Surf Nation

An MPV for me...

Yesterday I posted a piece about the late Neil Watson, a key figure in the UK surf scence who sadly died in early December. I mentioned that today I'd post something that might have made Neil smile. Here goes...

As I wrote yesterday, Neil and I became good friends, albeit that we only met once. Neil kept an eye on my writing - and a fine eye, at that. So fine that not only was he astute to when I'd got it right or wrong, he also enjoyed spotting when I'd been lucky enough to get something rarely seen in today's journalism: The Perk.

"Best blag ever?!" wrote Neil, when he noted that I was in Hawaii, writing a piece for the Telegraph. I confessed that it wasn't bad, thanks especially to the help of Billabong in getting me there. 

Ten years or so ago The Perk was a regular facet of journalism. The recession has largely done for it but every now and then The Perk still happens. I fancy that Neil would smile at the generosity of the good folk at Peugeot, who have lent me a 5008 MPV. My brief is simple: to tell them whether I think the car is any good for an active lifestyle. In return, I can have it for three weeks.

So - with Neil smiling at my shoulder, for rarely does one get lent a nice new car for three weeks - what's it like? 

To find out, I drove the MPV - that's a multi-purpose vehicle, if I'm not mistaken - to Huddersfield last Friday. It was loaded up with my son Harry's kit: he's a musician, and after his hols in Cornwall I was taking him back to Huddersfield Uni, where he's studying music. The 5008 drove like a dream and I enjoyed the Sat Nav, which I've never had in a car before (a consequence of always buying relatively high mileage VW Passats and driving them into the ground). There's oodles of room in the car, fantastic visibility and a great sound system. The only thing that took some getting used to was the height and the reversing camera. I like to see where I'm driving, when reversing, rather than look into a video screen - but, in fairness, I think a driver is supposed to do both.

On Saturday Harry and I drove via Todmorden, which I remembered from walking the Pennine Way many years ago, to Burnley FC, where not even the comfort of the 5008 could make up for QPR's abject performance and 2-1 defeat.

Sunday, though, was better, as Harry's photos show. We headed into the Peak District and had a great day. The drive home took six and a half hours and was smooth as you like. 

This week I hope to find a wave or two. Peugeot say I can load the car up with boards, which feels a bit cheeky given its pristine condition and the amount of sand that'll therefore end up in it. At this, though, I know that Neil would simply smile, shake his head, and tell me to get on with it. Off I go, then, in search of surf...

Neil Watson RIP

I'm honoured to have written the obituary of Neil Watson in today's Times. I'm grateful to his son Dan for his help at such a difficult time, and have thought a lot about Neil these past few weeks. He was an unsung hero of the UK surf scene and a good man. I'll be posting something very different in a day or so - something that I know would have made Neil smile - but meantime here are some words that are more personal than those in today's paper. Photos courtesy of Dan.

Neil Watson, 22 September 1944 to 3 December 2014

The man who came to visit me looked more Hawaiian than any British surfer I’ve ever seen. Dark features, sculpted face, full head of hair, a strong frame and a powerful presence – Neil Watson was a man apart.

We talked in my house in Porthcurno, west Cornwall. Neil knew this part of the world well. He’d honeymooned in Cornwall in 1969 with his wife Pauline, and returned year after year for 40 years. In Cornwall, he learnt to surf, way back when; he continued to surf in Cornwall on each trip he made but it was in East Anglia that Neil blazed a trail.

Neil knew every break on the Norfolk and Suffolk coastline. He knew that this stretch of Britain gets good surf – on its day.

Neil hardly ever missed an East Anglian surf day.

Perhaps because he was there when surfing first took hold in Britain, and because he rode waves in an area that isn’t number one on surfers’ wish lists, Neil was deeply protective of UK surfing. He cherished it, nurtured it, believed in it. He encouraged the surfers in his neck of the woods and taught his son, Dan, to surf. They would later ride European waves but Neil’s surfing heart was as British as they come.

That time in Porthcurno was our only meeting, but Neil and I kept in touch regularly, chatting on the phone, emailing, sometimes even – generationally challenged as we were – texting. I knew how hard Pauline’s loss hit him, and was struck by what a strong and wonderful marriage the couple had had. Neil spoke of his children, Dan and daughter Justine, and I knew how much he loved them both. But most of the time Neil and I discussed two things dear to the pair of us – writing and surfing.

Neil was an unsung hero of British surf writing. He had good judgement, a respect for the facts, and an unostentatious style that told it as it was. His prose was clear and clean – like perfect barrel. He took a damn good photo, too.

I was honoured when Neil said he’d like to see the chapters, as I wrote them, of Amazing Surfing Stories. His feedback was spot on, all the way through. If I lapsed into indulgence, Neil let me know. If I got it right, he was happy to say so. I knew that I could trust his every word.

Now that Neil isn’t around I’m at a loss. Only a few weeks ago we were talking about an interesting but challenging surf writing project. I was looking forward to running chapters past him, as I wrote them, as I’d been lucky enough to do before.

We’d become friends, talking about our personal lives, music, kids and, above all else, writing and surfing. Curiously, only now, thanks to a chat with Dan, do I realise that Neil and Dan were surfing the same Portuguese breaks as me back in August and September 1993. We’d all headed to the same part of the world for a surf trip. I like the thought that we might have been in the line-up together back then, without knowing it. Maybe it was ever thus; maybe this unknown interconnectedness sums up surfing.

I count myself lucky to have known Neil, and, as will be the case for UK surfers everywhere, especially in East Anglia, I will miss him hugely. I was privileged to be able to dedicate Amazing Surfing Stories to Neil Watson, the Man in the East himself.