Last Resort
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: None.
Description: Everyone searches for the one place they want to be; some even find it.
_____________________________________________________________________
Backpack was one of the few lucky people in the world who could place hand on heart and say they loved their work. And no wonder, he was the envy of all his friends, people he had watched grow old and weary from being stuck in a factory or an office or some other tedious employ.
Not that he was around all that much to listen to their complaints about their lot. Backpack was born with itchy feet and literally landed on said itchy feet after a number of dead end jobs failed to impress him.
By chance, he was gazing longingly at the offers in a travel agent's window one dreary, cold, late spring day, offers he couldn't even think of affording.
A man in a suit stopped beside him and asked where he would go if he had the choice. Backpack, ever suspicious and presuming the guy to be on the pull, told him where to get off in no uncertain terms. The suit laughed and introduced himself as a director of the travel agency, then put his proposition to Backpack.
He didn't have to consider it, said yes before the man had finished talking, followed him into the shop to iron out the details, shook hands on it and headed for the passport office.
Six days later he was at the airport and bound for Yugoslavia, newly opened up as a potential destination for holidaymakers. Backpack's job, if it could be described as such, was to report on the area's potential, sound out a few hotels, check out the food, the beaches and the nightlife.
First impressions of the place weren't very enlightening, at best, conditions could be described only as basic.
Sure, the sun was baking hot, a far cry from the miserable temperatures back home and the beaches were the cleanest he had ever seen. Here he was at the back end of March, floating in clear, warm blue-green seas.
Most of the locals spoke decent English, a big plus for the average lazy British punter who couldn't be bothered to learn another language.
On the fourth day he stumbled into a meeting of local businessmen and his research took a turn for the better from that moment on. Between them they thrashed out an advertising campaign of sorts, tweaked a few ideas on the catering side of things and decided to go for it full throttle.
Backpack's holiday perked up considerably too. He was invited to stay at what was considered to be the resort’s top hotel, wined and dined mercilessly and bombarded with ideas from all sides.
He returned home with a portfolio brimming with glowing reports on the attractions, the friendly inhabitants and the favourable exchange rate. All of this would be condensed to brochure speak for the tourist trade.
If nothing else, Backpack was a fast learner. Just the mere mention of his company's name afforded him upgrades on flights and on accommodations at his various destinations. He also learned to travel light, hence his nickname, finding just about everything he needed on arrival. His reports became infinitely more eloquent with experience, his imaginative prose compelling the reader to try a taste of the exotica he described.
The world was opening up to him with a series of trips to far flung places which were once mere dots on a map. The Hippy trail, or at least the Goan part of it. Again he waxed lyrical about the miles of golden sands and how a person could find great difficulty spending money since everything was so cheap.
Then, South America, virtually unspoiled, cheap as chips, guaranteed sunshine, excellent food, Backpack couldn't praise places such as Acapulco, Buenos Aries and Rio de Janeiro enough. These were already established tourist traps, off the beaten track as far as holiday destinations from the UK were concerned, until Backpack worked his magic on them. Now they were almost irresistible as well as affordable.
For the next twenty years, Backpack visited and revisited, investigated potential holiday targets, new hotels and new cuisines. His own ' holidays' were a fortnight or three weeks at home to visit relatives and catch up with friends. Somehow he was always ready to go back to 'work' long before his holiday was over.
The merger came like a bolt from the blue and spelled the end of the road as far as his gallivanting was concerned. Backpack was offered a desk job as part of the new firm, something he was to consider on his final jaunt of discovery. Turkey, where the Aegean Sea meets the Mediterranean. With heavy heart he packed for the trip, all at once unsure of his future. A quick shuttle stop tour of some of the smaller resorts along the coastline for reference and Backpack was driven to his hotel in Marmaris. From the balcony, he looked out over the beautiful bay just as the sun dipped behind the mountains, glorious. He spoke into his dictaphone for ten minutes, showered and went looking for somewhere to eat. A walk along the main drag had him talking into the machine again. The place was as basic as Yugoslavia had been initially but it had definite potential.
The following day he checked the beach area. Walking into the sea was like walking into a bath, hotels and restaurant bars lined the front, tourists were a little thin on the ground but those he spoke to were full of praise. Walking along the main drag, he decided what the brochure would say, Blackpool with sun.
Before his two weeks were over, Backpack had made his mind up about the desk job. He couldn't accept it, not after so many years on the move. He fancied being his own boss for a change and had cash in abundance since he seldom had to spend any. He would look for a little bar or hotel in need of refurbishment and play mine host. Something overlooking that magnificent bay so he could watch the boats go by and relax, maybe take up fishing. Already, Marmaris felt like home, yes, he had come to a life changing decision, his resignation would be tendered , Marmaris would definitely be his .....last resort.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Everyone searches for the one place they want to be; some even find it.
_____________________________________________________________________
Backpack was one of the few lucky people in the world who could place hand on heart and say they loved their work. And no wonder, he was the envy of all his friends, people he had watched grow old and weary from being stuck in a factory or an office or some other tedious employ.
Not that he was around all that much to listen to their complaints about their lot. Backpack was born with itchy feet and literally landed on said itchy feet after a number of dead end jobs failed to impress him.
By chance, he was gazing longingly at the offers in a travel agent's window one dreary, cold, late spring day, offers he couldn't even think of affording.
A man in a suit stopped beside him and asked where he would go if he had the choice. Backpack, ever suspicious and presuming the guy to be on the pull, told him where to get off in no uncertain terms. The suit laughed and introduced himself as a director of the travel agency, then put his proposition to Backpack.
He didn't have to consider it, said yes before the man had finished talking, followed him into the shop to iron out the details, shook hands on it and headed for the passport office.
Six days later he was at the airport and bound for Yugoslavia, newly opened up as a potential destination for holidaymakers. Backpack's job, if it could be described as such, was to report on the area's potential, sound out a few hotels, check out the food, the beaches and the nightlife.
First impressions of the place weren't very enlightening, at best, conditions could be described only as basic.
Sure, the sun was baking hot, a far cry from the miserable temperatures back home and the beaches were the cleanest he had ever seen. Here he was at the back end of March, floating in clear, warm blue-green seas.
Most of the locals spoke decent English, a big plus for the average lazy British punter who couldn't be bothered to learn another language.
On the fourth day he stumbled into a meeting of local businessmen and his research took a turn for the better from that moment on. Between them they thrashed out an advertising campaign of sorts, tweaked a few ideas on the catering side of things and decided to go for it full throttle.
Backpack's holiday perked up considerably too. He was invited to stay at what was considered to be the resort’s top hotel, wined and dined mercilessly and bombarded with ideas from all sides.
He returned home with a portfolio brimming with glowing reports on the attractions, the friendly inhabitants and the favourable exchange rate. All of this would be condensed to brochure speak for the tourist trade.
If nothing else, Backpack was a fast learner. Just the mere mention of his company's name afforded him upgrades on flights and on accommodations at his various destinations. He also learned to travel light, hence his nickname, finding just about everything he needed on arrival. His reports became infinitely more eloquent with experience, his imaginative prose compelling the reader to try a taste of the exotica he described.
The world was opening up to him with a series of trips to far flung places which were once mere dots on a map. The Hippy trail, or at least the Goan part of it. Again he waxed lyrical about the miles of golden sands and how a person could find great difficulty spending money since everything was so cheap.
Then, South America, virtually unspoiled, cheap as chips, guaranteed sunshine, excellent food, Backpack couldn't praise places such as Acapulco, Buenos Aries and Rio de Janeiro enough. These were already established tourist traps, off the beaten track as far as holiday destinations from the UK were concerned, until Backpack worked his magic on them. Now they were almost irresistible as well as affordable.
For the next twenty years, Backpack visited and revisited, investigated potential holiday targets, new hotels and new cuisines. His own ' holidays' were a fortnight or three weeks at home to visit relatives and catch up with friends. Somehow he was always ready to go back to 'work' long before his holiday was over.
The merger came like a bolt from the blue and spelled the end of the road as far as his gallivanting was concerned. Backpack was offered a desk job as part of the new firm, something he was to consider on his final jaunt of discovery. Turkey, where the Aegean Sea meets the Mediterranean. With heavy heart he packed for the trip, all at once unsure of his future. A quick shuttle stop tour of some of the smaller resorts along the coastline for reference and Backpack was driven to his hotel in Marmaris. From the balcony, he looked out over the beautiful bay just as the sun dipped behind the mountains, glorious. He spoke into his dictaphone for ten minutes, showered and went looking for somewhere to eat. A walk along the main drag had him talking into the machine again. The place was as basic as Yugoslavia had been initially but it had definite potential.
The following day he checked the beach area. Walking into the sea was like walking into a bath, hotels and restaurant bars lined the front, tourists were a little thin on the ground but those he spoke to were full of praise. Walking along the main drag, he decided what the brochure would say, Blackpool with sun.
Before his two weeks were over, Backpack had made his mind up about the desk job. He couldn't accept it, not after so many years on the move. He fancied being his own boss for a change and had cash in abundance since he seldom had to spend any. He would look for a little bar or hotel in need of refurbishment and play mine host. Something overlooking that magnificent bay so he could watch the boats go by and relax, maybe take up fishing. Already, Marmaris felt like home, yes, he had come to a life changing decision, his resignation would be tendered , Marmaris would definitely be his .....last resort.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in his 50s, an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in sunny Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing. He is inspired by the Ayrshire coast and likes what he calls "real music". He also enjoys pool, snooker and is a big fan of rugby league side, Wigan Warriors. He has written several novels and one poetry collection and says that writing gives him "endless pleasure". His two ebooks can be viewed by clicking on the images below.
Angus tells us that all his stories on McStorytellers have been inspired by the titles of songs written by Paul Kelly, who is often described as the poet laureate of Australia.
Angus tells us that all his stories on McStorytellers have been inspired by the titles of songs written by Paul Kelly, who is often described as the poet laureate of Australia.