For most of the last few weeks Duke was unable to partake 

in his favorite sport -  crab hunting. 

He digs 'em up, then bounds around them as they scurry for the safety of the sea. 

He's never yet caught one. Probably a good thing, they have sharp little pincers.

However,  the typhoons  completely changed the nature of the beach during summer, 

bringing in large grained sand about the size of coffee sugar.  

Seems like the sand crabs couldn't make their tunnels in this new stuff as it 

collapsed easily, so abandoned us for weeks. 

On our morning walks a bewildered Duke searched in vain.  

But now the beach has gradually returned to its old style soft sand and the crabs are back, 

much to Duke's delight.    

Some strange things are found along the beach's tide marks, but nothing quite as fascinating as this.  

It could even change sports history -   all depends on how long it took those coral wrigglies to solidify around a golf ball.

I've always understood it takes hundreds of years for the tiny polyps to form into a rock. 

If that holds true then we may have proof here that golf was not invented in Scotland, as widely believed, but here on Yoron island. 

That would send shivers 
through a few sporrans.

It would also put our little nine-holer on the map, maybe even on the pro circuit?

But then we'd have all those fancy rules, and I doubt the club champ would want

to play in any footwear other than his flip-flops.

Living on an island often invites the question, "Do you like fish, then?"

My answer is always a clear cut - 'yep' and 'ugh!'

I like kippers sizzled in butter in the frying pan;  river trout baked with chopped almonds;  fresh salmon barbecued in tin foil, sprinkled with parsley and a squirt of lemon. (Aah… memories)

Unfortunately, none of these delights are available below the 28th parallel.

Even the fish which make up my favorite bits of sushi are alien to tropical waters.

Not that I haven't tried the local sea produce.  I'm always being goaded into taking a bite of some gunky looking marine creature with assurance of its deliciousness.  A polite belch is the usual result.

And, since the Ministry of Food for Foreigners has blacklisted Marmite my staple diet looks something like this...

                                                      In sharp contrast to the local delicacies.

There was a bite in the breeze on this morning's walkies. 

Autumn definitely creeping in,  a new purity to the air  - 

a mix of sea ozones and pine with just the faintest hint of cowshed.

While the terrible typhoons of the summer are now a distant memory,

their aftermath still haunts morning walks. 

Many of the large evergreens look like they're destined to be 

nevergreens.

Smaller trees, sheltered by the natural undergrowth survived,  

while the useless government fences they put all over the woods, 

were blown to smithereens. 

Good riddance,  (and good for barbecue starters).

Yoron's Yawns (2)

Another display of islanders' apathy was when I was mopeding home on  Christmas eve last year. I had been playing Santa Clause for the village junior school and, for a laugh, kept on my beard and red regalia as I passed through the village. 

I hardly earned a second glance. 

Undaunted, I rode by the golf course where I espied four locals, my regular playing pals, on the 2nd green. Creeping within 50 yards I leapt out into full view atop a hillock with a merry "Ho Ho Ho". 

One of them peered up without interest, murmured something to his companions, who gave me a brief glance and they all continued with their putts.  I slumped away, fighting paranoia.

I'm not sure what I expected. A laugh perhaps, at least a grin. Nothing. 

Maybe they don't believe in Santa.

Yoron's Yawns (1).

Islanders,  like denizens of small islands everywhere it seems, don't easily get roused to a state of excitement. Similarly, their sense of humour is an elusive quality. These traits may be due to heredity, but more likely to hangovers, which are almost generic on this island, at least among my local friends.

Many times has my own overzealous spirit been frustrated by their apathetic response.

I was once having a lone round of golf and, while teeing up on the cliff top of the 4th tee,  a whale blew less than a three-iron shot away. The great beast was so close I could hear the bubbly gush of its exhalation. It then dived with a mighty swish of its tail. It was a heart-stopping sight. 

Once over my stupefaction, and like most people who have just undergone an awe-inspiring experience, I looked around for someone with whom to share the moment. The course was deserted except for three locals approaching the 7th down in the little valley. I leaped over to them,  yelling "Kojira! Kojira! (whale! whale!).  

They looked up from their balls on the green, looked at each other, then looked back at their balls. Not a flicker of interest. 

I walked back to the 4th feeling like an idiot. 

I was rewarded, however.  It turned out to be not a single whale but a whole family - two parents and a cub - and for the next five minutes they gamboled and gushed before me in a private showing of their grace and beauty. 

A moment to last a lifetime.

At weekend I helped my Scot friend to move house to another part 
of the island. The big fridge was the biggest challenge.

One important tip I can pass along is to keep a fridge standing 
when transporting; something to do with the freon gas flowing 
the wrong way if it's laid down.

Another valuable learning experience. 

As they say, ' It's never too late to learn'.

Oops!