moved carefully up until we uncovered his head, from then on it was a case of working slowly down the bed until he was completely uncovered. The old fashion blanket had protected most of his body but where any part was exposed only bone was visible.
The fire had started in the far end of the building and spread as so many fires do through the roof space falling in on each room in turn setting that alight, this was aided by the thatch and wooden nature of the building. His room would of been the last to set light, and by the fact that we found him as if still asleep in his bed would suggest that he died from smoke inhalation, along time before the fire got to him. In a way it was a peaceful death as he would of had no idea what was happening and therefore was at least spared the blind panic that would of met him if he had of woken. That said a smoke alarm would of woke him in plenty of time to get out and would of saved his life.
What people tend to forget about firemen is that we don't just have to face the flames and hardships that brings but we have to come to terms with the reality of death, and the personal baggage that all that brings. The relative who wants to see the body, then wishing they hadn't!, the priest struggling to give last rights over the body, and then the physical removal of the body into the coroners body bag, which almost seems disrespectful to me somehow as the zip is closed around. And then the man handling of the body into the back of in this case a four wheel drive jeep, and all this after having to damp the body down so as it didn't melt the cheap plastic of the body bag it's self.

Lessons For Matron.

Ice Waterfall.
Waiting for the sun.The big Bamboo!

Kettle fish!


For those who don't know, My mother is a fellow blogger, see Views from the castle! Any way recently she has become more involved and interested in the photographic side of things so much so that she asked me for advice about a camera. She has outgrown the small point and shoot that I got her for Christmas a number of years back. She did not want a big professional type SLR with changeable lens's, or another small camera, but something in between. In the end we settled on a nice Camera with a good telephoto lens that can also take good close up Macro shots as well.
At this point I think I should point out that as a boy all I wanted to do was to be able to paint! which is something that my mother, brother, and one of my sisters can do, but sadly I was blessed with my dads rather un-artistic genes, who's only style of painting could at best be described as the Jackson Pollock school, if his work with emulsion is anything to go by. Well to counter that the school I went to had a dark room! but sadly due to my other hobby that of blowing things up in chemistry labs, I was banned from going any where near, any way at that point I didn't have a camera. I remember watching a programme about a Picture post photographer called Bill Brandt, which also included the work of the famous war photographer Don McCullin and from then on all I wanted was an SLR camera. To cut along story short when I awoke on Christmas morning and unwrapped a rather pathetic looking 35mm Agfa compact camera needless to say I was a little disappointed. My disappointment didn't last long though as the next thing I unwrapped was a Patterson darkroom kit! The little camera with a fixed 35 mm lens turned out to be the best teacher I ever had, that coupled with the darkroom kit taught me all the fundamentals of photography that still hold true today even in this age of digital and photo shop! I still have that Agfa in fact I used it for years when I was in the army. It was whilst doing the training for the army that my mother bought an Olympus Om10 SLR so as she could take photos of me on my passing out parade, well that was thirty years ago, and I will not forget the fact that she gave me that camera. Since then I have used Cameras in all the jobs I have done, in the army, security and again now in the Fire Brigade, I have since become a teacher in photography for a while and have even won a National competition in Black and white photography, and all this because I can't paint! and because of that little Agfa. So there is my history in relation to photographs, I do not consider myself an expert in photography all I can say is that I have a little understanding in it built on the back of years of triumphs and disasters.
Well on my mothers post she used her new Camera for the first time and took what most people who left comments thought were good shots! I agree with them, they are good, but with just a little thought, and a little bit of knowledge on the camera it's self they can become so much more. In this age of digital cameras, gone are the days when you took the shot not knowing the outcome until they came back usually disappointingly from the chemist and at great expense! now you can see the results instantly, which gives you time to re-take the shot if it's not quite right. The photos above were taken this morning roughly mirroring the one's Matron took. To be fare I must point out that I have an SLR camera but I used it only in full auto which is something I don't normally do so as to best mirror the performance of her camera. The difference is only the point of focus. This concentrates all the cameras sensors on the centre so as to get the best reading. I'm not saying my pictures are better, what I'm saying is that they are sharper, this then gives us the viewer a more pleasing result photographically speaking. I hope this helps!