After a good afternoon of downing 'grog' in the Minerva pub in Plymouth with some old shipmates we strolled (tottered) by the quayside of old Plymouth and discussed the meaning of our involvement and our participation in the history of this part of the Old World. We lamented on the demise of the Royal Navy, due to bloody politicians, but were buoyed by the history that had gone before us. Here we looked out on the natural harbour that had seen Drakes fleet destroy the Armada. Here we stood, sharing a flask of rum, and understood the desperate days of the Nazi threat and to understand what it is to have the mentality of being an island nation. Coming back to the Spanish Armada and its failed attempt to break England saw it circumnavigate Britain to return to Spain but alas for many of the ships to be dash upon the jagged rocks off the coasts of Scotland and Ireland. My mother who was born in County Mayo, Ireland has cousins named Costello whom were survivors of this mighty Spanish Armada. So here we are us retired Matelots a bit worse for wear through drink but all as one with our respect for the mighty and unforgiving cruel sea.