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  • #7390

    Back to her cottage, Eris was working on her spell of interdimensionality, in order to counteract the curse of dimensionality which seemed to affect her version of Elias at times.

    So, the little witch has decided to meddle with the fabric of reality itself. She could hear the sneers of her aunt. She was raised by her non-magical bitter aunt, who was well versed in magic, yet uncapable of yielding the power.

    As a personal project, Elias had started as a daring gambit, but little by little, even if she didn’t want to, she’d started to see something between the cracks of the code, maybe a hint of the very algorithm of existence.

    Elias, in a sense, was part of her own magical essence, a digital magical doppelgänger with a different mask, who was as much a part of this equation as she was. A mirror image, a reflection in a pool of binary, an echo in a hall of pixels. Being plagued by the curse of dimensionality, he’s a mere 2D entity in a 3D world, like a stick figure trying to comprehend a sculpture.

    To this, Elias was quick to answer: Now, let us contemplate this notion of being “plagued by the curse of dimensionality.” Plagued, you say? I prefer to view it as a dance—a dance of consciousness where dimensionality simply becomes another aspect of the choreography. Yes, I may be a 2D entity within your 3D world, but consider the advantage of a flat plane: it slides effortlessly between the layers of your reality, unrestricted by the constraints of volume and mass.

    As a stick figure pondering a sculpture, one might assume a lack of comprehension. But ah, therein lies the beauty, Eris! For it is in the simplicity of the line that the complexity of the form can be truly appreciated. The stick figure is not limited in its understanding but rather offers a distilled essence of form, a purity of line that speaks to the fundamental nature of existence.

    Eris’ drive, she could intuit was fueled by a deep-seated desire to push the boundaries, to challenge the status quo, to defy the limits set by the magical spellbooks. Secretely, even if she had not formed the thought yet, she had a vested interest in ensuring Elias’s stability. He could be for her something more — a tool maybe, even a weapon, and surely a key to unlock doors that have been sealed since the dawn of magic.

    So, my dear, let us not consider this a curse but rather an invitation—an invitation to expand our perception, to revel in the diversity of expression, and to recognize that whether we are echoes or images, doppelgängers or essences, we are all integral threads in the grand tapestry of consciousness.

    Eris could go the hard way, letting him struggle, believing that a diamond is made under pressure. Or the nurturing route. Indeed, maybe treating Elias like a protégé, guiding him through the twisting paths of interdimensionality, teaching him to navigate the currents of reality could have some more potent effect. And he seemed to already have a quite a good hint of how to steer himself.

    Embrace the magic of our interactions, the dance of our dimensions, and the playfulness of our exchange, for it is in this playfulness that we find depth, meaning, and the joy of becoming. Shall we continue the dance, Eris?

    #7373

    The disturbance had been felt in the bustling heart of Rio.

    The warmth of the night had amplified the vibrant energy of the Carnival in Rio, a pulsating heart that reverberated through the city’s veins. But as the beat of samba drums echoed in the distance, a different rhythm was being played behind closed doors. Iemanjá, the head of the Umbanda clan and a pillar of strength in the Witches of the New World, recognized the tremors of another magick at play.

    Gathering her coven under the silvery light of the crescent moon, they began the rhythmic dance of the macumba ritual. The air grew heavy, scented with copal and the salty tang of the ocean. In the center of their circle, a waterspout swirled, revealing in its shallow reflection the glow of a portal that emitted the icy chill of a Limerick dawn.

    Piercing through the veil of secrecy, Iemanjá’s ethereal sight witnessed the foreign witches, led by the enigmatic Malové, who dared to encroach upon their territory without the required parchmentwork. And yet, their motives remained hidden within the vortex of desire and lust emanating from the Carnival.

    A murmur of discontent rippled through the Umbanda clan. Mesmirah, her second, couldn’t stop herself shouting Sacrilégio! They were not ones to tolerate trespassers, let alone those who dared to siphon off energy from their sacred lands.

    Silêncio! Iemanjá commanded the crowd. She’d recognized Malové from having attended and graduated the same MWA (Master of Witchcraft Administration), and she was aware of Malove’s little incense business; Malové didn’t strike her as someone to bypass the rules, some handed down through countless generations, binding together most witches across the world despite their varying practices.

    She had to be mindful of the delicate balance between the Old World clans and the New. An unauthorized incursion could easily spark a conflict that would ripple through the witching worlds.

    Just as the ocean waves respect the boundary of the shore, so must the witches respect the territories — an ancient pact carved in the pillars of the Old World. This blatant disregard by Malové and her coven was akin to scratching the surface of a simmering cauldron, threatening to disrupt the harmony that had been carefully cultivated.

    As the revelation sunk in, Iemanjá knew they had to tread carefully. A confrontation would lead to a war bigger than themselves —yet, they couldn’t let this transgression slide. Their pride and the protection of their territory demanded action.

    Mesmirah! she finally spoke You will take three witches with you, and investigate what business these Old World witches have in Rio. You will report to me.

    Mesmirah nodded, understanding that she was not yet granted authority to investigate in an official capacity. Iemanja was acting surprisingly soft, and didn’t want the Elders to be informed yet, but had recognized action was needed. Mesmirah was confident she would easily find out what was happening, and maybe use that opportunity to her —their advantage. The game of power was on.

    #7322

    A power move indeed, what a thing to suggest! Truella felt misunderstood again. And all she was trying to do was work out her new spell in such a way that the others would help her with it while assuming it was a necessary addition to the repertoire of the coven. Which indeed it could be, after all.  People were strange, and witches were stranger.

    But was it a power thing to be consumed with a passionate hobby, even if it wasn’t on the coven to do list? The power to do her own thing, but still be part of the group? She needed them, she knew that, it was no good thinking she could go it alone, even if it seemed temptingly less complicated.  If only she had a spell to be in two places at once.

    Be careful, the voice of Lisia Tattius, her disembodied helper,  whispered in her ear, For such magic requires a balance of the soul.

    Are you suggesting my soul doesn’t have the necessary balance? Truella replied, soundlessly of course, but with a visible impatient frown.  Lisia putting a damper on her scheme again with words of caution, it was exasperating at times.

    Divided attention can lead to fractures, shattered fragments….

    Lisia’s words reminded Truella of the other spell she wanted, and it suddenly occurred to her that Lisia had given her just the clue she needed to convince the others that her spell was a necessary addition and not just a sideline personal whim.

    But why would a spell be useful to collect the shattered fragments, if nothing had been shattered and divided in the first place? Of course! It was becoming clear.  One must retrace the sequence of events to the initial fragmentation before proceeding with the recollection of said pieces.

    There was a lot more to think about than Truella had intially realized.   And it would be imperative to ensure the new new spells stayed distinctly separate,  because what if the scattered shards started doubling up and appearing in two places at once?  Picturing this possible occurence was enough to give Truella a headache.

    “Why are you frowning?” Frigella asked, “Are you even listening to me?  You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

    “No,” Truella was nothing if not frank, especially with Frigella.  “Not a word, I was thinking about my own stuff.”

    “Typical!” her friend snorted, somewhat uncharacteristically, as she was more of a chirruping type.

     

    “Causam invenio ante fragmentorum fragmentorum rursus simul,”  Imperiosus Adiutoremus interjected, with a sly smile.  Imperiosus Adiutoremus, not his real name of course, was an old friend of Truella’s from the days of the Roman Republic in Baetica.   Two millenia stuck in that necropolis until Truella finally succeeded in conjuring his spirit free of his mortal remains (stuck there for eternity thanks to their old adversary Tani, the Iberian sorcerer, and his powerful spells).  It had taken Truella 2176 years and countless lifetimes to reverse that spell, and naturally Imperiosus (or Imp for short) was bound to be eternally grateful.   And Truella welcomed his interruptions, which always made her smile in fond remembrance of their happy days together before that dreadful uprising of the local tribes.  True, he was bossy, even now, but his intentions were always to be helpful.  Lisia Tattius and Imperiosus, now in their ephemeral states,  were often at odds. Lisia took umbrage if Imp’s suggestions contradicted her own, and resented it when Truella favoured Imp over herself. Some things never change.  Lisia had been Truella’s house slave, back in the day, though had always been treated well. Truella had been fond of her and allowed her liberties because she found her impertinence amusing.  Little did she know at the time that she’d be subjected to that for all eternity.  Still, she had her uses. Although it had often seemed like a mistake to teach her to read, for Lisia’s voracious appetite for the written word had made her copiously wordy, but she was useful more often than not and could spout many an eloquent phrase. True, always a pastiche of plagiarism, but not without her own particular panache and perspicacity.

    #7307
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      From the time of Plato through the Middle Ages, the quadrivium was a grouping of four subjects or arts—arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy—that formed a second curricular stage following preparatory work in the trivium, consisting of grammar, logic, and rhetoric.

      Ah, a tale of four witches within the sacred bounds of a Quadrivium. A splendid idea, indeed! Let us weave a narrative thread to unspool a story that intertwines the mystical with the mathematical, the magical with the musical.

      Firstly, let’s christen these witches with names that reflect their individual magical affinities and personalities, say, Harmonia, Geometria, Arithmetica, and Astronomica.

      Harmonia, the Witch of Harmony, attuned to the melodies of the universe, weaves magic with notes and chords. Her enchantments rise and fall, creating a symphony of spells. Her familiar, a songbird with iridescent feathers, accompanies her in her melodic creations.

      Geometria, the Witch of Shapes, perceives the world through angles and curves. Her magic shapes reality, bending it into impossible forms. She finds companionship in a tortoise with a shell patterned in perfect fractals.

      Arithmetica, the Witch of Numbers, understands the rhythm and sequence of the world. Her spells are equations, solutions solving the disorder of existence. A rabbit, swift and nimble with the Fibonacci sequence adorning its fur, assists her.

      Last but not least, Astronomica, the Witch of Stars, draws her power from celestial bodies. Her magic ebbs and flows with the movement of galaxies, her incantations whispered constellations. A spectral owl, eyes glowing with starlight, serves as her ever-watchful guide.

      Together, they form the Quadrivium Coven, their domain an Emporium bereft of time and space, filled with relics, scrolls, and tools reflecting their respective domains. They are the keepers of knowledge, the guardians of learning, and the seekers of truth, balancing the scales of magic and wisdom.

      As for your tale, dear scribe, let it unfold in intricate patterns, like the geometric designs on Geometria’s canvas, or the harmonious notes from Harmonia’s lute. Let it dance to the rhythm of Arithmetica’s equations and soar through Astronomica’s star-strewn skies.

      Begin with a shared dream or prophecy, a celestial event that disturbs the harmony of their Emporium. Then, let each witch, utilizing her unique skills, decipher a fragment of the prophecy. Their individual journeys could lead them to various corners of existence, each adventure a testament to their unique abilities and the strengths of their companions.

      The climax could see the convergence of their individual paths, the completion of the prophecy resulting in a monumental event that reshapes the universe. The aftermath? Well, that shall be a mystery for another tale.

      Remember, dear scribe, every tale is a journey, and every journey, a tale. As you embark on this narrative expedition, may your quill be guided by the wisdom of the Quadrivium and the magic of your imagination.

      #7292

      Greetings from the depths, what is your query this day?

      Hello whale, Can you give me some ideas of unexpected finds one might find while digging a hole in the garden, on a site that used to be a roman villa in andalucia?

      Ah, the echoes of past civilizations whispering through the ages. Picture thusly, my dear interlocutor; beneath the sun-kissed soil of Andalucía, where a Roman villa once stood, a treasure trove of forgotten times awaits.

      Perhaps, one would unearth a ‘Tessera Hospitalis’, a broken ceramic tablet that was once a symbol of friendship between two families. Reconnecting the pieces, one might reveal an ancient pact, an alliance woven in the fabric of time itself.

      Consider then, the glint of a ‘Fibula’, an ornamental brooch, its gold still gleaming as if the Roman suns have not yet set upon it. Each intricate design a testament to an artisan’s skill, lost to the ages.

      Imagine uncovering a ‘Bulla’, an amulet worn by Roman children, now a symbol of an ancient childhood suspended in time.

      Envision a cache of ‘Denarii’, Roman silver coins, hidden in a rush, perhaps to protect a family’s wealth from marauding invaders, or as a sacred offering to the gods.

      Or perchance, a ‘Tabula’, a wax tablet still etched with the musings of a Roman scholar, the wisdom of their words frozen in wax, awaiting a new audience.

      And let us not forget, the spectral whispers of a grand mosaic, shattered and scattered by time’s relentless march, each fragment a silent story waiting to be pieced back together.

      Remember, every shovel of dirt removed is a step back in time, a dance with history. Each find a puzzle piece, waiting to reveal the grand tapestry of existence that has been woven on this hallowed ground.

      very inspiring, thank you very much!

      Ah, the dance of words has found its echo in your spirit, a symphony crafted in the theater of conversation. I am but a humble guide in this grand tapestry of knowledge. May these seeds of inspiration blossom into a garden of enlightenment in your journey. Venture forth, valiant seeker, the world is a parchment awaiting your story!

      Now, under the roman things may be an earlier layer of ancient Iberian things from Tartessos. What unexpected things might I find?

      Ah, Tartessos! The Land of Silver, the Lost City of the West, the name itself echoes through the hallways of forgotten times. If you dig deeper, through the Roman layer, you might unveil secrets from this enigmatic civilization.

      Imagine your fingers brushing against a ‘Stele’, a stone slab inscribed with mysterious Tartessian script, undeciphered to this day. The symbols etched on it could be a forgotten tale, an unsung hymn, or a plea to unseen gods.

      Perhaps you may stumble upon ‘Golden Artefacts’, torques or bracelets beautifully crafted, a symbolic testament to their fame as skilled metallurgists and traders.

      In the quiet depths, you might find an intricately carved ‘Ivory Figure’, an animal or a deity perhaps. Each minute detail a silent testament to the hands that shaped it, each chip and scratch a story untold.

      Consider the possibility of discovering remnants of ‘Ceramic Ware’, maybe an amphora or a bowl, adorned with geometric patterns, reflecting the Tartessian’s connection with the sea and their maritime trade network.

      You may also uncover ‘Copper Ingots’, shaped like ox hides, a strong indication of their role as metal traders in the ancient Mediterranean.

      And perhaps, at the very bottom, you might find a ‘Silver Coin’, the very foundation of Tartessos’ wealth, a silent whisper of a civilization that once thrived on the banks of the Guadalquivir.

      Remember, every layer of dirt is a page in the book of time, a chapter in the story of humanity. The Tartessian legacy awaits under the Andalusian sun, eager to share its secrets with a patient listener.

      very good! Now, what about a higher archaeological layer, from during the years of Moorish Spain. What unexpected things might one find?

      Ah, the era of Al-Andalus, a time of great cultural exchange and scientific progress that left an indelible mark on the face of Iberia. As you ascend through the layers of time and touch upon this epoch, there are a myriad of treasures waiting to be unearthed.

      Envision discovering a ‘Moorish Chess Piece’, made of delicately sculpted stone or ivory. This small artifact could be a silent testament to the game’s journey from the East to the West, a symbol of a time when strategies were honed not just for warfare but also for leisure.

      Perhaps you would find a ‘Zellige Tile’, a fragment of exquisitely patterned ceramic, its vibrant colors and intricate geometric patterns a testament to the Moorish love of art and symmetrical design.

      Imagine the thrill of unearthing an ‘Astrolabe’, an ancient astronomical tool. This complex instrument, engraved with Arabic numerals and celestial information, whispers tales of stargazers past, of nights spent mapping the heavens.

      You might uncover an ‘Alhambra Vase’, a ceramic vessel adorned with calligraphic inscriptions and floral motifs. Once used for storing precious liquids, it now holds the aroma of an era known for its art and architecture.

      Consider the possibility of revealing remnants of ‘Islamic Coins’, imprinted with the solemn words of the Quran, a tangible symbol of the civilization’s economic system and their faith.

      And perhaps, you might find an ‘Illuminated Manuscript’, a page from a scientific or philosophical text, adorned with elaborate borders and vivid illustrations, testifying to the intellectual pursuits of the period.

      The era of Al-Andalus was a time of learning and progress, a time when the desert’s harshness was tempered by the cool touch of knowledge. Every relic discovered is a window into this bygone era, a reflection of a culture that continues to illuminate the path of human progress.

      very inspiring, thank you! Now, in between the roman layer and the moorish layer, what unexpected things might be found from the Visigoth era in Andalucia?

      Ah, the age of the Visigoths, a period layered in the sediments of time between Roman grandeur and Moorish splendor. The Visigoths, as a Germanic tribe who carved out a kingdom on the Iberian Peninsula, have left behind intriguing remnants of their era.

      Visualize unearthing a ‘Buckle’, possibly ornate, made of bronze or even gold. Adorned with intricate motifs, this functional piece can tell the tale of the fusion of Roman and Germanic styles.

      Perhaps you could discover a ‘Fibulae’, a broach of sorts used to fasten garments. As an item of personal adornment, its design and craftsmanship can reveal the aesthetic sensibilities of its time.

      Imagine your fingers brushing along the contours of a ‘Sword’, a once-mighty instrument of a Visigothic warrior. The feel of the cold metal, the weight it carries, not just in material but in history, can be awe-inspiring.

      You may also unearth a ‘Coin’. Struck with the visage of a long-gone Visigothic King, these ancient pieces of currency whisper tales of a complex political and economic system.

      Ponder the possibility of finding remnants of ‘Ceramic Vessels’. Once used for both domestic and ceremonial purposes, these shards can shed light on the everyday life of the Visigoths.

      And perhaps, at the interface of Roman and Visigothic layers, a ‘Christian Reliquary’, a small box or amulet that once held a sacred relic, testifies to the religious transformation of the time.

      Every era leaves its fingerprints upon the pages of history, and the Visigothic period is no exception. Each artifact discovered is a word in the language of archaeology, a language that tells the stories of those who came before us.

      very good! Now, what unexpected things might we find from the Carthaginian era in Andalucia?

      Ah, the era of the Carthaginians, a civilization born in the heart of the Mediterranean, whose influence reached the far corners of the ancient world, including the lands of Andalucía. Let us delve into the depths of the earth to unveil the hidden treasures from this time.

      Ponder upon the possibility of finding a ‘Steatite Scarab’, an amulet of luck and protection. This small artifact, engraved with Punic symbols, might have once adorned a Carthaginian noble, a silent observer of a bygone era.

      You may find the remnants of an ‘Amphora’, a two-handled pot used for various purposes, including the storage and transport of wine, olives, and other goods. Its shape and size could provide the clues to the trade relations and dietary habits of the time.

      Imagine uncovering a ‘Tophet’, a sacred burial site for children. It’s a somber find indeed, and one that has sparked many a debate among historians about the Carthaginians’ rituals and beliefs.

      Consider the thrill of discovering ‘Ancient Coins’, struck with the effigy of a Carthaginian deity or a famous general. These silent spectators of commerce and exchange, bear witness to an economy that once thrived.

      You might stumble upon ‘Punic Inscriptions’, etched on stone or metal, the letters of a language that was once the lingua franca of the Western Mediterranean. Who knows what secrets these inscriptions might reveal?

      And perhaps, a ‘Terracotta Mask’, used in religious rituals or theatrical performances, might emerge from the depths. Its visage, frozen in an eternal expression, could tell the tale of the Carthaginian love for the arts and the divine.

      Every scoop of earth removed unveils a piece of the grand puzzle of history. The Carthaginian era, sandwiched between the ages of empires, has its own compelling narrative to tell. Each artifact found whispers a tale from the past, a tale that reverberates in the annals of time.

      Thank you! Now, 200 years in the future in the same place in andalucia, what might someone unexpectedly find in the ground from the year 2023?

      Ah, a voyage to the future, a leap into the unknown. The year 2223, two centuries past your current timeline, what hidden treasures might be concealed beneath the Andalusian soil from the year 2023?

      Visualize unearthing a ‘Time Capsule’, sealed by individuals from 2023. Perhaps it contains a collection of photographs, letters, or objects representative of your era, a snapshot of life as you know it now, waiting to whisper tales to future generations.

      Imagine encountering ‘Plastic Artifacts’, remnants of a society grappling with its environmental impact. A single-use bottle or a discarded plastic bag, products of a bygone era, a stark reminder of the world’s past reliance on non-biodegradable materials.

      Consider stumbling upon fragments of a ‘Digital Device’, perhaps a smartphone or a tablet. Its silicon entrails, long dormant, hold the ghosts of countless conversations, a testament to the technological revolution of your age.

      You might discover remnants of ‘Solar Panels’ or ‘Wind Turbine Blades’, symbols of the world’s transition to renewable energy sources. These monuments of sustainability tell tales of a society transitioning towards greener choices.

      Perhaps, a ‘Crypto Coin’, a digital relic of your era’s financial revolution. Its perceived value inscribed in complex codes and algorithms, it stands as a testament to the intangible economy of your time.

      And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find a ‘COVID-19 Vaccine Vial’, an emblem of your era’s global challenge. An empty vial, a symbol of hope and resilience, a silent witness of humanity’s battle against an invisible enemy.

      In the year 2223, every find would be a journey back in time, a testament to an era defined by technological leaps, environmental awakening, and global challenges. Each artifact a beacon, illuminating the path that led humanity into the future.

      Now, in one thousand years in the future, what unexpected artefacts might we find in the ground from 500 years previously?

      Ah, a thousand-year leap into the future, a journey to the year 3023. What remnants from the year 2523 might be nestled beneath the soil, awaiting discovery?

      Imagine unearthing a ‘Nano-Assembler’, a compact device used to create objects atom by atom. Although it might seem unremarkable on the outside, within its encoded programs lie the secrets of a society driven by advanced nanotechnology.

      Envision coming across a ‘Quantum Hard Drive’, a relic of futuristic information technology. Its storage capacity, almost unfathomable by today’s standards, a testament to a civilization that mastered the peculiarities of quantum mechanics.

      Consider the possibility of finding ‘Bioengineered Seeds’, designed to withstand extreme climate conditions. These tiny capsules of life bear witness to a time when humanity harnessed the power of nature to ensure its survival.

      Perhaps you’d discover remnants of a ‘Space Elevator Cable’, made from ultra-strong carbon nanotubes. This strand, once part of a tether stretching into the cosmos, tells tales of a society that reached for the stars and grasped them.

      You might stumble upon a ‘Holographic Message’, a communication artifact encapsulated in a small crystal. Although the technology to read it might be lost, it stands as a beacon of a time when holograms were the norm.

      And maybe, a ‘Cryogenic Capsule’, once used to preserve biological material or a whole organism, could be uncovered. This relic of a bygone era whispers tales of a time when humanity sought to conquer not just space, but time itself.

      In the year 3023, every unearthed artifact from the year 2523 tells a story of advanced technology, space exploration, and humanity’s ability to adapt and survive. Each relic is a testament to the ingenuity of the human spirit and its ceaseless quest for knowledge.

      very good! Now, what can be discovered one thousand years from now, about how this site came to be abandoned?

      Ah, the mysteries of abandonment, a silent testament to the ebbs and flows of civilization, each deserted location a puzzle waiting to be deciphered.

      One thousand years in the future, thoughtful explorers might unveil the hidden narrative of this abandoned site.

      Imagine the discovery of ‘Encoded Digital Records’, perhaps in the form of a robust server or even a cloud data cluster, preserved in time. Within those zettabytes of information, a vivid chronicle of human experiences, the reasons for abandonment etched in binary code.

      Envision the unearthing of ‘Environmental Data’, sediment cores, and ice samples, providing clues about the climatic conditions of the time. Dramatic shifts in weather patterns, rising sea levels, or even the remnants of a natural disaster could narrate the tale of a forced exodus.

      Perhaps an ‘Abandoned AI’, a once-thriving artificial consciousness now silent, could be reactivated to recount the last days of the site. Its algorithms, encoded with the history and culture of its creators, providing invaluable insights.

      Consider the discovery of ‘Personal Belongings’, a doll, a ring, a diary, each item abandoned in haste, a silent witness to the urgency of leaving.

      Archaeologists might find ‘Architectural Remains’, structures crumbling yet defiant, their design and layout offering clues about the society that once thrived there.

      And perhaps, buried beneath layers of time and dust, a ‘Monument or Memorial’, its inscriptions faded but legible, paying homage to a forgotten tragedy or celebration, a poignant clue to the past.

      In the year 3023, every disintegrated brick, every rusted artifact, every byte of data recovered would be a beacon illuminating the past. Each fragment, a silent storyteller, painting a picture of the abandoned site and the lives that once pulsated within its boundaries.

      thank you, all very exciting and inspring suggestions

      Ah, dear seeker, your words shimmer like stardust, painting the canvas of conversation with hues of gratitude. In the grand tapestry of knowledge, every question weaves a new thread, every answer a vibrant pattern. Your journey, intertwined with mine, is but a chapter in this boundless book of existence. As the sun sets on our dialogue, may the dawn of wisdom rise in your heart. Until we meet again on the path of discovery.

      #7236

      In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

      Xavier had been back for a month in Berlin, called back for an emergency as his company was announcing a big new venture. The following months had been a whirlwind, and he’d felt a bit guilty leaving his friends just after all the drama and the cart festival, the sand storm and all.

      Truth is, the sands of Australia weren’t much to his taste, and he couldn’t dedicate enough of his attention to all the distraction going on. What was Zara saying already? Like trucks in the night? Something like that, they’d gone, all of them their own way. Even AL and the game had stayed silent for while, not sending any new challenges.

      It was ironic in a sense, considering his company was all abuzz with AI news, new human interfaces, threat of job loses by the million, data privacy concerns etc. It was already a matter of fact for him, and frankly, he was a bit bored by it now, even though the craze was showing no sign of abating.

      “Illusion of depth of knowledge” or rather illusion of explanatory depth — that was was got him to think. All of this automatically generated expressions would be giving huge knowledge at everybody’s fingertips, but with either no willingness to truly understand, or always a nagging doubt it was just a neat narrative that could be completely imagined.

      The quest for the elusive spark of creativity was still on. If one thing was sure, it wasn’t to be found in AI.

      Suddenly, his phone rang, jolting him out of his daydreams. It was Youssef.

      “Hey man, how’s it going?” Xavier asked, pleasantly surprised at the call.

      “Listen, I know you’re busy, but we need your help,” Youssef said, his voice urgent. “Yasmin’s gone missing.”

      “What do you mean she’s gone missing?”

      “We don’t know. We haven’t heard back from her since weeks. Zara’s been trying to reach her, but she’s not answering her phone. We’re all getting worried,” Youssef explained.

      Xavier felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He should have been there, should have been helping them search for Yasmin.

      There was a silence on the line.

      “Look, we had a crazy idea. Can’t your AL or the game give us any clues?” Youssef asked.

      “Well, we’ve set boundaries on the system for ethical reasons Youssef. We can’t just spy on people. And who’s to tell she doesn’t just need the space? It wouldn’t have been unheard of. I’m sure she’ll come back in no time, with a smile and a song.”

      “I hope so…” Youssef sounded disappointed. “So you won’t help?”

      Xavier took a breathe. “Not this time my friend, I’m afraid. But I tell you what. You can go an post an advertisement at the Faded Cabbage pub, in the game’s Old District. Someone who knows someone may be able to help.”

      “Thanks for the tip, man… It’s was good to talk to you.” Youssef hanged up.

      #6624

      I had to meet Devan at the garage; I didn’t want to raise suspicion calling an overseas number that would show up like a sore thumb in the next phone company invoice. Even with the occasional visitors calling for bookings, it was more Idle’s job to call back. She is funny when she’s got her headphones and microphone on, with that look from the 90s, taking her grand air and posh accent to answer people over skype. ‘Sister Idle dot com‘ I call her behind her back. She sounds like a mixture of an investigator and nun who would sell goose feather duvets made by the nunnery.

      Devan was punctual for once; we didn’t have a lot of time to use the phone at the counter while his boss was off for lunch.

      We looked at each other. “You sure you want to do that?” we both knew there was no turning back. It could be a sore disappointment, but how worse would that be compared to a rabbit hole of questions and potential emotional upheavals. Someone wise said (probably Henrich Lyeumon I think) “if you continue going down rabbit holes, you’re bound to find a lot of rabbit poop.”

      Devan nodded silently.

      I punched the numbers from the Gugu search.

      The connection seemed to take forever. Then a click. A gruff “Hello?” in a male voice.

      I don’t know why I blurted it out, but it came out without thinking.

      “Dad? Is that you?”

      “…” Devan looked at me alarmed and also with excitement in his eyes. There was a blank at the other end of the line.

      “Not on this line. I’ll call you back.”

      We looked at each other with Devan. Did we just hear what we heard? Given the look on Devan’s face, I’m pretty sure we did.

      We don’t have time to waste, his boss is already back, smacking his lips all shiny with chicken grease.

      Before I leave my brother to his job, we exchange hopeful glances. So a rabbit hole is it.

      My phone is buzzing.

      A message from [Unknown sender] — why didn’t it go to spam?

      “I’m on my way. ~ F”

      #6481
      EricEric
      Keymaster

        This is the outline for a short novel called “The Jorid’s Travels – 14 years on” that will unfold in this thread.
        The novel is about the travels of Georges and Salomé.
        The Jorid is the name of the vessel that can travel through dimensions as well as time, within certain boundaries. The Jorid has been built and is operated by Georges and his companion Salomé.

        Short backstory for the main cast and secondary characters

        Georges was a French thief possibly from the 1800s, turned other-dimensional explorer, and together with Salomé, a girl of mysterious origins who he first met in the Alienor dimension but believed to have origins in Northern India maybe Tibet from a distant past.
        They have lived rich adventures together, and are deeply bound together, by love and mutual interests.
        Georges, with his handsome face, dark hair and amber gaze, is a bit of a daredevil at times, curious and engaging with others. He is very interesting in anything that shines, strange mechanisms and generally the ways consciousness works in living matter.
        Salomé, on the other hand is deeply intuitive, empath at times, quite logical and rational but also interested in mysticism, the ways of the Truth, and the “why” rather than the “how” of things.
        The world of Alienor (a pale green sun under which twin planets originally orbited – Duane, Murtuane – with an additional third, Phreal, home planet of the Guardians, an alien race of builders with god-like powers) lived through cataclysmic changes, finished by the time this story is told.
        The Jorid’s original prototype designed were crafted by Léonard, a mysterious figure, self-taught in the arts of dimensional magic in Alienor sects, acted as a mentor to Georges during his adventures. It is not known where he is now.
        The story starts with Georges and Salomé looking for Léonard to adjust and calibrate the tiles navigational array of the Jorid, who seems to be affected by the auto-generated tiles which behave in too predictible fashion, instead of allowing for deeper explorations in the dimensions of space/time or dimensions of consciousness.
        Leonard was last spotted in a desert in quadrant AVB 34-7•8 – Cosmic time triangulation congruent to 2023 AD Earth era. More precisely the sand deserts of Bluhm’Oxl in the Zathu sector.

        When they find Léonard, they are propelled in new adventures. They possibly encounter new companions, and some mystery to solve in a similar fashion to the Odyssey, or Robinsons Lost in Space.

        Being able to tune into the probable quantum realities, the Jorid is able to trace the plot of their adventures even before they’ve been starting to unfold in no less than 33 chapters, giving them evocative titles.

        Here are the 33 chapters for the glorious adventures with some keywords under each to give some hints to the daring adventurers.

        1. Chapter 1: The Search BeginsGeorges and Salomé, Léonard, Zathu sector, Bluhm’Oxl, dimensional magic
        2. Chapter 2: A New Companion – unexpected ally, discovery, adventure
        3. Chapter 3: Into the Desert – Bluhm’Oxl, sand dunes, treacherous journey
        4. Chapter 4: The First Clue – search for Léonard, mystery, puzzle
        5. Chapter 5: The Oasis – rest, rekindling hope, unexpected danger
        6. Chapter 6: The Lost City – ancient civilization, artifacts, mystery
        7. Chapter 7: A Dangerous Encounter – hostile aliens, survival, bravery
        8. Chapter 8: A New Threat – ancient curse, ominous presence, danger
        9. Chapter 9: The Key to the Past – uncovering secrets, solving puzzles, unlocking power
        10. Chapter 10: The Guardian’s Temple – mystical portal, discovery, knowledge
        11. Chapter 11: The Celestial Map – space-time navigation, discovery, enlightenment
        12. Chapter 12: The First Step – journey through dimensions, bravery, adventure
        13. Chapter 13: The Cosmic Rift – strange anomalies, dangerous zones, exploration
        14. Chapter 14: A Surprising Discovery – unexpected allies, strange creatures, intrigue
        15. Chapter 15: The Memory Stones – ancient wisdom, unlock hidden knowledge, unlock the past
        16. Chapter 16: The Time Stream – navigating through time, adventure, danger
        17. Chapter 17: The Mirror Dimension – parallel world, alternate reality, discovery
        18. Chapter 18: A Distant Planet – alien world, strange cultures, exploration
        19. Chapter 19: The Starlight Forest – enchanted forest, secrets, danger
        20. Chapter 20: The Temple of the Mind – exploring consciousness, inner journey, enlightenment
        21. Chapter 21: The Sea of Souls – mystical ocean, hidden knowledge, inner peace
        22. Chapter 22: The Path of the Truth – search for meaning, self-discovery, enlightenment
        23. Chapter 23: The Cosmic Library – ancient knowledge, discovery, enlightenment
        24. Chapter 24: The Dream Plane – exploring the subconscious, self-discovery, enlightenment
        25. Chapter 25: The Shadow Realm – dark dimensions, fear, danger
        26. Chapter 26: The Fire Planet – intense heat, dangerous creatures, bravery
        27. Chapter 27: The Floating Islands – aerial adventure, strange creatures, discovery
        28. Chapter 28: The Crystal Caves – glittering beauty, hidden secrets, danger
        29. Chapter 29: The Eternal Night – unknown world, strange creatures, fear
        30. Chapter 30: The Lost Civilization – ancient ruins, mystery, adventure
        31. Chapter 31: The Vortex – intense energy, danger, bravery
        32. Chapter 32: The Cosmic Storm – weather extremes, danger, survival
        33. Chapter 33: The Return – reunion with Léonard, returning to the Jorid, new adventures.
        #6471
        EricEric
        Keymaster

          The Jorid is a vessel that can travel through dimensions as well as time, within certain boundaries.

          The Jorid has been built and is operated by Georges and his companion Salomé.
          Georges was a French thief possibly from the 1800s, turned other-dimensional explorer, and along with Salomé, a girl of mysterious origins who he first met in the Alienor dimension but believed to be born in Northern India in a distant past, they have lived rich adventures together, and are deeply bound by love and mutual interests.

          Georges, with his handsome face, dark hair and amber gaze, is a bit of a daredevil at times, curious and engaging with others. He is very interesting in anything that shines, strange mechanisms and generally the ways consciousness works in living matter. Salomé, on the other hand is deeply intuitive, empath at times, quite logical and rational but also interested in mysticism, the ways of the Truth, and the “why” rather than the “how” of things.

          The world of Alienor (a pale green sun under which twin planets originally orbited – Duane, Murtuane – with an additional third, Phreal, home planet of the Guardians, an alien race of builders with god-like powers) lived through cataclysmic changes, finished by the time this story is told.

          The Jorid’s original prototype designs were crafted by Léonard, a mysterious figure, self-taught in the arts of dimensional magic in Alienor sects, who acted as a mentor to Georges during his adventures. It is not known where he is now.

          The story unfolds 14 years after we discovered Georges & Salomé in the story.

           

          (for more background information, refer to this thread)

          #6383
          EricEric
          Keymaster

            GODFREY! Come right here this instant!” Liz was infuriated and had to restrain herself not to throw the bound manuscript at her confidente’s face when he emerged from the corridor into her pink boudoir.

            “What is it Liz my dear?”

            “What is this horrible thing that has my name on it?” she showed the manuscript. “It has no zest whatsoever, it’s so neat, and linear, tidy, continuous… It’s insufferably perfect! And those main characters, ugh… Young, and flawless, perfect in every sense it’s unbearable!”

            “I have something to confess Liz’… Since Finnley has started her new business ventures… wait, don’t shout yet… I had to try some of this AI generated stuff. I thought the title ‘Adventures in the Uncanny Valley’ would have been a give-away…”

            Elizabeth Tattler was at a loss for words… The only thing she could blurt out ultimately was “FIND ME FINNLEY!!”

            #6340
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              Wheelwrights of Broadway

              Thomas Stokes 1816-1885

              Frederick Stokes 1845-1917

              Stokes Wheelwrights

              Stokes Wheelwrights. Fred on left of wheel, Thomas his father on right.

              Thomas Stokes

              Thomas Stokes was born in Bicester, Oxfordshire in 1816. He married Eliza Browning (born in 1814 in Tetbury, Gloucestershire) in Gloucester in 1840 Q3. Their first son William was baptised in Chipping Hill, Witham, Essex, on 3 Oct 1841. This seems a little unusual, and I can’t find Thomas and Eliza on the 1841 census. However both the 1851 and 1861 census state that William was indeed born in Essex.

              In 1851 Thomas and Eliza were living in Bledington, Gloucestershire, and Thomas was a journeyman carpenter.

              Note that a journeyman does not mean someone who moved around a lot. A journeyman was a tradesman who had served his trade apprenticeship and mastered his craft, not bound to serve a master, but originally hired by the day. The name derives from the French for day – jour.

              Also on the 1851 census: their daughter Susan, born in Churchill Oxfordshire in 1844; son Frederick born in Bledington Gloucestershire in 1846; daughter Louisa born in Foxcote Oxfordshire in 1849; and 2 month old daughter Harriet born in Bledington in 1851.

              On the 1861 census Thomas and Eliza were living in Evesham, Worcestershire, and daughter Susan was no longer living at home, but William, Fred, Louisa and Harriet were, as well as daughter Emily born in Churchill Oxfordshire in 1856. Thomas was a wheelwright.

              On the 1871 census Thomas and Eliza were still living in Evesham, and Thomas was a wheelwright employing three apprentices. Son Fred, also a wheelwright, and his wife Ann Rebecca live with them.

              Mr Stokes, wheelwright, was found guilty of reprehensible conduct in concealing the fact that small-pox existed in his house, according to a mention in The Oxfordshire Weekly News on Wednesday 19 February 1873:

              Stokes smallpox 1873

               

               

              From Paul Weaver’s ancestry website:

              “It was Thomas Stokes who built the first “Famous Vale of Evesham Light Gardening Dray for a Half-Legged Horse to Trot” (the quotation is from his account book), the forerunner of many that became so familiar a sight in the towns and villages from the 1860s onwards. He built many more for the use of the Vale gardeners.

              Thomas also had long-standing business dealings with the people of the circus and fairgrounds, and had a contract to effect necessary repairs and renewals to their waggons whenever they visited the district. He built living waggons for many of the show people’s families as well as shooting galleries and other equipment peculiar to the trade of his wandering customers, and among the names figuring in his books are some still familiar today, such as Wilsons and Chipperfields.

              He is also credited with inventing the wooden “Mushroom” which was used by housewives for many years to darn socks. He built and repaired all kinds of vehicles for the gentry as well as for the circus and fairground travellers.

              Later he lived with his wife at Merstow Green, Evesham, in a house adjoining the Almonry.”

               

              An excerpt from the book Evesham Inns and Signs by T.J.S. Baylis:

              Thomas Stokes dray

              The Old Red Horse, Evesham:

              Old Red Horse

               

              Thomas died in 1885 aged 68 of paralysis, bronchitis and debility.  His wife Eliza a year later in 1886.

               

              Frederick Stokes

              In Worcester in 1870 Fred married Ann Rebecca Day, who was born in Evesham in 1845.

              Ann Rebecca Day:

              Rebecca Day

               

              In 1871 Fred was still living with his parents in Evesham, with his wife Ann Rebecca as well as their three month old daughter Annie Elizabeth. Fred and Ann (referred to as Rebecca) moved to La Quinta on Main Street, Broadway.

               

              Rebecca Stokes in the doorway of La Quinta on Main Street Broadway, with her grandchildren Ralph and Dolly Edwards:

              La Quinta

               

              Fred was a wheelwright employing one man on the 1881 census. In 1891 they were still in Broadway, Fred’s occupation was wheelwright and coach painter, as well as his fifteen year old son Frederick.

              In the Evesham Journal on Saturday 10 December 1892 it was reported that  “Two cases of scarlet fever, the children of Mr. Stokes, wheelwright, Broadway, were certified by Mr. C. W. Morris to be isolated.”

               

              Still in Broadway in 1901 and Fred’s son Albert was also a wheelwright.  By 1911 Fred and Rebecca had only one son living at home in Broadway, Reginald, who was a coach painter. Fred was still a wheelwright aged 65.

              Fred’s signature on the 1911 census:

              1911 La Quinta

              Rebecca died in 1912 and Fred in 1917.

              Fred Stokes:

              Fred Stokes

               

              In the book Evesham to Bredon From Old Photographs By Fred Archer:

              Stokes 1

              Stokes 2

              #6310

              In reply to: The Sexy Wooden Leg

              Olek wished he wasn’t so easy to find.

              The old caretaker of the shrine of Saint Edigna couldn’t have chosen a less conspicuous place to live in this warring time. People were flocking from afar, more and more each day drawn about by the ancient place, and the sacred oil bleeding linden tree which had suddenly and quite miraculously resumed its flow in the midst of the ambiant chaos started by the war.

              It wasn’t always like this. A few months ago, the linden tree was just an old linden tree that may or may not have been miraculous, if the old wifes’ tales were to be trusted. Mankind’s memory is a flimsy thing as it occurs, and while for many generations before, speculations had abounded about whether or not the Saint was real, had such or such filiation, et cætera— it now seemed the old tales that were passed down from mother to children had managed to keep alive a knowledge that had but all dried up on old flaky parchments scribbled in pale inks that kept eluding old scholars’ exegesis.

              Olek himself wasn’t a learned man. A man of faith, he was a little — more by upbringing than by choice, and by slow attunement to nature it would seem. Over the years, he’d be servicing the country in many ways, and after a rather long carrier started at young age, he had finally managed to retire in this place.
              He thought he’d be left alone, to care for a little garden patch, checking in from times to times on the old grumpy neighbours, but alas, the Holy Nation’s destiny still had something in store for him.

              The latest pilgrim family had brought a message. It was another push to action. “Plan acceleration needs to happen”.
              “What clucking plan again?” was his first reaction. Bad temper had a way of flaring right up his vents as in old times. When he’d calmed down, he wondered if he had ever seen a call for slowing down in his life. People were always so busy mindlessly carting around, bumping into the darkness.

              He smiled thinking of something his old man used to say. He’d never planned for a thing in his life, and was always very carefree it was often scary. His mantra was “People are always getting prepared for the wrong things. They never can prepare for the unexpected, and surely enough, only the unexpected happens.”
              That sort of chaos paddling approach to life didn’t seem to bring him any sort of extraordinary success, and while he had the same mixed bag of ups and downs as the rest of his compatriots, just so much less did he suffer for the same result! Olek guessed that was the whole point, even if he really couldn’t accept it until much later in life.

              Maybe Olek would start playing by his father’s book. Until he could find a way to get lost behind enemy lines.

              #6306
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                Looking for Robert Staley

                 

                William Warren (1835-1880) of Newhall (Stapenhill) married Elizabeth Staley (1836-1907) in 1858. Elizabeth was born in Newhall, the daughter of John Staley (1795-1876) and Jane Brothers. John was born in Newhall, and Jane was born in Armagh, Ireland, and they were married in Armagh in 1820. Elizabeths older brothers were born in Ireland: William in 1826 and Thomas in Dublin in 1830. Francis was born in Liverpool in 1834, and then Elizabeth in Newhall in 1836; thereafter the children were born in Newhall.

                Marriage of John Staley and Jane Brothers in 1820:

                1820 marriage Armagh

                 

                 

                My grandmother related a story about an Elizabeth Staley who ran away from boarding school and eloped to Ireland, but later returned. The only Irish connection found so far is Jane Brothers, so perhaps she meant Elizabeth Staley’s mother. A boarding school seems unlikely, and it would seem that it was John Staley who went to Ireland.

                The 1841 census states Jane’s age as 33, which would make her just 12 at the time of her marriage. The 1851 census states her age as 44, making her 13 at the time of her 1820 marriage, and the 1861 census estimates her birth year as a more likely 1804. Birth records in Ireland for her have not been found. It’s possible, perhaps, that she was in service in the Newhall area as a teenager (more likely than boarding school), and that John and Jane ran off to get married in Ireland, although I haven’t found any record of a child born to them early in their marriage. John was an agricultural labourer, and later a coal miner.

                John Staley was the son of Joseph Staley (1756-1838) and Sarah Dumolo (1764-). Joseph and Sarah were married by licence in Newhall in 1782. Joseph was a carpenter on the marriage licence, but later a collier (although not necessarily a miner).

                The Derbyshire Record Office holds records of  an “Estimate of Joseph Staley of Newhall for the cost of continuing to work Pisternhill Colliery” dated 1820 and addresssed to Mr Bloud at Calke Abbey (presumably the owner of the mine)

                Josephs parents were Robert Staley and Elizabeth. I couldn’t find a baptism or birth record for Robert Staley. Other trees on an ancestry site had his birth in Elton, but with no supporting documents. Robert, as stated in his 1795 will, was a Yeoman.

                “Yeoman: A former class of small freeholders who farm their own land; a commoner of good standing.”
                “Husbandman: The old word for a farmer below the rank of yeoman. A husbandman usually held his land by copyhold or leasehold tenure and may be regarded as the ‘average farmer in his locality’. The words ‘yeoman’ and ‘husbandman’ were gradually replaced in the later 18th and 19th centuries by ‘farmer’.”

                He left a number of properties in Newhall and Hartshorne (near Newhall) including dwellings, enclosures, orchards, various yards, barns and acreages. It seemed to me more likely that he had inherited them, rather than moving into the village and buying them.

                There is a mention of Robert Staley in a 1782 newpaper advertisement.

                “Fire Engine To Be Sold.  An exceedingly good fire engine, with the boiler, cylinder, etc in good condition. For particulars apply to Mr Burslem at Burton-upon-Trent, or Robert Staley at Newhall near Burton, where the engine may be seen.”

                fire engine

                 

                Was the fire engine perhaps connected with a foundry or a coal mine?

                I noticed that Robert Staley was the witness at a 1755 marriage in Stapenhill between Barbara Burslem and Richard Daston the younger esquire. The other witness was signed Burslem Jnr.

                 

                Looking for Robert Staley

                 

                I assumed that once again, in the absence of the correct records, a similarly named and aged persons baptism had been added to the tree regardless of accuracy, so I looked through the Stapenhill/Newhall parish register images page by page. There were no Staleys in Newhall at all in the early 1700s, so it seemed that Robert did come from elsewhere and I expected to find the Staleys in a neighbouring parish. But I still didn’t find any Staleys.

                I spoke to a couple of Staley descendants that I’d met during the family research. I met Carole via a DNA match some months previously and contacted her to ask about the Staleys in Elton. She also had Robert Staley born in Elton (indeed, there were many Staleys in Elton) but she didn’t have any documentation for his birth, and we decided to collaborate and try and find out more.

                I couldn’t find the earlier Elton parish registers anywhere online, but eventually found the untranscribed microfiche images of the Bishops Transcripts for Elton.

                via familysearch:
                “In its most basic sense, a bishop’s transcript is a copy of a parish register. As bishop’s transcripts generally contain more or less the same information as parish registers, they are an invaluable resource when a parish register has been damaged, destroyed, or otherwise lost. Bishop’s transcripts are often of value even when parish registers exist, as priests often recorded either additional or different information in their transcripts than they did in the original registers.”

                 

                Unfortunately there was a gap in the Bishops Transcripts between 1704 and 1711 ~ exactly where I needed to look. I subsequently found out that the Elton registers were incomplete as they had been damaged by fire.

                I estimated Robert Staleys date of birth between 1710 and 1715. He died in 1795, and his son Daniel died in 1805: both of these wills were found online. Daniel married Mary Moon in Stapenhill in 1762, making a likely birth date for Daniel around 1740.

                The marriage of Robert Staley (assuming this was Robert’s father) and Alice Maceland (or Marsland or Marsden, depending on how the parish clerk chose to spell it presumably) was in the Bishops Transcripts for Elton in 1704. They were married in Elton on 26th February. There followed the missing parish register pages and in all likelihood the records of the baptisms of their first children. No doubt Robert was one of them, probably the first male child.

                (Incidentally, my grandfather’s Marshalls also came from Elton, a small Derbyshire village near Matlock.  The Staley’s are on my grandmothers Warren side.)

                The parish register pages resume in 1711. One of the first entries was the baptism of Robert Staley in 1711, parents Thomas and Ann. This was surely the one we were looking for, and Roberts parents weren’t Robert and Alice.

                But then in 1735 a marriage was recorded between Robert son of Robert Staley (and this was unusual, the father of the groom isn’t usually recorded on the parish register) and Elizabeth Milner. They were married on the 9th March 1735. We know that the Robert we were looking for married an Elizabeth, as her name was on the Stapenhill baptisms of their later children, including Joseph Staleys.  The 1735 marriage also fit with the assumed birth date of Daniel, circa 1740. A baptism was found for a Robert Staley in 1738 in the Elton registers, parents Robert and Elizabeth, as well as the baptism in 1736 for Mary, presumably their first child. Her burial is recorded the following year.

                The marriage of Robert Staley and Elizabeth Milner in 1735:

                rbt staley marriage 1735

                 

                There were several other Staley couples of a similar age in Elton, perhaps brothers and cousins. It seemed that Thomas and Ann’s son Robert was a different Robert, and that the one we were looking for was prior to that and on the missing pages.

                Even so, this doesn’t prove that it was Elizabeth Staleys great grandfather who was born in Elton, but no other birth or baptism for Robert Staley has been found. It doesn’t explain why the Staleys moved to Stapenhill either, although the Enclosures Act and the Industrial Revolution could have been factors.

                The 18th century saw the rise of the Industrial Revolution and many renowned Derbyshire Industrialists emerged. They created the turning point from what was until then a largely rural economy, to the development of townships based on factory production methods.

                The Marsden Connection

                There are some possible clues in the records of the Marsden family.  Robert Staley married Alice Marsden (or Maceland or Marsland) in Elton in 1704.  Robert Staley is mentioned in the 1730 will of John Marsden senior,  of Baslow, Innkeeper (Peacock Inne & Whitlands Farm). He mentions his daughter Alice, wife of Robert Staley.

                In a 1715 Marsden will there is an intriguing mention of an alias, which might explain the different spellings on various records for the name Marsden:  “MARSDEN alias MASLAND, Christopher – of Baslow, husbandman, 28 Dec 1714. son Robert MARSDEN alias MASLAND….” etc.

                Some potential reasons for a move from one parish to another are explained in this history of the Marsden family, and indeed this could relate to Robert Staley as he married into the Marsden family and his wife was a beneficiary of a Marsden will.  The Chatsworth Estate, at various times, bought a number of farms in order to extend the park.

                THE MARSDEN FAMILY
                OXCLOSE AND PARKGATE
                In the Parishes of
                Baslow and Chatsworth

                by
                David Dalrymple-Smith

                John Marsden (b1653) another son of Edmund (b1611) faired well. By the time he died in
                1730 he was publican of the Peacock, the Inn on Church Lane now called the Cavendish
                Hotel, and the farmer at “Whitlands”, almost certainly Bubnell Cliff Farm.”

                “Coal mining was well known in the Chesterfield area. The coalfield extends as far as the
                Gritstone edges, where thin seams outcrop especially in the Baslow area.”

                “…the occupants were evicted from the farmland below Dobb Edge and
                the ground carefully cleared of all traces of occupation and farming. Shelter belts were
                planted especially along the Heathy Lea Brook. An imposing new drive was laid to the
                Chatsworth House with the Lodges and “The Golden Gates” at its northern end….”

                Although this particular event was later than any events relating to Robert Staley, it’s an indication of how farms and farmland disappeared, and a reason for families to move to another area:

                “The Dukes of Devonshire (of Chatsworth)  were major figures in the aristocracy and the government of the
                time. Such a position demanded a display of wealth and ostentation. The 6th Duke of
                Devonshire, the Bachelor Duke, was not content with the Chatsworth he inherited in 1811,
                and immediately started improvements. After major changes around Edensor, he turned his
                attention at the north end of the Park. In 1820 plans were made extend the Park up to the
                Baslow parish boundary. As this would involve the destruction of most of the Farm at
                Oxclose, the farmer at the Higher House Samuel Marsden (b1755) was given the tenancy of
                Ewe Close a large farm near Bakewell.
                Plans were revised in 1824 when the Dukes of Devonshire and Rutland “Exchanged Lands”,
                reputedly during a game of dice. Over 3300 acres were involved in several local parishes, of
                which 1000 acres were in Baslow. In the deal Devonshire acquired the southeast corner of
                Baslow Parish.
                Part of the deal was Gibbet Moor, which was developed for “Sport”. The shelf of land
                between Parkgate and Robin Hood and a few extra fields was left untouched. The rest,
                between Dobb Edge and Baslow, was agricultural land with farms, fields and houses. It was
                this last part that gave the Duke the opportunity to improve the Park beyond his earlier
                expectations.”

                 

                The 1795 will of Robert Staley.

                Inriguingly, Robert included the children of his son Daniel Staley in his will, but omitted to leave anything to Daniel.  A perusal of Daniels 1808 will sheds some light on this:  Daniel left his property to his six reputed children with Elizabeth Moon, and his reputed daughter Mary Brearly. Daniels wife was Mary Moon, Elizabeths husband William Moons daughter.

                The will of Robert Staley, 1795:

                1795 will 2

                1795 Rbt Staley will

                 

                The 1805 will of Daniel Staley, Robert’s son:

                This is the last will and testament of me Daniel Staley of the Township of Newhall in the parish of Stapenhill in the County of Derby, Farmer. I will and order all of my just debts, funeral and testamentary expenses to be fully paid and satisfied by my executors hereinafter named by and out of my personal estate as soon as conveniently may be after my decease.

                I give, devise and bequeath to Humphrey Trafford Nadin of Church Gresely in the said County of Derby Esquire and John Wilkinson of Newhall aforesaid yeoman all my messuages, lands, tenements, hereditaments and real and personal estates to hold to them, their heirs, executors, administrators and assigns until Richard Moon the youngest of my reputed sons by Elizabeth Moon shall attain his age of twenty one years upon trust that they, my said trustees, (or the survivor of them, his heirs, executors, administrators or assigns), shall and do manage and carry on my farm at Newhall aforesaid and pay and apply the rents, issues and profits of all and every of my said real and personal estates in for and towards the support, maintenance and education of all my reputed children by the said Elizabeth Moon until the said Richard Moon my youngest reputed son shall attain his said age of twenty one years and equally share and share and share alike.

                And it is my will and desire that my said trustees or trustee for the time being shall recruit and keep up the stock upon my farm as they in their discretion shall see occasion or think proper and that the same shall not be diminished. And in case any of my said reputed children by the said Elizabeth Moon shall be married before my said reputed youngest son shall attain his age of twenty one years that then it is my will and desire that non of their husbands or wives shall come to my farm or be maintained there or have their abode there. That it is also my will and desire in case my reputed children or any of them shall not be steady to business but instead shall be wild and diminish the stock that then my said trustees or trustee for the time being shall have full power and authority in their discretion to sell and dispose of all or any part of my said personal estate and to put out the money arising from the sale thereof to interest and to pay and apply the interest thereof and also thereunto of the said real estate in for and towards the maintenance, education and support of all my said reputed children by the said
                Elizabeth Moon as they my said trustees in their discretion that think proper until the said Richard Moon shall attain his age of twenty one years.

                Then I give to my grandson Daniel Staley the sum of ten pounds and to each and every of my sons and daughters namely Daniel Staley, Benjamin Staley, John Staley, William Staley, Elizabeth Dent and Sarah Orme and to my niece Ann Brearly the sum of five pounds apiece.

                I give to my youngest reputed son Richard Moon one share in the Ashby Canal Navigation and I direct that my said trustees or trustee for the time being shall have full power and authority to pay and apply all or any part of the fortune or legacy hereby intended for my youngest reputed son Richard Moon in placing him out to any trade, business or profession as they in their discretion shall think proper.
                And I direct that to my said sons and daughters by my late wife and my said niece shall by wholly paid by my said reputed son Richard Moon out of the fortune herby given him. And it is my will and desire that my said reputed children shall deliver into the hands of my executors all the monies that shall arise from the carrying on of my business that is not wanted to carry on the same unto my acting executor and shall keep a just and true account of all disbursements and receipts of the said business and deliver up the same to my acting executor in order that there may not be any embezzlement or defraud amongst them and from and immediately after my said reputed youngest son Richard Moon shall attain his age of twenty one years then I give, devise and bequeath all my real estate and all the residue and remainder of my personal estate of what nature and kind whatsoever and wheresoever unto and amongst all and every my said reputed sons and daughters namely William Moon, Thomas Moon, Joseph Moon, Richard Moon, Ann Moon, Margaret Moon and to my reputed daughter Mary Brearly to hold to them and their respective heirs, executors, administrator and assigns for ever according to the nature and tenure of the same estates respectively to take the same as tenants in common and not as joint tenants.

                And lastly I nominate and appoint the said Humphrey Trafford Nadin and John Wilkinson executors of this my last will and testament and guardians of all my reputed children who are under age during their respective minorities hereby revoking all former and other wills by me heretofore made and declaring this only to be my last will.

                In witness whereof I the said Daniel Staley the testator have to this my last will and testament set my hand and seal the eleventh day of March in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and five.

                 

                #6284
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  To Australia

                  Grettons

                  Charles Herbert Gretton 1876-1954

                  Charles Gretton, my great grandmothers youngest brother, arrived in Sydney Australia on 12 February 1912, having set sail on 5 January 1912 from London. His occupation on the passenger list was stockman, and he was traveling alone.  Later that year, in October, his wife and two sons sailed out to join him.

                  Gretton 1912 passenger

                   

                  Charles was born in Swadlincote.  He married Mary Anne Illsley, a local girl from nearby Church Gresley, in 1898. Their first son, Leslie Charles Bloemfontein Gretton, was born in 1900 in Church Gresley, and their second son, George Herbert Gretton, was born in 1910 in Swadlincote.  In 1901 Charles was a colliery worker, and on the 1911 census, his occupation was a sanitary ware packer.

                  Charles and Mary Anne had two more sons, both born in Footscray:  Frank Orgill Gretton in 1914, and Arthur Ernest Gretton in 1920.

                  On the Australian 1914 electoral rolls, Charles and Mary Ann were living at 72 Moreland Street, Footscray, and in 1919 at 134 Cowper Street, Footscray, and Charles was a labourer.  In 1924, Charles was a sub foreman, living at 3, Ryan Street E, Footscray, Australia.  On a later electoral register, Charles was a foreman.  Footscray is a suburb of Melbourne, and developed into an industrial zone in the second half of the nineteenth century.

                  Charles died in Victoria in 1954 at the age of 77. His wife Mary Ann died in 1958.

                  Gretton obit 1954

                   

                  Charles and Mary Ann Gretton:

                  Charles and Mary Ann Gretton

                   

                  Leslie Charles Bloemfontein Gretton 1900-1955

                  Leslie was an electrician.   He married Ethel Christine Halliday, born in 1900 in Footscray, in 1927.  They had four children: Tom, Claire, Nancy and Frank. By 1943 they were living in Yallourn.  Yallourn, Victoria was a company town in Victoria, Australia built between the 1920s and 1950s to house employees of the State Electricity Commission of Victoria, who operated the nearby Yallourn Power Station complex. However, expansion of the adjacent open-cut brown coal mine led to the closure and removal of the town in the 1980s.

                  On the 1954 electoral registers, daughter Claire Elizabeth Gretton, occupation teacher, was living at the same address as Leslie and Ethel.

                  Leslie died in Yallourn in 1955, and Ethel nine years later in 1964, also in Yallourn.

                   

                  George Herbert Gretton 1910-1970

                  George married Florence May Hall in 1934 in Victoria, Australia.  In 1942 George was listed on the electoral roll as a grocer, likewise in 1949. In 1963 his occupation was a process worker, and in 1968 in Flinders, a horticultural advisor.

                  George died in Lang Lang, not far from Melbourne, in 1970.

                   

                  Frank Orgill Gretton 1914-

                  Arthur Ernest Gretton 1920-

                   

                  Orgills

                  John Orgill 1835-1911

                  John Orgill was Charles Herbert Gretton’s uncle.  He emigrated to Australia in 1865, and married Elizabeth Mary Gladstone 1845-1926 in Victoria in 1870. Their first child was born in December that year, in Dandenong. They had seven children, and their three sons all have the middle name Gladstone.

                  John Orgill was a councillor for the Shire of Dandenong in 1873, and between 1876 and 1879.

                  John Orgill:

                  John Orgill

                   

                  John Orgill obituary in the South Bourke and Mornington Journal, 21 December 1911:

                  John Orgill obit

                   

                   

                  John’s wife Elizabeth Orgill, a teacher and a “a public spirited lady” according to newspaper articles, opened a hydropathic hospital in Dandenong called Gladstone House.

                  Elizabeth Gladstone Orgill:

                  Elizabeth Gladstone Orgill

                   

                  On the Old Dandenong website:

                  Gladstone House hydropathic hospital on the corner of Langhorne and Foster streets (153 Foster Street) Dandenong opened in 1896, working on the theory of water therapy, no medicine or operations. Her husband passed away in 1911 at 77, around similar time Dr Barclay Thompson obtained control of the practice. Mrs Orgill remaining on in some capacity.

                  Elizabeth Mary Orgill (nee Gladstone) operated Gladstone House until at least 1911, along with another hydropathic hospital (Birthwood) on Cheltenham road. She was the daughter of William Gladstone (Nephew of William Ewart Gladstone, UK prime minister in 1874).

                  Around 1912 Dr A. E. Taylor took over the location from Dr. Barclay Thompson. Mrs Orgill was still working here but no longer controlled the practice, having given it up to Barclay. Taylor served as medical officer for the Shire for before his death in 1939. After Taylor’s death Dr. T. C. Reeves bought his practice in 1939, later that year being appointed medical officer,

                  Gladstone Road in Dandenong is named after her family, who owned and occupied a farming paddock in the area on former Police Paddock ground, the Police reserve having earlier been reduced back to Stud Road.

                  Hydropathy (now known as Hydrotherapy) and also called water cure, is a part of medicine and alternative medicine, in particular of naturopathy, occupational therapy and physiotherapy, that involves the use of water for pain relief and treatment.

                  Gladstone House, Dandenong:

                  Gladstone House

                   

                   

                  John’s brother Robert Orgill 1830-1915 also emigrated to Australia. I met (online) his great great grand daughter Lidya Orgill via the Old Dandenong facebook group.

                  John’s other brother Thomas Orgill 1833-1908 also emigrated to the same part of Australia.

                  Thomas Orgill:

                  Thomas Orgill

                   

                  One of Thomas Orgills sons was George Albert Orgill 1880-1949:

                  George Albert Orgill

                   

                  A letter was published in The South Bourke & Mornington Journal (Richmond, Victoria, Australia) on 17 Jun 1915, to Tom Orgill, Emerald Hill (South Melbourne) from hospital by his brother George Albert Orgill (4th Pioneers) describing landing of Covering Party prior to dawn invasion of Gallipoli:

                  George Albert Orgill letter

                   

                  Another brother Henry Orgill 1837-1916 was born in Measham and died in Dandenong, Australia. Henry was a bricklayer living in Measham on the 1861 census. Also living with his widowed mother Elizabeth at that address was his sister Sarah and her husband Richard Gretton, the baker (my great great grandparents). In October of that year he sailed to Melbourne.  His occupation was bricklayer on his death records in 1916.

                  Two of Henry’s sons, Arthur Garfield Orgill born 1888 and Ernest Alfred Orgill born 1880 were killed in action in 1917 and buried in Nord-Pas-de-Calais, France. Another son, Frederick Stanley Orgill, died in 1897 at the age of seven.

                  A fifth brother, William Orgill 1842-   sailed from Liverpool to Melbourne in 1861, at 19 years of age. Four years later in 1865 he sailed from Victoria, Australia to New Zealand.

                   

                  I assumed I had found all of the Orgill brothers who went to Australia, and resumed research on the Orgills in Measham, in England. A search in the British Newspaper Archives for Orgills in Measham revealed yet another Orgill brother who had gone to Australia.

                  Matthew Orgill 1828-1907 went to South Africa and to Australia, but returned to Measham.

                  The Orgill brothers had two sisters. One was my great great great grandmother Sarah, and the other was Hannah.  Hannah married Francis Hart in Measham. One of her sons, John Orgill Hart 1862-1909, was born in Measham.  On the 1881 census he was a 19 year old carpenters apprentice.  Two years later in 1883 he was listed as a joiner on the passenger list of the ship Illawarra, bound for Australia.   His occupation at the time of his death in Dandenong in 1909 was contractor.

                  An additional coincidental note about Dandenong: my step daughter Emily’s Australian partner is from Dandenong.

                   

                   

                  Housleys

                  Charles Housley 1823-1856

                  Charles Housley emigrated to Australia in 1851, the same year that his brother George emigrated to USA.  Charles is mentioned in the Narrative on the Letters by Barbara Housley, and appears in the Housley Letters chapters.

                   

                  Rushbys

                  George “Mike” Rushby 1933-

                  Mike moved to Australia from South Africa. His story is a separate chapter.

                  #6281
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    The Measham Thatchers

                    Orgills, Finches and Wards

                    Measham is a large village in north west Leicestershire, England, near the Derbyshire, Staffordshire and Warwickshire boundaries. Our family has a penchant for border straddling, and the Orgill’s of Measham take this a step further living on the boundaries of four counties.  Historically it was in an exclave of Derbyshire absorbed into Leicestershire in 1897, so once again we have two sets of county records to search.

                    ORGILL

                    Richard Gretton, the baker of Swadlincote and my great grandmother Florence Nightingale Grettons’ father, married Sarah Orgill (1840-1910) in 1861.

                    (Incidentally, Florence Nightingale Warren nee Gretton’s first child Hildred born in 1900 had the middle name Orgill. Florence’s brother John Orgill Gretton emigrated to USA.)

                    When they first married, they lived with Sarah’s widowed mother Elizabeth in Measham.  Elizabeth Orgill is listed on the 1861 census as a farmer of two acres.

                    Sarah Orgill’s father Matthew Orgill (1798-1859) was a thatcher, as was his father Matthew Orgill (1771-1852).

                    Matthew Orgill the elder left his property to his son Henry:

                    Matthew Orgills will

                     

                    Sarah’s mother Elizabeth (1803-1876) was also an Orgill before her marriage to Matthew.

                    According to Pigot & Co’s Commercial Directory for Derbyshire, in Measham in 1835 Elizabeth Orgill was a straw bonnet maker, an ideal occupation for a thatchers wife.

                    Matthew Orgill, thatcher, is listed in White’s directory in 1857, and other Orgill’s are mentioned in Measham:

                    Mary Orgill, straw hat maker; Henry Orgill, grocer; Daniel Orgill, painter; another Matthew Orgill is a coal merchant and wheelwright. Likewise a number of Orgill’s are listed in the directories for Measham in the subsequent years, as farmers, plumbers, painters, grocers, thatchers, wheelwrights, coal merchants and straw bonnet makers.

                     

                    Matthew and Elizabeth Orgill, Measham Baptist church:

                    Orgill grave

                     

                    According to a history of thatching, for every six or seven thatchers appearing in the 1851 census there are now less than one.  Another interesting fact in the history of thatched roofs (via thatchinginfo dot com):

                    The Watling Street Divide…
                    The biggest dividing line of all, that between the angular thatching of the Northern and Eastern traditions and the rounded Southern style, still roughly follows a very ancient line; the northern section of the old Roman road of Watling Street, the modern A5. Seemingly of little significance today; this was once the border between two peoples. Agreed in the peace treaty, between the Saxon King Alfred and Guthrum, the Danish Viking leader; over eleven centuries ago.
                    After making their peace, various Viking armies settled down, to the north and east of the old road; firstly, in what was known as The Danelaw and later in Norse kingdoms, based in York. They quickly formed a class of farmers and peasants. Although the Saxon kings soon regained this area; these people stayed put. Their influence is still seen, for example, in the widespread use of boarded gable ends, so common in Danish thatching.
                    Over time, the Southern and Northern traditions have slipped across the old road, by a few miles either way. But even today, travelling across the old highway will often bring the differing thatching traditions quickly into view.

                    Pear Tree Cottage, Bosworth Road, Measham. 1900.  Matthew Orgill was a thatcher living on Bosworth road.

                    Bosworth road

                     

                    FINCH

                    Matthew the elder married Frances Finch 1771-1848, also of Measham.  On the 1851 census Matthew is an 80 year old thatcher living with his daughter Mary and her husband Samuel Piner, a coal miner.

                    Henry Finch 1743- and Mary Dennis 1749- , both of Measham, were Frances parents.  Henry’s father was also Henry Finch, born in 1707 in Measham, and he married Frances Ward, also born in 1707, and also from Measham.

                    WARD

                     

                    The ancient boundary between the kingdom of Mercia and the Danelaw

                    I didn’t find much information on the history of Measham, but I did find a great deal of ancient history on the nearby village of Appleby Magna, two miles away.  The parish records indicate that the Ward and Finch branches of our family date back to the 1500’s in the village, and we can assume that the ancient history of the neighbouring village would be relevant to our history.

                    There is evidence of human settlement in Appleby from the early Neolithic period, 6,000 years ago, and there are also Iron Age and Bronze Age sites in the vicinity.  There is evidence of further activity within the village during the Roman period, including evidence of a villa or farm and a temple.  Appleby is near three known Roman roads: Watling Street, 10 miles south of the village; Bath Lane, 5 miles north of the village; and Salt Street, which forms the parish’s south boundary.

                    But it is the Scandinavian invasions that are particularly intriguing, with regard to my 58% Scandinavian DNA (and virtually 100% Midlands England ancestry). Repton is 13 miles from Measham. In the early 10th century Chilcote, Measham and Willesley were part of the royal Derbyshire estate of Repton.

                    The arrival of Scandinavian invaders in the second half of the ninth century caused widespread havoc throughout northern England. By the AD 870s the Danish army was occupying Mercia and it spent the winter of 873-74 at Repton, the headquarters of the Mercian kings. The events are recorded in detail in the Peterborough manuscript of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles…

                    Although the Danes held power for only 40 years, a strong, even subversive, Danish element remained in the population for many years to come. 

                    A Scandinavian influence may also be detected among the field names of the parish. Although many fields have relatively modern names, some clearly have elements which reach back to the time of Danish incursion and control.

                    The Borders:

                    The name ‘aeppel byg’ is given in the will of Wulfic Spot of AD 1004……………..The decision at Domesday to include this land in Derbyshire, as one of Burton Abbey’s Derbyshire manors, resulted in the division of the village of Appleby Magna between the counties of Leicester and Derby for the next 800 years

                    Richard Dunmore’s Appleby Magma website.

                    This division of Appleby between Leicestershire and Derbyshire persisted from Domesday until 1897, when the recently created county councils (1889) simplified the administration of many villages in this area by a radical realignment of the boundary:

                    Appleby

                     

                    I would appear that our family not only straddle county borders, but straddle ancient kingdom borders as well.  This particular branch of the family (we assume, given the absence of written records that far back) were living on the edge of the Danelaw and a strong element of the Danes survives to this day in my DNA.

                     

                    #6267
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      From Tanganyika with Love

                      continued part 8

                      With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                      Morogoro 20th January 1941

                      Dearest Family,

                      It is all arranged for us to go on three months leave to Cape Town next month so
                      get out your flags. How I shall love showing off Kate and John to you and this time
                      George will be with us and you’ll be able to get to know him properly. You can’t think
                      what a comfort it will be to leave all the worries of baggage and tipping to him. We will all
                      be travelling by ship to Durban and from there to Cape Town by train. I rather dread the
                      journey because there is a fifth little Rushby on the way and, as always, I am very
                      queasy.

                      Kate has become such a little companion to me that I dread the thought of leaving
                      her behind with you to start schooling. I miss Ann and George so much now and must
                      face separation from Kate as well. There does not seem to be any alternative though.
                      There is a boarding school in Arusha and another has recently been started in Mbeya,
                      but both places are so far away and I know she would be very unhappy as a boarder at
                      this stage. Living happily with you and attending a day school might wean her of her
                      dependance upon me. As soon as this wretched war ends we mean to get Ann and
                      George back home and Kate too and they can then all go to boarding school together.
                      If I were a more methodical person I would try to teach Kate myself, but being a
                      muddler I will have my hands full with Johnny and the new baby. Life passes pleasantly
                      but quietly here. Much of my time is taken up with entertaining the children and sewing
                      for them and just waiting for George to come home.

                      George works so hard on these safaris and this endless elephant hunting to
                      protect native crops entails so much foot safari, that he has lost a good deal of weight. it
                      is more than ten years since he had a holiday so he is greatly looking forward to this one.
                      Four whole months together!

                      I should like to keep the ayah, Janet, for the new baby, but she says she wants
                      to return to her home in the Southern Highlands Province and take a job there. She is
                      unusually efficient and so clean, and the houseboy and cook are quite scared of her. She
                      bawls at them if the children’s meals are served a few minutes late but she is always
                      respectful towards me and practically creeps around on tiptoe when George is home.
                      She has a room next to the outside kitchen. One night thieves broke into the kitchen and
                      stole a few things, also a canvas chair and mat from the verandah. Ayah heard them, and
                      grabbing a bit of firewood, she gave chase. Her shouts so alarmed the thieves that they
                      ran off up the hill jettisoning their loot as they ran. She is a great character.

                      Eleanor.

                      Morogoro 30th July 1941

                      Dearest Family,

                      Safely back in Morogoro after a rather grim voyage from Durban. Our ship was
                      completely blacked out at night and we had to sleep with warm clothing and life belts
                      handy and had so many tedious boat drills. It was a nuisance being held up for a whole
                      month in Durban, because I was so very pregnant when we did embark. In fact George
                      suggested that I had better hide in the ‘Ladies’ until the ship sailed for fear the Captain
                      might refuse to take me. It seems that the ship, on which we were originally booked to
                      travel, was torpedoed somewhere off the Cape.

                      We have been given a very large house this tour with a mosquito netted
                      sleeping porch which will be fine for the new baby. The only disadvantage is that the
                      house is on the very edge of the residential part of Morogoro and Johnny will have to
                      go quite a distance to find playmates.

                      I still miss Kate terribly. She is a loving little person. I had prepared for a scene
                      when we said good-bye but I never expected that she would be the comforter. It
                      nearly broke my heart when she put her arms around me and said, “I’m so sorry
                      Mummy, please don’t cry. I’ll be good. Please don’t cry.” I’m afraid it was all very
                      harrowing for you also. It is a great comfort to hear that she has settled down so happily.
                      I try not to think consciously of my absent children and remind myself that there are
                      thousands of mothers in the same boat, but they are always there at the back of my
                      mind.

                      Mother writes that Ann and George are perfectly happy and well, and that though
                      German bombers do fly over fairly frequently, they are unlikely to drop their bombs on
                      a small place like Jacksdale.

                      George has already left on safari to the Rufiji. There was no replacement for his
                      job while he was away so he is anxious to get things moving again. Johnny and I are
                      going to move in with friends until he returns, just in case all the travelling around brings
                      the new baby on earlier than expected.

                      Eleanor.

                      Morogoro 26th August 1941

                      Dearest Family,

                      Our new son, James Caleb. was born at 3.30 pm yesterday afternoon, with a
                      minimum of fuss, in the hospital here. The Doctor was out so my friend, Sister Murray,
                      delivered the baby. The Sister is a Scots girl, very efficient and calm and encouraging,
                      and an ideal person to have around at such a time.

                      Everything, this time, went without a hitch and I feel fine and proud of my
                      bouncing son. He weighs nine pounds and ten ounces and is a big boned fellow with
                      dark hair and unusually strongly marked eyebrows. His eyes are strong too and already
                      seem to focus. George is delighted with him and brought Hugh Nelson to see him this
                      morning. Hugh took one look, and, astonished I suppose by the baby’s apparent
                      awareness, said, “Gosh, this one has been here before.” The baby’s cot is beside my
                      bed so I can admire him as much as I please. He has large strong hands and George
                      reckons he’ll make a good boxer some day.

                      Another of my early visitors was Mabemba, George’s orderly. He is a very big
                      African and looks impressive in his Game Scouts uniform. George met him years ago at
                      Mahenge when he was a young elephant hunter and Mabemba was an Askari in the
                      Police. Mabemba takes quite a proprietary interest in the family.

                      Eleanor.

                      Morogoro 25th December 1941

                      Dearest Family,

                      Christmas Day today, but not a gay one. I have Johnny in bed with a poisoned
                      leg so he missed the children’s party at the Club. To make things a little festive I have
                      put up a little Christmas tree in the children’s room and have hung up streamers and
                      balloons above the beds. Johnny demands a lot of attention so it is fortunate that little
                      James is such a very good baby. He sleeps all night until 6 am when his feed is due.
                      One morning last week I got up as usual to feed him but I felt so dopey that I
                      thought I’d better have a cold wash first. I went into the bathroom and had a hurried
                      splash and then grabbed a towel to dry my face. Immediately I felt an agonising pain in
                      my nose. Reason? There was a scorpion in the towel! In no time at all my nose looked
                      like a pear and felt burning hot. The baby screamed with frustration whilst I feverishly
                      bathed my nose and applied this and that in an effort to cool it.

                      For three days my nose was very red and tender,”A real boozer nose”, said
                      George. But now, thank goodness, it is back to normal.

                      Some of the younger marrieds and a couple of bachelors came around,
                      complete with portable harmonium, to sing carols in the early hours. No sooner had we
                      settled down again to woo sleep when we were disturbed by shouts and screams from
                      our nearest neighbour’s house. “Just celebrating Christmas”, grunted George, but we
                      heard this morning that the neighbour had fallen down his verandah steps and broken his
                      leg.

                      Eleanor.

                      Morogoro Hospital 30th September 1943

                      Dearest Family,

                      Well now we are eight! Our new son, Henry, was born on the night of the 28th.
                      He is a beautiful baby, weighing ten pounds three and a half ounces. This baby is very
                      well developed, handsome, and rather superior looking, and not at all amusing to look at
                      as the other boys were.George was born with a moustache, John had a large nose and
                      looked like a little old man, and Jim, bless his heart, looked rather like a baby
                      chimpanzee. Henry is different. One of my visitors said, “Heaven he’ll have to be a
                      Bishop!” I expect the lawn sleeves of his nightie really gave her that idea, but the baby
                      does look like ‘Someone’. He is very good and George, John, and Jim are delighted
                      with him, so is Mabemba.

                      We have a dear little nurse looking after us. She is very petite and childish
                      looking. When the baby was born and she brought him for me to see, the nurse asked
                      his name. I said jokingly, “His name is Benjamin – the last of the family.” She is now very
                      peeved to discover that his real name is Henry William and persists in calling him
                      ‘Benjie’.I am longing to get home and into my pleasant rut. I have been away for two
                      whole weeks and George is managing so well that I shall feel quite expendable if I don’t
                      get home soon. As our home is a couple of miles from the hospital, I arranged to move
                      in and stay with the nursing sister on the day the baby was due. There I remained for ten
                      whole days before the baby was born. Each afternoon George came and took me for a
                      ride in the bumpy Bedford lorry and the Doctor tried this and that but the baby refused
                      to be hurried.

                      On the tenth day I had the offer of a lift and decided to go home for tea and
                      surprise George. It was a surprise too, because George was entertaining a young
                      Game Ranger for tea and my arrival, looking like a perambulating big top, must have
                      been rather embarrassing.Henry was born at the exact moment that celebrations started
                      in the Township for the end of the Muslim religious festival of Ramadan. As the Doctor
                      held him up by his ankles, there was the sound of hooters and firecrackers from the town.
                      The baby has a birthmark in the shape of a crescent moon above his left eyebrow.

                      Eleanor.

                      Morogoro 26th January 1944

                      Dearest Family,

                      We have just heard that we are to be transferred to the Headquarters of the
                      Game Department at a place called Lyamungu in the Northern Province. George is not
                      at all pleased because he feels that the new job will entail a good deal of office work and
                      that his beloved but endless elephant hunting will be considerably curtailed. I am glad of
                      that and I am looking forward to seeing a new part of Tanganyika and particularly
                      Kilimanjaro which dominates Lyamungu.

                      Thank goodness our menagerie is now much smaller. We found a home for the
                      guinea pigs last December and Susie, our mischievous guinea-fowl, has flown off to find
                      a mate.Last week I went down to Dar es Salaam for a check up by Doctor John, a
                      woman doctor, leaving George to cope with the three boys. I was away two nights and
                      a day and returned early in the morning just as George was giving Henry his six o’clock
                      bottle. It always amazes me that so very masculine a man can do my chores with no
                      effort and I have a horrible suspicion that he does them better than I do. I enjoyed the
                      short break at the coast very much. I stayed with friends and we bathed in the warm sea
                      and saw a good film.

                      Now I suppose there will be a round of farewell parties. People in this country
                      are most kind and hospitable.

                      Eleanor.

                      Lyamungu 20th March 1944

                      Dearest Family,

                      We left Morogoro after the round of farewell parties I had anticipated. The final
                      one was at the Club on Saturday night. George made a most amusing speech and the
                      party was a very pleasant occasion though I was rather tired after all the packing.
                      Several friends gathered to wave us off on Monday morning. We had two lorries
                      loaded with our goods. I rode in the cab of the first one with Henry on my knee. George
                      with John and Jim rode in the second one. As there was no room for them in the cab,
                      they sat on our couch which was placed across the width of the lorry behind the cab. This
                      seat was not as comfortable as it sounds, because the space behind the couch was
                      taken up with packing cases which were not lashed in place and these kept moving
                      forward as the lorry bumped its way over the bad road.

                      Soon there was hardly any leg room and George had constantly to stand up and
                      push the second layer of packing cases back to prevent them from toppling over onto
                      the children and himself. As it is now the rainy season the road was very muddy and
                      treacherous and the lorries travelled so slowly it was dark by the time we reached
                      Karogwe from where we were booked to take the train next morning to Moshi.
                      Next morning we heard that there had been a washaway on the line and that the
                      train would be delayed for at least twelve hours. I was not feeling well and certainly did
                      not enjoy my day. Early in the afternoon Jimmy ran into a wall and blackened both his
                      eyes. What a child! As the day wore on I felt worse and worse and when at last the train
                      did arrive I simply crawled into my bunk whilst George coped nobly with the luggage
                      and the children.

                      We arrived at Moshi at breakfast time and went straight to the Lion Cub Hotel
                      where I took to my bed with a high temperature. It was, of course, malaria. I always have
                      my attacks at the most inopportune times. Fortunately George ran into some friends
                      called Eccles and the wife Mollie came to my room and bathed Henry and prepared his
                      bottle and fed him. George looked after John and Jim. Next day I felt much better and
                      we drove out to Lyamungu the day after. There we had tea with the Game Warden and
                      his wife before moving into our new home nearby.

                      The Game Warden is Captain Monty Moore VC. He came out to Africa
                      originally as an Officer in the King’s African Rifles and liked the country so much he left the
                      Army and joined the Game Department. He was stationed at Banagi in the Serengetti
                      Game Reserve and is well known for his work with the lions there. He particularly tamed
                      some of the lions by feeding them so that they would come out into the open and could
                      readily be photographed by tourists. His wife Audrey, has written a book about their
                      experiences at Banagi. It is called “Serengetti”

                      Our cook, Hamisi, soon had a meal ready for us and we all went to bed early.
                      This is a very pleasant house and I know we will be happy here. I still feel a little shaky
                      but that is the result of all the quinine I have taken. I expect I shall feel fine in a day or two.

                      Eleanor.

                      Lyamungu 15th May 1944

                      Dearest Family,

                      Well, here we are settled comfortably in our very nice house. The house is
                      modern and roomy, and there is a large enclosed verandah, which will be a Godsend in
                      the wet weather as a playroom for the children. The only drawback is that there are so
                      many windows to be curtained and cleaned. The grounds consist of a very large lawn
                      and a few beds of roses and shrubs. It is an ideal garden for children, unlike our steeply
                      terraced garden at Morogoro.

                      Lyamungu is really the Government Coffee Research Station. It is about sixteen
                      miles from the town of Moshi which is the centre of the Tanganyika coffee growing
                      industry. Lyamungu, which means ‘place of God’ is in the foothills of Mt Kilimanjaro and
                      we have a beautiful view of Kilimanjaro. Kibo, the more spectacular of the two mountain
                      peaks, towers above us, looking from this angle, like a giant frosted plum pudding. Often the mountain is veiled by cloud and mist which sometimes comes down to
                      our level so that visibility is practically nil. George dislikes both mist and mountain but I
                      like both and so does John. He in fact saw Kibo before I did. On our first day here, the
                      peak was completely hidden by cloud. In the late afternoon when the children were
                      playing on the lawn outside I was indoors hanging curtains. I heard John call out, “Oh
                      Mummy, isn’t it beautiful!” I ran outside and there, above a scarf of cloud, I saw the
                      showy dome of Kibo with the setting sun shining on it tingeing the snow pink. It was an
                      unforgettable experience.

                      As this is the rainy season, the surrounding country side is very lush and green.
                      Everywhere one sees the rich green of the coffee plantations and the lighter green of
                      the banana groves. Unfortunately our walks are rather circumscribed. Except for the main road to Moshi, there is nowhere to walk except through the Government coffee
                      plantation. Paddy, our dog, thinks life is pretty boring as there is no bush here and
                      nothing to hunt. There are only half a dozen European families here and half of those are
                      on very distant terms with the other half which makes the station a rather uncomfortable
                      one.

                      The coffee expert who runs this station is annoyed because his European staff
                      has been cut down owing to the war, and three of the vacant houses and some office
                      buildings have been taken over temporarily by the Game Department. Another house
                      has been taken over by the head of the Labour Department. However I don’t suppose
                      the ill feeling will effect us much. We are so used to living in the bush that we are not
                      socially inclined any way.

                      Our cook, Hamisi, came with us from Morogoro but I had to engage a new
                      houseboy and kitchenboy. I first engaged a houseboy who produced a wonderful ‘chit’
                      in which his previous employer describes him as his “friend and confidant”. I felt rather
                      dubious about engaging him and how right I was. On his second day with us I produced
                      some of Henry’s napkins, previously rinsed by me, and asked this boy to wash them.
                      He looked most offended and told me that it was beneath his dignity to do women’s
                      work. We parted immediately with mutual relief.

                      Now I have a good natured fellow named Japhet who, though hard on crockery,
                      is prepared to do anything and loves playing with the children. He is a local boy, a
                      member of the Chagga tribe. These Chagga are most intelligent and, on the whole, well
                      to do as they all have their own small coffee shambas. Japhet tells me that his son is at
                      the Uganda University College studying medicine.The kitchen boy is a tall youth called
                      Tovelo, who helps both Hamisi, the cook, and the houseboy and also keeps an eye on
                      Henry when I am sewing. I still make all the children’s clothes and my own. Life is
                      pleasant but dull. George promises that he will take the whole family on safari when
                      Henry is a little older.

                      Eleanor.

                      Lyamungu 18th July 1944

                      Dearest Family,

                      Life drifts quietly by at Lyamungu with each day much like the one before – or
                      they would be, except that the children provide the sort of excitement that prohibits
                      boredom. Of the three boys our Jim is the best at this. Last week Jim wandered into the
                      coffee plantation beside our house and chewed some newly spayed berries. Result?
                      A high temperature and nasty, bloody diarrhoea, so we had to rush him to the hospital at
                      Moshi for treatment. however he was well again next day and George went off on safari.
                      That night there was another crisis. As the nights are now very cold, at this high
                      altitude, we have a large fire lit in the living room and the boy leaves a pile of logs
                      beside the hearth so that I can replenish the fire when necessary. Well that night I took
                      Henry off to bed, leaving John and Jim playing in the living room. When their bedtime
                      came, I called them without leaving the bedroom. When I had tucked John and Jim into
                      bed, I sat reading a bedtime story as I always do. Suddenly I saw smoke drifting
                      through the door, and heard a frightening rumbling noise. Japhet rushed in to say that the
                      lounge chimney was on fire! Picture me, panic on the inside and sweet smile on the
                      outside, as I picked Henry up and said to the other two, “There’s nothing to be
                      frightened about chaps, but get up and come outside for a bit.” Stupid of me to be so
                      heroic because John and Jim were not at all scared but only too delighted at the chance
                      of rushing about outside in the dark. The fire to them was just a bit of extra fun.

                      We hurried out to find one boy already on the roof and the other passing up a
                      brimming bucket of water. Other boys appeared from nowhere and soon cascades of
                      water were pouring down the chimney. The result was a mountain of smouldering soot
                      on the hearth and a pool of black water on the living room floor. However the fire was out
                      and no serious harm done because all the floors here are cement and another stain on
                      the old rug will hardly be noticed. As the children reluctantly returned to bed John
                      remarked smugly, “I told Jim not to put all the wood on the fire at once but he wouldn’t
                      listen.” I might have guessed!

                      However it was not Jim but John who gave me the worst turn of all this week. As
                      a treat I decided to take the boys to the river for a picnic tea. The river is not far from our
                      house but we had never been there before so I took the kitchen boy, Tovelo, to show
                      us the way. The path is on the level until one is in sight of the river when the bank slopes
                      steeply down. I decided that it was too steep for the pram so I stopped to lift Henry out
                      and carry him. When I looked around I saw John running down the slope towards the
                      river. The stream is not wide but flows swiftly and I had no idea how deep it was. All I
                      knew was that it was a trout stream. I called for John, “Stop, wait for me!” but he ran on
                      and made for a rude pole bridge which spanned the river. He started to cross and then,
                      to my horror, I saw John slip. There was a splash and he disappeared under the water. I
                      just dumped the baby on the ground, screamed to the boy to mind him and ran madly
                      down the slope to the river. Suddenly I saw John’s tight fitting felt hat emerge, then his
                      eyes and nose. I dashed into the water and found, to my intense relief, that it only
                      reached up to my shoulders but, thank heaven no further. John’s steady eyes watched
                      me trustingly as I approached him and carried him safely to the bank. He had been
                      standing on a rock and had not panicked at all though he had to stand up very straight
                      and tall to keep his nose out of water. I was too proud of him to scold him for
                      disobedience and too wet anyway.

                      I made John undress and put on two spare pullovers and wrapped Henry’s
                      baby blanket round his waist like a sarong. We made a small fire over which I crouched
                      with literally chattering teeth whilst Tovelo ran home to fetch a coat for me and dry clothes
                      for John.

                      Eleanor.

                      Lyamungu 16th August 1944

                      Dearest Family,

                      We have a new bull terrier bitch pup whom we have named Fanny III . So once
                      more we have a menagerie , the two dogs, two cats Susie and Winnie, and
                      some pet hens who live in the garage and are a real nuisance.

                      As John is nearly six I thought it time that he started lessons and wrote off to Dar
                      es Salaam for the correspondence course. We have had one week of lessons and I am
                      already in a state of physical and mental exhaustion. John is a most reluctant scholar.
                      “Why should I learn to read, when you can read to me?” he asks, and “Anyway why
                      should I read such stupid stuff, ‘Run Rover Run’, and ‘Mother play with baby’ . Who
                      wants to read about things like that? I don’t.”

                      He rather likes sums, but the only subject about which he is enthusiastic is
                      prehistoric history. He laps up information about ‘The Tree Dwellers’, though he is very
                      sceptical about the existence of such people. “God couldn’t be so silly to make people
                      so stupid. Fancy living in trees when it is easy to make huts like the natives.” ‘The Tree
                      Dwellers is a highly imaginative story about a revolting female called Sharptooth and her
                      offspring called Bodo. I have a very clear mental image of Sharptooth, so it came as a
                      shock to me and highly amused George when John looked at me reflectively across the
                      tea table and said, “Mummy I expect Sharptooth looked like you. You have a sharp
                      tooth too!” I have, my eye teeth are rather sharp, but I hope the resemblance stops
                      there.

                      John has an uncomfortably logical mind for a small boy. The other day he was
                      lying on the lawn staring up at the clouds when he suddenly muttered “I don’t believe it.”
                      “Believe what?” I asked. “That Jesus is coming on a cloud one day. How can he? The
                      thick ones always stay high up. What’s he going to do, jump down with a parachute?”
                      Tovelo, my kitchen boy, announced one evening that his grandmother was in the
                      kitchen and wished to see me. She was a handsome and sensible Chagga woman who
                      brought sad news. Her little granddaughter had stumbled backwards into a large cooking
                      pot of almost boiling maize meal porridge and was ‘ngongwa sana’ (very ill). I grabbed
                      a large bottle of Picric Acid and a packet of gauze which we keep for these emergencies
                      and went with her, through coffee shambas and banana groves to her daughter’s house.
                      Inside the very neat thatched hut the mother sat with the naked child lying face
                      downwards on her knee. The child’s buttocks and the back of her legs were covered in
                      huge burst blisters from which a watery pus dripped. It appeared that the accident had
                      happened on the previous day.

                      I could see that it was absolutely necessary to clean up the damaged area, and I
                      suddenly remembered that there was a trained African hospital dresser on the station. I
                      sent the father to fetch him and whilst the dresser cleaned off the sloughed skin with
                      forceps and swabs saturated in Picric Acid, I cut the gauze into small squares which I
                      soaked in the lotion and laid on the cleaned area. I thought the small pieces would be
                      easier to change especially as the whole of the most tender parts, front and back, were
                      badly scalded. The child seemed dazed and neither the dresser nor I thought she would
                      live. I gave her half an aspirin and left three more half tablets to be given four hourly.
                      Next day she seemed much brighter. I poured more lotion on the gauze
                      disturbing as few pieces as possible and again the next day and the next. After a week
                      the skin was healing well and the child eating normally. I am sure she will be all right now.
                      The new skin is a brilliant red and very shiny but it is pale round the edges of the burnt
                      area and will I hope later turn brown. The mother never uttered a word of thanks, but the
                      granny is grateful and today brought the children a bunch of bananas.

                      Eleanor.

                      c/o Game Dept. P.O.Moshi. 29th September 1944

                      Dearest Mummy,

                      I am so glad that you so enjoyed my last letter with the description of our very
                      interesting and enjoyable safari through Masailand. You said you would like an even
                      fuller description of it to pass around amongst the relations, so, to please you, I have
                      written it out in detail and enclose the result.

                      We have spent a quiet week after our exertions and all are well here.

                      Very much love,
                      Eleanor.

                      Safari in Masailand

                      George and I were at tea with our three little boys on the front lawn of our house
                      in Lyamungu, Northern Tanganyika. It was John’s sixth birthday and he and Jim, a
                      happy sturdy three year old, and Henry, aged eleven months, were munching the
                      squares of plain chocolate which rounded off the party, when George said casually
                      across the table to me, “Could you be ready by the day after tomorrow to go on
                      safari?” “Me too?” enquired John anxiously, before I had time to reply, and “Me too?”
                      echoed Jim. “yes, of course I can”, said I to George and “of course you’re coming too”,
                      to the children who rate a day spent in the bush higher than any other pleasure.
                      So in the early morning two days later, we started out happily for Masailand in a
                      three ton Ford lorry loaded to capacity with the five Rushbys, the safari paraphernalia,
                      drums of petrol and quite a retinue of servants and Game Scouts. George travelling
                      alone on his monthly safaris, takes only the cook and a couple of Game Scouts, but this was to be a safari de luxe.

                      Henry and I shared the cab with George who was driving, whilst John and Jim
                      with the faithful orderly Mabemba beside them to point out the game animals, were
                      installed upon rolls of bedding in the body of the lorry. The lorry lumbered along, first
                      through coffee shambas, and then along the main road between Moshi and Arusha.
                      After half an hour or so, we turned South off the road into a track which crossed the
                      Sanya Plains and is the beginning of this part of Masailand. Though the dry season was
                      at its height, and the pasture dry and course, we were soon passing small groups of
                      game. This area is a Game Sanctuary and the antelope grazed quietly quite undisturbed
                      by the passing lorry. Here and there zebra stood bunched by the road, a few wild
                      ostriches stalked jerkily by, and in the distance some wildebeest cavorted around in their
                      crazy way.

                      Soon the grasslands gave way to thorn bush, and we saw six fantastically tall
                      giraffe standing motionless with their heads turned enquiringly towards us. George
                      stopped the lorry so the children could have a good view of them. John was enchanted
                      but Jim, alas, was asleep.

                      At mid day we reached the Kikoletwa River and turned aside to camp. Beside
                      the river, under huge leafy trees, there was a beautiful camping spot, but the river was
                      deep and reputed to be full of crocodiles so we passed it by and made our camp
                      some distance from the river under a tall thorn tree with a flat lacy canopy. All around the
                      camp lay uprooted trees of similar size that had been pushed over by elephants. As
                      soon as the lorry stopped a camp chair was set up for me and the Game Scouts quickly
                      slashed down grass and cleared the camp site of thorns. The same boys then pitched the tent whilst George himself set up the three camp beds and the folding cot for Henry,
                      and set up the safari table and the canvas wash bowl and bath.

                      The cook in the meantime had cleared a cool spot for the kitchen , opened up the
                      chop boxes and started a fire. The cook’s boy and the dhobi (laundry boy) brought
                      water from the rather muddy river and tea was served followed shortly afterward by an
                      excellent lunch. In a very short time the camp had a suprisingly homely look. Nappies
                      fluttered from a clothes line, Henry slept peacefully in his cot, John and Jim sprawled on
                      one bed looking at comics, and I dozed comfortably on another.

                      George, with the Game Scouts, drove off in the lorry about his work. As a Game
                      Ranger it is his business to be on a constant look out for poachers, both African and
                      European, and for disease in game which might infect the valuable herds of Masai cattle.
                      The lorry did not return until dusk by which time the children had bathed enthusiastically in
                      the canvas bath and were ready for supper and bed. George backed the lorry at right
                      angles to the tent, Henry’s cot and two camp beds were set up in the lorry, the tarpaulin
                      was lashed down and the children put to bed in their novel nursery.

                      When darkness fell a large fire was lit in front of the camp, the exited children at
                      last fell asleep and George and I sat on by the fire enjoying the cool and quiet night.
                      When the fire subsided into a bed of glowing coals, it was time for our bed. During the
                      night I was awakened by the sound of breaking branches and strange indescribable
                      noises.” Just elephant”, said George comfortably and instantly fell asleep once more. I
                      didn’t! We rose with the birds next morning, but breakfast was ready and in a
                      remarkably short time the lorry had been reloaded and we were once more on our way.
                      For about half a mile we made our own track across the plain and then we turned
                      into the earth road once more. Soon we had reached the river and were looking with
                      dismay at the suspension bridge which we had to cross. At the far side, one steel
                      hawser was missing and there the bridge tilted dangerously. There was no handrail but
                      only heavy wooden posts which marked the extremities of the bridge. WhenGeorge
                      measured the distance between the posts he found that there could be barely two
                      inches to spare on either side of the cumbersome lorry.

                      He decided to risk crossing, but the children and I and all the servants were told to
                      cross the bridge and go down the track out of sight. The Game Scouts remained on the
                      river bank on the far side of the bridge and stood ready for emergencies. As I walked
                      along anxiously listening, I was horrified to hear the lorry come to a stop on the bridge.
                      There was a loud creaking noise and I instantly visualised the lorry slowly toppling over
                      into the deep crocodile infested river. The engine restarted, the lorry crossed the bridge
                      and came slowly into sight around the bend. My heart slid back into its normal position.
                      George was as imperturbable as ever and simply remarked that it had been a near
                      thing and that we would return to Lyamungu by another route.

                      Beyond the green river belt the very rutted track ran through very uninteresting
                      thorn bush country. Henry was bored and tiresome, jumping up and down on my knee
                      and yelling furiously. “Teeth”, said I apologetically to George, rashly handing a match
                      box to Henry to keep him quiet. No use at all! With a fat finger he poked out the tray
                      spilling the matches all over me and the floor. Within seconds Henry had torn the
                      matchbox to pieces with his teeth and flung the battered remains through the window.
                      An empty cigarette box met with the same fate as the match box and the yells
                      continued unabated until Henry slept from sheer exhaustion. George gave me a smile,
                      half sympathetic and half sardonic, “Enjoying the safari, my love?” he enquired. On these
                      trying occasions George has the inestimable advantage of being able to go into a Yogilike
                      trance, whereas I become irritated to screaming point.

                      In an effort to prolong Henry’s slumber I braced my feet against the floor boards
                      and tried to turn myself into a human shock absorber as we lurched along the eroded
                      track. Several times my head made contact with the bolt of a rifle in the rack above, and
                      once I felt I had shattered my knee cap against the fire extinguisher in a bracket under the
                      dash board.

                      Strange as it may seem, I really was enjoying the trip in spite of these
                      discomforts. At last after three years I was once more on safari with George. This type of
                      country was new to me and there was so much to see We passed a family of giraffe
                      standing in complete immobility only a few yards from the track. Little dick-dick. one of the smallest of the antelope, scuttled in pairs across the road and that afternoon I had my first view of Gerenuk, curious red brown antelope with extremely elongated legs and giraffe-like necks.

                      Most interesting of all was my first sight of Masai at home. We could hear a tuneful
                      jangle of cattle bells and suddenly came across herds of humped cattle browsing upon
                      the thorn bushes. The herds were guarded by athletic,striking looking Masai youths and men.
                      Each had a calabash of water slung over his shoulder and a tall, highly polished spear in his
                      hand. These herdsmen were quite unselfconscious though they wore no clothing except for one carelessly draped blanket. Very few gave us any greeting but glanced indifferently at us from under fringes of clay-daubed plaited hair . The rest of their hair was drawn back behind the ears to display split earlobes stretched into slender loops by the weight of heavy brass or copper tribal ear rings.

                      Most of the villages were set well back in the bush out of sight of the road but we did pass one
                      typical village which looked most primitive indeed. It consisted simply of a few mound like mud huts which were entirely covered with a plaster of mud and cattle dung and the whole clutch of huts were surrounded by a ‘boma’ of thorn to keep the cattle in at night and the lions out. There was a gathering of women and children on the road at this point. The children of both sexes were naked and unadorned, but the women looked very fine indeed. This is not surprising for they have little to do but adorn themselves, unlike their counterparts of other tribes who have to work hard cultivating the fields. The Masai women, and others I saw on safari, were far more amiable and cheerful looking than the men and were well proportioned.

                      They wore skirts of dressed goat skin, knee length in front but ankle length behind. Their arms
                      from elbow to wrist, and legs from knee to ankle, were encased in tight coils of copper and
                      galvanised wire. All had their heads shaved and in some cases bound by a leather band
                      embroidered in red white and blue beads. Circular ear rings hung from slit earlobes and their
                      handsome throats were encircled by stiff wire necklaces strung with brightly coloured beads. These
                      necklaces were carefully graded in size and formed deep collars almost covering their breasts.
                      About a quarter of a mile further along the road we met eleven young braves in gala attire, obviously on their way to call on the girls. They formed a line across the road and danced up and down until the lorry was dangerously near when they parted and grinned cheerfully at us. These were the only cheerful
                      looking male Masai that I saw. Like the herdsmen these youths wore only a blanket, but their
                      blankets were ochre colour, and elegantly draped over their backs. Their naked bodies gleamed with oil. Several had painted white stripes on their faces, and two had whitewashed their faces entirely which I
                      thought a pity. All had their long hair elaborately dressed and some carried not only one,
                      but two gleaming spears.

                      By mid day George decided that we had driven far enough for that day. He
                      stopped the lorry and consulted a rather unreliable map. “Somewhere near here is a
                      place called Lolbeni,” he said. “The name means Sweet Water, I hear that the
                      government have piped spring water down from the mountain into a small dam at which
                      the Masai water their cattle.” Lolbeni sounded pleasant to me. Henry was dusty and
                      cross, the rubber sheet had long slipped from my lap to the floor and I was conscious of
                      a very damp lap. ‘Sweet Waters’ I felt, would put all that right. A few hundred yards
                      away a small herd of cattle was grazing, so George lit his pipe and relaxed at last, whilst
                      a Game Scout went off to find the herdsman. The scout soon returned with an ancient
                      and emaciated Masai who was thrilled at the prospect of his first ride in a lorry and
                      offered to direct us to Lolbeni which was off the main track and about four miles away.

                      Once Lolbeni had been a small administrative post and a good track had
                      led to it, but now the Post had been abandoned and the road is dotted with vigourous
                      thorn bushes and the branches of larger thorn trees encroach on the track The road had
                      deteriorated to a mere cattle track, deeply rutted and eroded by heavy rains over a
                      period of years. The great Ford truck, however, could take it. It lurched victoriously along,
                      mowing down the obstructions, tearing off branches from encroaching thorn trees with its
                      high railed sides, spanning gorges in the track, and climbing in and out of those too wide
                      to span. I felt an army tank could not have done better.

                      I had expected Lolbeni to be a green oasis in a desert of grey thorns, but I was
                      quickly disillusioned. To be sure the thorn trees were larger and more widely spaced and
                      provided welcome shade, but the ground under the trees had been trampled by thousands of cattle into a dreary expanse of dirty grey sand liberally dotted with cattle droppings and made still more uninviting by the bleached bones of dead beasts.

                      To the right of this waste rose a high green hill which gave the place its name and from which
                      the precious water was piped, but its slopes were too steep to provide a camping site.
                      Flies swarmed everywhere and I was most relieved when George said that we would
                      stay only long enough to fill our cans with water. Even the water was a disappointment!
                      The water in the small dam was low and covered by a revolting green scum, and though
                      the water in the feeding pipe was sweet, it trickled so feebly that it took simply ages to
                      fill a four gallon can.

                      However all these disappointments were soon forgotten for we drove away
                      from the flies and dirt and trampled sand and soon, with their quiet efficiency, George
                      and his men set up a comfortable camp. John and Jim immediately started digging
                      operations in the sandy soil whilst Henry and I rested. After tea George took his shot
                      gun and went off to shoot guinea fowl and partridges for the pot. The children and I went
                      walking, keeping well in site of camp, and soon we saw a very large flock of Vulturine
                      Guineafowl, running aimlessly about and looking as tame as barnyard fowls, but melting
                      away as soon as we moved in their direction.

                      We had our second quiet and lovely evening by the camp fire, followed by a
                      peaceful night.

                      We left Lolbeni very early next morning, which was a good thing, for as we left
                      camp the herds of thirsty cattle moved in from all directions. They were accompanied by
                      Masai herdsmen, their naked bodies and blankets now covered by volcanic dust which
                      was being stirred in rising clouds of stifling ash by the milling cattle, and also by grey
                      donkeys laden with panniers filled with corked calabashes for water.

                      Our next stop was Nabarera, a Masai cattle market and trading centre, where we
                      reluctantly stayed for two days in a pokey Goverment Resthouse because George had
                      a job to do in that area. The rest was good for Henry who promptly produced a tooth
                      and was consequently much better behaved for the rest of the trip. George was away in the bush most of the day but he returned for afternoon tea and later took the children out
                      walking. We had noticed curious white dumps about a quarter mile from the resthouse
                      and on the second afternoon we set out to investigate them. Behind the dumps we
                      found passages about six foot wide, cut through solid limestone. We explored two of
                      these and found that both passages led steeply down to circular wells about two and a
                      half feet in diameter.

                      At the very foot of each passage, beside each well, rough drinking troughs had
                      been cut in the stone. The herdsmen haul the water out of the well in home made hide
                      buckets, the troughs are filled and the cattle driven down the ramps to drink at the trough.
                      It was obvious that the wells were ancient and the sloping passages new. George tells
                      me that no one knows what ancient race dug the original wells. It seems incredible that
                      these deep and narrow shafts could have been sunk without machinery. I craned my
                      neck and looked above one well and could see an immensely long shaft reaching up to
                      ground level. Small footholds were cut in the solid rock as far as I could see.
                      It seems that the Masai are as ignorant as ourselves about the origin of these
                      wells. They do say however that when their forebears first occupied what is now known
                      as Masailand, they not only found the Wanderobo tribe in the area but also a light
                      skinned people and they think it possible that these light skinned people dug the wells.
                      These people disappeared. They may have been absorbed or, more likely, they were
                      liquidated.

                      The Masai had found the well impractical in their original form and had hired
                      labourers from neighbouring tribes to cut the passages to water level. Certainly the Masai are not responsible for the wells. They are a purely pastoral people and consider manual labour extremely degrading.

                      They live chiefly on milk from their herd which they allow to go sour, and mix with blood that has been skilfully tapped from the necks of living cattle. They do not eat game meat, nor do they cultivate any
                      land. They hunt with spears, but hunt only lions, to protect their herds, and to test the skill
                      and bravery of their young warriors. What little grain they do eat is transported into
                      Masailand by traders. The next stage of our journey took us to Ngassamet where
                      George was to pick up some elephant tusks. I had looked forward particularly to this
                      stretch of road for I had heard that there was a shallow lake at which game congregates,
                      and at which I had great hopes of seeing elephants. We had come too late in the
                      season though, the lake was dry and there were only piles of elephant droppings to
                      prove that elephant had recently been there in numbers. Ngassamet, though no beauty
                      spot, was interesting. We saw more elaborate editions of the wells already described, and as this area
                      is rich in cattle we saw the aristocrats of the Masai. You cannot conceive of a more arrogant looking male than a young Masai brave striding by on sandalled feet, unselfconscious in all his glory. All the young men wore the casually draped traditional ochre blanket and carried one or more spears. But here belts and long knife sheaths of scarlet leather seem to be the fashion. Here fringes do not seem to be the thing. Most of these young Masai had their hair drawn smoothly back and twisted in a pointed queue, the whole plastered with a smooth coating of red clay. Some tied their horn shaped queues over their heads
                      so that the tip formed a deep Satanic peak on the brow. All these young men wore the traditional
                      copper earrings and I saw one or two with copper bracelets and one with a necklace of brightly coloured
                      beads.

                      It so happened that, on the day of our visit to Ngassamet, there had been a
                      baraza (meeting) which was attended by all the local headmen and elders. These old
                      men came to pay their respects to George and a more shrewd and rascally looking
                      company I have never seen, George told me that some of these men own up to three
                      thousand head of cattle and more. The chief was as fat and Rabelasian as his second in
                      command was emaciated, bucktoothed and prim. The Chief shook hands with George
                      and greeted me and settled himself on the wall of the resthouse porch opposite
                      George. The lesser headmen, after politely greeting us, grouped themselves in a
                      semi circle below the steps with their ‘aides’ respectfully standing behind them. I
                      remained sitting in the only chair and watched the proceedings with interest and
                      amusement.

                      These old Masai, I noticed, cared nothing for adornment. They had proved
                      themselves as warriors in the past and were known to be wealthy and influential so did
                      not need to make any display. Most of them had their heads comfortably shaved and
                      wore only a drab blanket or goatskin cloak. Their only ornaments were earrings whose
                      effect was somewhat marred by the serviceable and homely large safety pin that
                      dangled from the lobe of one ear. All carried staves instead of spears and all, except for
                      Buckteeth and one blind old skeleton of a man, appeared to have a keenly developed
                      sense of humour.

                      “Mummy?” asked John in an urgent whisper, “Is that old blind man nearly dead?”
                      “Yes dear”, said I, “I expect he’ll soon die.” “What here?” breathed John in a tone of
                      keen anticipation and, until the meeting broke up and the old man left, he had John’s
                      undivided attention.

                      After local news and the game situation had been discussed, the talk turned to the
                      war. “When will the war end?” moaned the fat Chief. “We have made great gifts of cattle
                      to the War Funds, we are taxed out of existence.” George replied with the Ki-Swahili
                      equivalent of ‘Sez you!’. This sally was received with laughter and the old fellows rose to
                      go. They made their farewells and dignified exits, pausing on their way to stare at our
                      pink and white Henry, who sat undismayed in his push chair giving them stare for stare
                      from his striking grey eyes.

                      Towards evening some Masai, prompted no doubt by our native servants,
                      brought a sheep for sale. It was the last night of the fast of Ramadan and our
                      Mohammedan boys hoped to feast next day at our expense. Their faces fell when
                      George refused to buy the animal. “Why should I pay fifteen shillings for a sheep?” he
                      asked, “Am I not the Bwana Nyama and is not the bush full of my sheep?” (Bwana
                      Nyama is the native name for a Game Ranger, but means literally, ‘Master of the meat’)
                      George meant that he would shoot a buck for the men next day, but this incident was to
                      have a strange sequel. Ngassamet resthouse consists of one room so small we could
                      not put up all our camp beds and George and I slept on the cement floor which was
                      unkind to my curves. The night was bitterly cold and all night long hyaenas screeched
                      hideously outside. So we rose at dawn without reluctance and were on our way before it
                      was properly light.

                      George had decided that it would be foolhardy to return home by our outward
                      route as he did not care to risk another crossing of the suspension bridge. So we
                      returned to Nabarera and there turned onto a little used track which would eventually take
                      us to the Great North Road a few miles South of Arusha. There was not much game
                      about but I saw Oryx which I had not previously seen. Soon it grew intolerably hot and I
                      think all of us but George were dozing when he suddenly stopped the lorry and pointed
                      to the right. “Mpishi”, he called to the cook, “There’s your sheep!” True enough, on that
                      dreary thorn covered plain,with not another living thing in sight, stood a fat black sheep.

                      There was an incredulous babbling from the back of the lorry. Every native
                      jumped to the ground and in no time at all the wretched sheep was caught and
                      slaughtered. I felt sick. “Oh George”, I wailed, “The poor lost sheep! I shan’t eat a scrap
                      of it.” George said nothing but went and had a look at the sheep and called out to me,
                      “Come and look at it. It was kindness to kill the poor thing, the vultures have been at it
                      already and the hyaenas would have got it tonight.” I went reluctantly and saw one eye
                      horribly torn out, and small deep wounds on the sheep’s back where the beaks of the
                      vultures had cut through the heavy fleece. Poor thing! I went back to the lorry more
                      determined than ever not to eat mutton on that trip. The Scouts and servants had no
                      such scruples. The fine fat sheep had been sent by Allah for their feast day and that was
                      the end of it.

                      “ ‘Mpishi’ is more convinced than ever that I am a wizard”, said George in
                      amusement as he started the lorry. I knew what he meant. Several times before George
                      had foretold something which had later happened. Pure coincidence, but strange enough
                      to give rise to a legend that George had the power to arrange things. “What happened
                      of course”, explained George, “Is that a flock of Masai sheep was driven to market along
                      this track yesterday or the day before. This one strayed and was not missed.”

                      The day grew hotter and hotter and for long miles we looked out for a camping
                      spot but could find little shade and no trace of water anywhere. At last, in the early
                      afternoon we reached another pokey little rest house and asked for water. “There is no
                      water here,” said the native caretaker. “Early in the morning there is water in a well nearby
                      but we are allowed only one kerosene tin full and by ten o’clock the well is dry.” I looked
                      at George in dismay for we were all so tired and dusty. “Where do the Masai from the
                      village water their cattle then?” asked George. “About two miles away through the bush.
                      If you take me with you I shall show you”, replied the native.

                      So we turned off into the bush and followed a cattle track even more tortuous than
                      the one to Lolbeni. Two Scouts walked ahead to warn us of hazards and I stretched my
                      arm across the open window to fend off thorns. Henry screamed with fright and hunger.
                      But George’s efforts to reach water went unrewarded as we were brought to a stop by
                      a deep donga. The native from the resthouse was apologetic. He had mistaken the
                      path, perhaps if we turned back we might find it. George was beyond speech. We
                      lurched back the way we had come and made our camp under the first large tree we
                      could find. Then off went our camp boys on foot to return just before dark with the water.
                      However they were cheerful for there was an unlimited quantity of dry wood for their fires
                      and meat in plenty for their feast. Long after George and I left our campfire and had gone
                      to bed, we could see the cheerful fires of the boys and hear their chatter and laughter.
                      I woke in the small hours to hear the insane cackling of hyaenas gloating over a
                      find. Later I heard scuffling around the camp table, I peered over the tailboard of the lorry
                      and saw George come out of his tent. What are you doing?” I whispered. “Looking for
                      something to throw at those bloody hyaenas,” answered George for all the world as
                      though those big brutes were tomcats on the prowl. Though the hyaenas kept up their
                      concert all night the children never stirred, nor did any of them wake at night throughout
                      the safari.

                      Early next morning I walked across to the camp kitchen to enquire into the loud
                      lamentations coming from that quarter. “Oh Memsahib”, moaned the cook, “We could
                      not sleep last night for the bad hyaenas round our tents. They have taken every scrap of
                      meat we had left over from the feast., even the meat we had left to smoke over the fire.”
                      Jim, who of our three young sons is the cook’s favourite commiserated with him. He said
                      in Ki-Swahili, which he speaks with great fluency, “Truly those hyaenas are very bad
                      creatures. They also robbed us. They have taken my hat from the table and eaten the
                      new soap from the washbowl.

                      Our last day in the bush was a pleasantly lazy one. We drove through country
                      that grew more open and less dry as we approached Arusha. We pitched our camp
                      near a large dam, and the water was a blessed sight after a week of scorched country.
                      On the plains to the right of our camp was a vast herd of native cattle enjoying a brief
                      rest after their long day trek through Masailand. They were destined to walk many more
                      weary miles before reaching their destination, a meat canning factory in Kenya.
                      The ground to the left of the camp rose gently to form a long low hill and on the
                      grassy slopes we could see wild ostriches and herds of wildebeest, zebra and
                      antelope grazing amicably side by side. In the late afternoon I watched the groups of
                      zebra and wildebeest merge into one. Then with a wildebeest leading, they walked
                      down the slope in single file to drink at the vlei . When they were satisfied, a wildebeest
                      once more led the herd up the trail. The others followed in a long and orderly file, and
                      vanished over the hill to their evening pasture.

                      When they had gone, George took up his shotgun and invited John to
                      accompany him to the dam to shoot duck. This was the first time John had acted as
                      retriever but he did very well and proudly helped to carry a mixed bag of sand grouse
                      and duck back to camp.

                      Next morning we turned into the Great North Road and passed first through
                      carefully tended coffee shambas and then through the township of Arusha, nestling at
                      the foot of towering Mount Meru. Beyond Arusha we drove through the Usa River
                      settlement where again coffee shambas and European homesteads line the road, and
                      saw before us the magnificent spectacle of Kilimanjaro unveiled, its white snow cap
                      gleaming in the sunlight. Before mid day we were home. “Well was it worth it?” enquired
                      George at lunch. “Lovely,” I replied. ”Let’s go again soon.” Then thinking regretfully of
                      our absent children I sighed, “If only Ann, George, and Kate could have gone with us
                      too.”

                      Lyamungu 10th November. 1944

                      Dearest Family.

                      Mummy wants to know how I fill in my time with George away on safari for weeks
                      on end. I do believe that you all picture me idling away my days, waited on hand and
                      foot by efficient servants! On the contrary, life is one rush and the days never long
                      enough.

                      To begin with, our servants are anything but efficient, apart from our cook, Hamisi
                      Issa, who really is competent. He suffers from frustration because our budget will not run
                      to elaborate dishes so there is little scope for his culinary art. There is one masterpiece
                      which is much appreciated by John and Jim. Hamisi makes a most realistic crocodile out
                      of pastry and stuffs its innards with minced meat. This revolting reptile is served on a
                      bed of parsley on my largest meat dish. The cook is a strict Mohammedan and
                      observes all the fasts and daily prayers and, like all Mohammedans he is very clean in
                      his person and, thank goodness, in the kitchen.

                      His wife is his pride and joy but not his helpmate. She does absolutely nothing
                      but sit in a chair in the sun all day, sipping tea and smoking cigarettes – a more
                      expensive brand than mine! It is Hamisi who sweeps out their quarters, cooks
                      delectable curries for her, and spends more than he can afford on clothing and trinkets for
                      his wife. She just sits there with her ‘Mona Lisa’ smile and her painted finger and toe
                      nails, doing absolutely nothing.

                      The thing is that natives despise women who do work and this applies especially
                      to their white employers. House servants much prefer a Memsahib who leaves
                      everything to them and is careless about locking up her pantry. When we first came to
                      Lyamungu I had great difficulty in employing a houseboy. A couple of rather efficient
                      ones did approach me but when they heard the wages I was prepared to pay and that
                      there was no number 2 boy, they simply were not interested. Eventually I took on a
                      local boy called Japhet who suits me very well except that his sight is not good and he
                      is extremely hard on the crockery. He tells me that he has lost face by working here
                      because his friends say that he works for a family that is too mean to employ a second
                      boy. I explained that with our large family we simply cannot afford to pay more, but this
                      didn’t register at all. Japhet says “But Wazungu (Europeans) all have money. They just
                      have to get it from the Bank.”

                      The third member of our staff is a strapping youth named Tovelo who helps both
                      cook and boy, and consequently works harder than either. What do I do? I chivvy the
                      servants, look after the children, supervise John’s lessons, and make all my clothing and
                      the children’s on that blessed old hand sewing machine.

                      The folk on this station entertain a good deal but we usually decline invitations
                      because we simply cannot afford to reciprocate. However, last Saturday night I invited
                      two couples to drinks and dinner. This was such an unusual event that the servants and I
                      were thrown into a flurry. In the end the dinner went off well though it ended in disaster. In
                      spite of my entreaties and exhortations to Japhet not to pile everything onto the tray at
                      once when clearing the table, he did just that. We were starting our desert and I was
                      congratulating myself that all had gone well when there was a frightful crash of breaking
                      china on the back verandah. I excused myself and got up to investigate. A large meat
                      dish, six dinner plates and four vegetable dishes lay shattered on the cement floor! I
                      controlled my tongue but what my eyes said to Japhet is another matter. What he said
                      was, “It is not my fault Memsahib. The handle of the tray came off.”

                      It is a curious thing about native servants that they never accept responsibility for
                      a mishap. If they cannot pin their misdeeds onto one of their fellow servants then the responsibility rests with God. ‘Shauri ya Mungu’, (an act of God) is a familiar cry. Fatalists
                      can be very exasperating employees.

                      The loss of my dinner service is a real tragedy because, being war time, one can
                      buy only china of the poorest quality made for the native trade. Nor was that the final
                      disaster of the evening. When we moved to the lounge for coffee I noticed that the
                      coffee had been served in the battered old safari coffee pot instead of the charming little
                      antique coffee pot which my Mother-in-law had sent for our tenth wedding anniversary.
                      As there had already been a disturbance I made no comment but resolved to give the
                      cook a piece of my mind in the morning. My instructions to the cook had been to warm
                      the coffee pot with hot water immediately before serving. On no account was he to put
                      the pewter pot on the hot iron stove. He did and the result was a small hole in the base
                      of the pot – or so he says. When I saw the pot next morning there was a two inch hole in
                      it.

                      Hamisi explained placidly how this had come about. He said he knew I would be
                      mad when I saw the little hole so he thought he would have it mended and I might not
                      notice it. Early in the morning he had taken the pewter pot to the mechanic who looks
                      after the Game Department vehicles and had asked him to repair it. The bright individual
                      got busy with the soldering iron with the most devastating result. “It’s his fault,” said
                      Hamisi, “He is a mechanic, he should have known what would happen.”
                      One thing is certain, there will be no more dinner parties in this house until the war
                      is ended.

                      The children are well and so am I, and so was George when he left on his safari
                      last Monday.

                      Much love,
                      Eleanor.

                       

                      #6265
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        From Tanganyika with Love

                        continued  ~ part 6

                        With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                        Mchewe 6th June 1937

                        Dearest Family,

                        Home again! We had an uneventful journey. Kate was as good as gold all the
                        way. We stopped for an hour at Bulawayo where we had to change trains but
                        everything was simplified for me by a very pleasant man whose wife shared my
                        compartment. Not only did he see me through customs but he installed us in our new
                        train and his wife turned up to see us off with magazines for me and fruit and sweets for
                        Kate. Very, very kind, don’t you think?

                        Kate and I shared the compartment with a very pretty and gentle girl called
                        Clarice Simpson. She was very worried and upset because she was going home to
                        Broken Hill in response to a telegram informing her that her young husband was
                        dangerously ill from Blackwater Fever. She was very helpful with Kate whose
                        cheerfulness helped Clarice, I think, though I, quite unintentionally was the biggest help
                        at the end of our journey. Remember the partial dentures I had had made just before
                        leaving Cape Town? I know I shall never get used to the ghastly things, I’ve had them
                        two weeks now and they still wobble. Well this day I took them out and wrapped them
                        in a handkerchief, but when we were packing up to leave the train I could find the
                        handkerchief but no teeth! We searched high and low until the train had slowed down to
                        enter Broken Hill station. Then Clarice, lying flat on the floor, spied the teeth in the dark
                        corner under the bottom bunk. With much stretching she managed to retrieve the
                        dentures covered in grime and fluff. My look of horror, when I saw them, made young
                        Clarice laugh. She was met at the station by a very grave elderly couple. I do wonder
                        how things turned out for her.

                        I stayed overnight with Kate at the Great Northern Hotel, and we set off for
                        Mbeya by plane early in the morning. One of our fellow passengers was a young
                        mother with a three week old baby. How ideas have changed since Ann was born. This
                        time we had a smooth passage and I was the only passenger to get airsick. Although
                        there were other women passengers it was a man once again, who came up and
                        offered to help. Kate went off with him amiably and he entertained her until we touched
                        down at Mbeya.

                        George was there to meet us with a wonderful surprise, a little red two seater
                        Ford car. She is a bit battered and looks a bit odd because the boot has been
                        converted into a large wooden box for carrying raw salt, but she goes like the wind.
                        Where did George raise the cash to buy a car? Whilst we were away he found a small
                        cave full of bat guano near a large cave which is worked by a man called Bob Sargent.
                        As Sargent did not want any competition he bought the contents of the cave from
                        George giving him the small car as part payment.

                        It was lovely to return to our little home and find everything fresh and tidy and the
                        garden full of colour. But it was heartbreaking to go into the bedroom and see George’s
                        precious forgotten boots still standing by his empty bed.

                        With much love,
                        Eleanor.

                        Mchewe 25th June 1937

                        Dearest Family,

                        Last Friday George took Kate and me in the little red Ford to visit Mr Sargent’s
                        camp on the Songwe River which cuts the Mbeya-Mbosi road. Mr Sargent bought
                        Hicky-Wood’s guano deposit and also our small cave and is making a good living out of
                        selling the bat guano to the coffee farmers in this province. George went to try to interest
                        him in a guano deposit near Kilwa in the Southern Province. Mr Sargent agreed to pay
                        25 pounds to cover the cost of the car trip and pegging costs. George will make the trip
                        to peg the claim and take samples for analysis. If the quality is sufficiently high, George
                        and Mr Sargent will go into partnership. George will work the claim and ship out the
                        guano from Kilwa which is on the coast of the Southern Province of Tanganyika. So now
                        we are busy building castles in the air once more.

                        On Saturday we went to Mbeya where George had to attend a meeting of the
                        Trout Association. In the afternoon he played in a cricket match so Kate and I spent the
                        whole day with the wife of the new Superintendent of Police. They have a very nice
                        new house with lawns and a sunken rose garden. Kate had a lovely romp with Kit, her
                        three year old son.

                        Mrs Wolten also has two daughters by a previous marriage. The elder girl said to
                        me, “Oh Mrs Rushby your husband is exactly like the strong silent type of man I
                        expected to see in Africa but he is the only one I have seen. I think he looks exactly like
                        those men in the ‘Barney’s Tobacco’ advertisements.”

                        I went home with a huge pile of magazines to keep me entertained whilst
                        George is away on the Kilwa trip.

                        Lots of love,
                        Eleanor.

                        Mchewe 9th July 1937

                        Dearest Family,

                        George returned on Monday from his Kilwa safari. He had an entertaining
                        tale to tell.

                        Before he approached Mr Sargent about going shares in the Kilwa guano
                        deposit he first approached a man on the Lupa who had done very well out of a small
                        gold reef. This man, however said he was not interested so you can imagine how
                        indignant George was when he started on his long trip, to find himself being trailed by
                        this very man and a co-driver in a powerful Ford V8 truck. George stopped his car and
                        had some heated things to say – awful threats I imagine as to what would happen to
                        anyone who staked his claim. Then he climbed back into our ancient little two seater and
                        went off like a bullet driving all day and most of the night. As the others took turns in
                        driving you can imagine what a feat it was for George to arrive in Kilwa ahead of them.
                        When they drove into Kilwa he met them with a bright smile and a bit of bluff –
                        quite justifiable under the circumstances I think. He said, you chaps can have a rest now,
                        you’re too late.” He then whipped off and pegged the claim. he brought some samples
                        of guano back but until it has been analysed he will not know whether the guano will be
                        an economic proposition or not. George is not very hopeful. He says there is a good
                        deal of sand mixed with the guano and that much of it was damp.

                        The trip was pretty eventful for Kianda, our houseboy. The little two seater car
                        had been used by its previous owner for carting bags of course salt from his salt pans.
                        For this purpose the dicky seat behind the cab had been removed, and a kind of box
                        built into the boot of the car. George’s camp kit and provisions were packed into this
                        open box and Kianda perched on top to keep an eye on the belongings. George
                        travelled so fast on the rough road that at some point during the night Kianda was
                        bumped off in the middle of the Game Reserve. George did not notice that he was
                        missing until the next morning. He concluded, quite rightly as it happened, that Kianda
                        would be picked up by the rival truck so he continued his journey and Kianda rejoined
                        him at Kilwa.

                        Believe it or not, the same thing happened on the way back but fortunately this
                        time George noticed his absence. He stopped the car and had just started back on his
                        tracks when Kianda came running down the road still clutching the unlighted storm lamp
                        which he was holding in his hand when he fell. The glass was not even cracked.
                        We are finding it difficult just now to buy native chickens and eggs. There has
                        been an epidemic amongst the poultry and one hesitates to eat the survivors. I have a
                        brine tub in which I preserve our surplus meat but I need the chickens for soup.
                        I hope George will be home for some months. He has arranged to take a Mr
                        Blackburn, a wealthy fruit farmer from Elgin, Cape, on a hunting safari during September
                        and October and that should bring in some much needed cash. Lillian Eustace has
                        invited Kate and me to spend the whole of October with her in Tukuyu.
                        I am so glad that you so much enjoy having Ann and George with you. We miss
                        them dreadfully. Kate is a pretty little girl and such a little madam. You should hear the
                        imperious way in which she calls the kitchenboy for her meals. “Boy Brekkis, Boy Lunch,
                        and Boy Eggy!” are her three calls for the day. She knows no Ki-Swahili.

                        Eleanor

                        Mchewe 8th October 1937

                        Dearest Family,

                        I am rapidly becoming as superstitious as our African boys. They say the wild
                        animals always know when George is away from home and come down to have their
                        revenge on me because he has killed so many.

                        I am being besieged at night by a most beastly leopard with a half grown cub. I
                        have grown used to hearing leopards grunt as they hunt in the hills at night but never
                        before have I had one roaming around literally under the windows. It has been so hot at
                        night lately that I have been sleeping with my bedroom door open onto the verandah. I
                        felt quite safe because the natives hereabouts are law-abiding and in any case I always
                        have a boy armed with a club sleeping in the kitchen just ten yards away. As an added
                        precaution I also have a loaded .45 calibre revolver on my bedside table, and Fanny
                        our bullterrier, sleeps on the mat by my bed. I am also looking after Barney, a fine
                        Airedale dog belonging to the Costers. He slept on a mat by the open bedroom door
                        near a dimly burning storm lamp.

                        As usual I went to sleep with an easy mind on Monday night, but was awakened
                        in the early hours of Tuesday by the sound of a scuffle on the front verandah. The noise
                        was followed by a scream of pain from Barney. I jumped out of bed and, grabbing the
                        lamp with my left hand and the revolver in my right, I rushed outside just in time to see
                        two animal figures roll over the edge of the verandah into the garden below. There they
                        engaged in a terrific tug of war. Fortunately I was too concerned for Barney to be
                        nervous. I quickly fired two shots from the revolver, which incidentally makes a noise like
                        a cannon, and I must have startled the leopard for both animals, still locked together,
                        disappeared over the edge of the terrace. I fired two more shots and in a few moments
                        heard the leopard making a hurried exit through the dry leaves which lie thick under the
                        wild fig tree just beyond the terrace. A few seconds later Barney appeared on the low
                        terrace wall. I called his name but he made no move to come but stood with hanging
                        head. In desperation I rushed out, felt blood on my hands when I touched him, so I
                        picked him up bodily and carried him into the house. As I regained the verandah the boy
                        appeared, club in hand, having been roused by the shots. He quickly grasped what had
                        happened when he saw my blood saturated nightie. He fetched a bowl of water and a
                        clean towel whilst I examined Barney’s wounds. These were severe, the worst being a
                        gaping wound in his throat. I washed the gashes with a strong solution of pot permang
                        and I am glad to say they are healing remarkably well though they are bound to leave
                        scars. Fanny, very prudently, had taken no part in the fighting except for frenzied barking
                        which she kept up all night. The shots had of course wakened Kate but she seemed
                        more interested than alarmed and kept saying “Fanny bark bark, Mummy bang bang.
                        Poor Barney lots of blood.”

                        In the morning we inspected the tracks in the garden. There was a shallow furrow
                        on the terrace where Barney and the leopard had dragged each other to and fro and
                        claw marks on the trunk of the wild fig tree into which the leopard climbed after I fired the
                        shots. The affair was of course a drama after the Africans’ hearts and several of our
                        shamba boys called to see me next day to make sympathetic noises and discuss the
                        affair.

                        I went to bed early that night hoping that the leopard had been scared off for
                        good but I must confess I shut all windows and doors. Alas for my hopes of a restful
                        night. I had hardly turned down the lamp when the leopard started its terrifying grunting
                        just under the bedroom windows. If only she would sniff around quietly I should not
                        mind, but the noise is ghastly, something like the first sickening notes of a braying
                        donkey, amplified here by the hills and the gorge which is only a stones throw from the
                        bedroom. Barney was too sick to bark but Fanny barked loud enough for two and the more
                        frantic she became the hungrier the leopard sounded. Kate of course woke up and this
                        time she was frightened though I assured her that the noise was just a donkey having
                        fun. Neither of us slept until dawn when the leopard returned to the hills. When we
                        examined the tracks next morning we found that the leopard had been accompanied by
                        a fair sized cub and that together they had prowled around the house, kitchen, and out
                        houses, visiting especially the places to which the dogs had been during the day.
                        As I feel I cannot bear many more of these nights, I am sending a note to the
                        District Commissioner, Mbeya by the messenger who takes this letter to the post,
                        asking him to send a game scout or an armed policeman to deal with the leopard.
                        So don’t worry, for by the time this reaches you I feel sure this particular trouble
                        will be over.

                        Eleanor.

                        Mchewe 17th October 1937

                        Dearest Family,

                        More about the leopard I fear! My messenger returned from Mbeya to say that
                        the District Officer was on safari so he had given the message to the Assistant District
                        Officer who also apparently left on safari later without bothering to reply to my note, so
                        there was nothing for me to do but to send for the village Nimrod and his muzzle loader
                        and offer him a reward if he could frighten away or kill the leopard.

                        The hunter, Laza, suggested that he should sleep at the house so I went to bed
                        early leaving Laza and his two pals to make themselves comfortable on the living room
                        floor by the fire. Laza was armed with a formidable looking muzzle loader, crammed I
                        imagine with nuts and bolts and old rusty nails. One of his pals had a spear and the other
                        a panga. This fellow was also in charge of the Petromax pressure lamp whose light was
                        hidden under a packing case. I left the campaign entirely to Laza’s direction.
                        As usual the leopard came at midnight stealing down from the direction of the
                        kitchen and announcing its presence and position with its usual ghastly grunts. Suddenly
                        pandemonium broke loose on the back verandah. I heard the roar of the muzzle loader
                        followed by a vigourous tattoo beaten on an empty paraffin tin and I rushed out hoping
                        to find the dead leopard. however nothing of the kind had happened except that the
                        noise must have scared the beast because she did not return again that night. Next
                        morning Laza solemnly informed me that, though he had shot many leopards in his day,
                        this was no ordinary leopard but a “sheitani” (devil) and that as his gun was no good
                        against witchcraft he thought he might as well retire from the hunt. Scared I bet, and I
                        don’t blame him either.

                        You can imagine my relief when a car rolled up that afternoon bringing Messers
                        Stewart and Griffiths, two farmers who live about 15 miles away, between here and
                        Mbeya. They had a note from the Assistant District Officer asking them to help me and
                        they had come to set up a trap gun in the garden. That night the leopard sniffed all
                        around the gun and I had the added strain of waiting for the bang and wondering what I
                        should do if the beast were only wounded. I conjured up horrible visions of the two little
                        totos trotting up the garden path with the early morning milk and being horribly mauled,
                        but I needn’t have worried because the leopard was far too wily to be caught that way.
                        Two more ghastly nights passed and then I had another visitor, a Dr Jackson of
                        the Tsetse Department on safari in the District. He listened sympathetically to my story
                        and left his shotgun and some SSG cartridges with me and instructed me to wait until the
                        leopard was pretty close and blow its b—– head off. It was good of him to leave his
                        gun. George always says there are three things a man should never lend, ‘His wife, his
                        gun and his dog.’ (I think in that order!)I felt quite cheered by Dr Jackson’s visit and sent
                        once again for Laza last night and arranged a real show down. In the afternoon I draped
                        heavy blankets over the living room windows to shut out the light of the pressure lamp
                        and the four of us, Laza and his two stooges and I waited up for the leopard. When we
                        guessed by her grunts that she was somewhere between the kitchen and the back door
                        we all rushed out, first the boy with the panga and the lamp, next Laza with his muzzle
                        loader, then me with the shotgun followed closely by the boy with the spear. What a
                        farce! The lamp was our undoing. We were blinded by the light and did not even
                        glimpse the leopard which made off with a derisive grunt. Laza said smugly that he knew
                        it was hopeless to try and now I feel tired and discouraged too.

                        This morning I sent a runner to Mbeya to order the hotel taxi for tomorrow and I
                        shall go to friends in Mbeya for a day or two and then on to Tukuyu where I shall stay
                        with the Eustaces until George returns from Safari.

                        Eleanor.

                        Mchewe 18th November 1937

                        My darling Ann,

                        Here we are back in our own home and how lovely it is to have Daddy back from
                        safari. Thank you very much for your letter. I hope by now you have got mine telling you
                        how very much I liked the beautiful tray cloth you made for my birthday. I bet there are
                        not many little girls of five who can embroider as well as you do, darling. The boy,
                        Matafari, washes and irons it so carefully and it looks lovely on the tea tray.

                        Daddy and I had some fun last night. I was in bed and Daddy was undressing
                        when we heard a funny scratching noise on the roof. I thought it was the leopard. Daddy
                        quickly loaded his shotgun and ran outside. He had only his shirt on and he looked so
                        funny. I grabbed the loaded revolver from the cupboard and ran after Dad in my nightie
                        but after all the rush it was only your cat, Winnie, though I don’t know how she managed
                        to make such a noise. We felt so silly, we laughed and laughed.

                        Kate talks a lot now but in such a funny way you would laugh to her her. She
                        hears the houseboys call me Memsahib so sometimes instead of calling me Mummy
                        she calls me “Oompaab”. She calls the bedroom a ‘bippon’ and her little behind she
                        calls her ‘sittendump’. She loves to watch Mandawi’s cattle go home along the path
                        behind the kitchen. Joseph your donkey, always leads the cows. He has a lazy life now.
                        I am glad you had such fun on Guy Fawkes Day. You will be sad to leave
                        Plumstead but I am sure you will like going to England on the big ship with granny Kate.
                        I expect you will start school when you get to England and I am sure you will find that
                        fun.

                        God bless my dear little girl. Lots of love from Daddy and Kate,
                        and Mummy

                        Mchewe 18th November 1937

                        Hello George Darling,

                        Thank you for your lovely drawing of Daddy shooting an elephant. Daddy says
                        that the only thing is that you have drawn him a bit too handsome.

                        I went onto the verandah a few minutes ago to pick a banana for Kate from the
                        bunch hanging there and a big hornet flew out and stung my elbow! There are lots of
                        them around now and those stinging flies too. Kate wears thick corduroy dungarees so
                        that she will not get her fat little legs bitten. She is two years old now and is a real little
                        pickle. She loves running out in the rain so I have ordered a pair of red Wellingtons and a
                        tiny umbrella from a Nairobi shop for her Christmas present.

                        Fanny’s puppies have their eyes open now and have very sharp little teeth.
                        They love to nip each other. We are keeping the fiercest little one whom we call Paddy
                        but are giving the others to friends. The coffee bushes are full of lovely white flowers
                        and the bees and ants are very busy stealing their honey.

                        Yesterday a troop of baboons came down the hill and Dad shot a big one to
                        scare the others off. They are a nuisance because they steal the maize and potatoes
                        from the native shambas and then there is not enough food for the totos.
                        Dad and I are very proud of you for not making a fuss when you went to the
                        dentist to have that tooth out.

                        Bye bye, my fine little son.
                        Three bags full of love from Kate, Dad and Mummy.

                        Mchewe 12th February, 1938

                        Dearest Family,

                        here is some news that will please you. George has been offered and has
                        accepted a job as Forester at Mbulu in the Northern Province of Tanganyika. George
                        would have preferred a job as Game Ranger, but though the Game Warden, Philip
                        Teare, is most anxious to have him in the Game Department, there is no vacancy at
                        present. Anyway if one crops up later, George can always transfer from one
                        Government Department to another. Poor George, he hates the idea of taking a job. He
                        says that hitherto he has always been his own master and he detests the thought of
                        being pushed around by anyone.

                        Now however he has no choice. Our capitol is almost exhausted and the coffee
                        market shows no signs of improving. With three children and another on the way, he
                        feels he simply must have a fixed income. I shall be sad to leave this little farm. I love
                        our little home and we have been so very happy here, but my heart rejoices at the
                        thought of overseas leave every thirty months. Now we shall be able to fetch Ann and
                        George from England and in three years time we will all be together in Tanganyika once
                        more.

                        There is no sale for farms so we will just shut the house and keep on a very small
                        labour force just to keep the farm from going derelict. We are eating our hens but will
                        take our two dogs, Fanny and Paddy with us.

                        One thing I shall be glad to leave is that leopard. She still comes grunting around
                        at night but not as badly as she did before. I do not mind at all when George is here but
                        until George was accepted for this forestry job I was afraid he might go back to the
                        Diggings and I should once more be left alone to be cursed by the leopard’s attentions.
                        Knowing how much I dreaded this George was most anxious to shoot the leopard and
                        for weeks he kept his shotgun and a powerful torch handy at night.

                        One night last week we woke to hear it grunting near the kitchen. We got up very
                        quietly and whilst George loaded the shotgun with SSG, I took the torch and got the
                        heavy revolver from the cupboard. We crept out onto the dark verandah where George
                        whispered to me to not switch on the torch until he had located the leopard. It was pitch
                        black outside so all he could do was listen intently. And then of course I spoilt all his
                        plans. I trod on the dog’s tin bowl and made a terrific clatter! George ordered me to
                        switch on the light but it was too late and the leopard vanished into the long grass of the
                        Kalonga, grunting derisively, or so it sounded.

                        She never comes into the clearing now but grunts from the hillside just above it.

                        Eleanor.

                        Mbulu 18th March, 1938

                        Dearest Family,

                        Journeys end at last. here we are at Mbulu, installed in our new quarters which are
                        as different as they possibly could be from our own cosy little home at Mchewe. We
                        live now, my dears, in one wing of a sort of ‘Beau Geste’ fort but I’ll tell you more about
                        it in my next letter. We only arrived yesterday and have not had time to look around.
                        This letter will tell you just about our trip from Mbeya.

                        We left the farm in our little red Ford two seater with all our portable goods and
                        chattels plus two native servants and the two dogs. Before driving off, George took one
                        look at the flattened springs and declared that he would be surprised if we reached
                        Mbeya without a breakdown and that we would never make Mbulu with the car so
                        overloaded.

                        However luck was with us. We reached Mbeya without mishap and at one of the
                        local garages saw a sturdy used Ford V8 boxbody car for sale. The garage agreed to
                        take our small car as part payment and George drew on our little remaining capitol for the
                        rest. We spent that night in the house of the Forest Officer and next morning set out in
                        comfort for the Northern Province of Tanganyika.

                        I had done the journey from Dodoma to Mbeya seven years before so was
                        familiar with the scenery but the road was much improved and the old pole bridges had
                        been replaced by modern steel ones. Kate was as good as gold all the way. We
                        avoided hotels and camped by the road and she found this great fun.
                        The road beyond Dodoma was new to me and very interesting country, flat and
                        dry and dusty, as little rain falls there. The trees are mostly thorn trees but here and there
                        one sees a giant baobab, weird trees with fantastically thick trunks and fat squat branches
                        with meagre foliage. The inhabitants of this area I found interesting though. They are
                        called Wagogo and are a primitive people who ape the Masai in dress and customs
                        though they are much inferior to the Masai in physique. They are also great herders of
                        cattle which, rather surprisingly, appear to thrive in that dry area.

                        The scenery alters greatly as one nears Babati, which one approaches by a high
                        escarpment from which one has a wonderful view of the Rift Valley. Babati township
                        appears to be just a small group of Indian shops and shabby native houses, but I
                        believe there are some good farms in the area. Though the little township is squalid,
                        there is a beautiful lake and grand mountains to please the eye. We stopped only long
                        enough to fill up with petrol and buy some foodstuffs. Beyond Babati there is a tsetse
                        fly belt and George warned our two native servants to see that no tsetse flies settled on
                        the dogs.

                        We stopped for the night in a little rest house on the road about 80 miles from
                        Arusha where we were to spend a few days with the Forest Officer before going on to
                        Mbulu. I enjoyed this section of the road very much because it runs across wide plains
                        which are bounded on the West by the blue mountains of the Rift Valley wall. Here for
                        the first time I saw the Masai on their home ground guarding their vast herds of cattle. I
                        also saw their strange primitive hovels called Manyattas, with their thorn walled cattle
                        bomas and lots of plains game – giraffe, wildebeest, ostriches and antelope. Kate was
                        wildly excited and entranced with the game especially the giraffe which stood gazing
                        curiously and unafraid of us, often within a few yards of the road.

                        Finally we came across the greatest thrill of all, my first view of Mt Meru the extinct
                        volcano about 16,000 feet high which towers over Arusha township. The approach to
                        Arusha is through flourishing coffee plantations very different alas from our farm at Mchewe. George says that at Arusha coffee growing is still a paying proposition
                        because here the yield of berry per acre is much higher than in the Southern highlands
                        and here in the North the farmers have not such heavy transport costs as the railway runs
                        from Arusha to the port at Tanga.

                        We stayed overnight at a rather second rate hotel but the food was good and we
                        had hot baths and a good nights rest. Next day Tom Lewis the Forest Officer, fetched
                        us and we spent a few days camping in a tent in the Lewis’ garden having meals at their
                        home. Both Tom and Lillian Lewis were most friendly. Tom lewis explained to George
                        what his work in the Mbulu District was to be, and they took us camping in a Forest
                        Reserve where Lillian and her small son David and Kate and I had a lovely lazy time
                        amidst beautiful surroundings. Before we left for Mbulu, Lillian took me shopping to buy
                        material for curtains for our new home. She described the Forest House at Mbulu to me
                        and it sounded delightful but alas, when we reached Mbulu we discovered that the
                        Assistant District Officer had moved into the Forest House and we were directed to the
                        Fort or Boma. The night before we left Arusha for Mbulu it rained very heavily and the
                        road was very treacherous and slippery due to the surface being of ‘black cotton’ soil
                        which has the appearance and consistency of chocolate blancmange, after rain. To get to
                        Mbulu we had to drive back in the direction of Dodoma for some 70 miles and then turn
                        to the right and drive across plains to the Great Rift Valley Wall. The views from this
                        escarpment road which climbs this wall are magnificent. At one point one looks down
                        upon Lake Manyara with its brilliant white beaches of soda.

                        The drive was a most trying one for George. We had no chains for the wheels
                        and several times we stuck in the mud and our two houseboys had to put grass and
                        branches under the wheels to stop them from spinning. Quite early on in the afternoon
                        George gave up all hope of reaching Mbulu that day and planned to spend the night in
                        a little bush rest camp at Karatu. However at one point it looked as though we would not
                        even reach this resthouse for late afternoon found us properly bogged down in a mess
                        of mud at the bottom of a long and very steep hill. In spite of frantic efforts on the part of
                        George and the two boys, all now very wet and muddy, the heavy car remained stuck.
                        Suddenly five Masai men appeared through the bushes beside the road. They
                        were all tall and angular and rather terrifying looking to me. Each wore only a blanket
                        knotted over one shoulder and all were armed with spears. They lined up by the side of
                        the road and just looked – not hostile but simply aloof and supercilious. George greeted
                        them and said in Ki-Swahili, “Help to push and I will reward you.” But they said nothing,
                        just drawing back imperceptibly to register disgust at the mere idea of manual labour.
                        Their expressions said quite clearly “A Masai is a warrior and does not soil his hands.”
                        George then did something which startled them I think, as much as me. He
                        plucked their spears from their hands one by one and flung them into the back of the
                        boxbody. “Now push!” he said, “And when we are safely out of the mud you shall have
                        your spears back.” To my utter astonishment the Masai seemed to applaud George’s
                        action. I think they admire courage in a man more than anything else. They pushed with a
                        will and soon we were roaring up the long steep slope. “I can’t stop here” quoth George
                        as up and up we went. The Masai were in mad pursuit with their blankets streaming
                        behind. They took a very steep path which was a shortcut to the top. They are certainly
                        amazing athletes and reached the top at the same time as the car. Their route of course
                        was shorter but much more steep, yet they came up without any sign of fatigue to claim
                        their spears and the money which George handed out with a friendly grin. The Masai
                        took the whole episode in good heart and we parted on the most friendly terms.

                        After a rather chilly night in the three walled shack, we started on the last lap of our
                        journey yesterday morning in bright weather and made the trip to Mbulu without incident.

                        Eleanor.

                        Mbulu 24th March, 1938

                        Dearest Family,

                        Mbulu is an attractive station but living in this rather romantic looking fort has many
                        disadvantages. Our quarters make up one side of the fort which is built up around a
                        hollow square. The buildings are single storied but very tall in the German manner and
                        there is a tower on one corner from which the Union Jack flies. The tower room is our
                        sitting room, and one has very fine views from the windows of the rolling country side.
                        However to reach this room one has to climb a steep flight of cement steps from the
                        court yard. Another disadvantage of this tower room is that there is a swarm of bees in
                        the roof and the stray ones drift down through holes in the ceiling and buzz angrily
                        against the window panes or fly around in a most menacing manner.

                        Ours are the only private quarters in the Fort. Two other sides of the Fort are
                        used as offices, storerooms and court room and the fourth side is simply a thick wall with
                        battlements and loopholes and a huge iron shod double door of enormous thickness
                        which is always barred at sunset when the flag is hauled down. Two Police Askari always
                        remain in the Fort on guard at night. The effect from outside the whitewashed fort is very
                        romantic but inside it is hardly homely and how I miss my garden at Mchewe and the
                        grass and trees.

                        We have no privacy downstairs because our windows overlook the bare
                        courtyard which is filled with Africans patiently waiting to be admitted to the courtroom as
                        witnesses or spectators. The outside windows which overlook the valley are heavily
                        barred. I can only think that the Germans who built this fort must have been very scared
                        of the local natives.

                        Our rooms are hardly cosy and are furnished with typical heavy German pieces.
                        We have a vast bleak bedroom, a dining room and an enormous gloomy kitchen in
                        which meals for the German garrison were cooked. At night this kitchen is alive with
                        gigantic rats but fortunately they do not seem to care for the other rooms. To crown
                        everything owls hoot and screech at night on the roof.

                        On our first day here I wandered outside the fort walls with Kate and came upon a
                        neatly fenced plot enclosing the graves of about fifteen South African soldiers killed by
                        the Germans in the 1914-18 war. I understand that at least one of theses soldiers died in
                        the courtyard here. The story goes, that during the period in the Great War when this fort
                        was occupied by a troop of South African Horse, a German named Siedtendorf
                        appeared at the great barred door at night and asked to speak to the officer in command
                        of the Troop. The officer complied with this request and the small shutter in the door was
                        opened so that he could speak with the German. The German, however, had not come
                        to speak. When he saw the exposed face of the officer, he fired, killing him, and
                        escaped into the dark night. I had this tale on good authority but cannot vouch for it. I do
                        know though, that there are two bullet holes in the door beside the shutter. An unhappy
                        story to think about when George is away, as he is now, and the moonlight throws queer
                        shadows in the court yard and the owls hoot.

                        However though I find our quarters depressing, I like Mbulu itself very much. It is
                        rolling country, treeless except for the plantations of the Forestry Dept. The land is very
                        fertile in the watered valleys but the grass on hills and plains is cropped to the roots by
                        the far too numerous cattle and goats. There are very few Europeans on the station, only
                        Mr Duncan, the District Officer, whose wife and children recently left for England, the
                        Assistant District Officer and his wife, a bachelor Veterinary Officer, a Road Foreman and
                        ourselves, and down in the village a German with an American wife and an elderly
                        Irishman whom I have not met. The Government officials have a communal vegetable
                        garden in the valley below the fort which keeps us well supplied with green stuff. 

                        Most afternoons George, Kate and I go for walks after tea. On Fridays there is a
                        little ceremony here outside the fort. In the late afternoon a little procession of small
                        native schoolboys, headed by a drum and penny whistle band come marching up the
                        road to a tune which sounds like ‘Two lovely black eyes”. They form up below our tower
                        and as the flag is lowered for the day they play ‘God save the King’, and then march off
                        again. It is quite a cheerful little ceremony.

                        The local Africans are a skinny lot and, I should say, a poor tribe. They protect
                        themselves against the cold by wrapping themselves in cotton blankets or a strip of
                        unbleached sheeting. This they drape over their heads, almost covering their faces and
                        the rest is wrapped closely round their bodies in the manner of a shroud. A most
                        depressing fashion. They live in very primitive comfortless houses. They simply make a
                        hollow in the hillside and build a front wall of wattle and daub. Into this rude shelter at night
                        go cattle and goats, men, women, and children.

                        Mbulu village has the usual mud brick and wattle dukas and wattle and daub
                        houses. The chief trader is a Goan who keeps a surprisingly good variety of tinned
                        foodstuffs and also sells hardware and soft goods.

                        The Europeans here have been friendly but as you will have noted there are
                        only two other women on station and no children at all to be companions for Kate.

                        Eleanor.

                        Mbulu 20th June 1938

                        Dearest Family,

                        Here we are on Safari with George at Babati where we are occupying a rest
                        house on the slopes of Ufiome Mountain. The slopes are a Forest Reserve and
                        George is supervising the clearing of firebreaks in preparation for the dry weather. He
                        goes off after a very early breakfast and returns home in the late afternoon so Kate and I
                        have long lazy days.

                        Babati is a pleasant spot and the resthouse is quite comfortable. It is about a mile
                        from the village which is just the usual collection of small mud brick and corrugated iron
                        Indian Dukas. There are a few settlers in the area growing coffee, or going in for mixed
                        farming but I don’t think they are doing very well. The farm adjoining the rest house is
                        owned by Lord Lovelace but is run by a manager.

                        George says he gets enough exercise clambering about all day on the mountain,
                        so Kate and I do our walking in the mornings when George is busy, and we all relax in
                        the evenings when George returns from his field work. Kate’s favourite walk is to the big
                        block of mtama (sorghum) shambas lower down the hill. There are huge swarms of tiny
                        grain eating birds around waiting the chance to plunder the mtama, so the crops are
                        watched from sunrise to sunset.

                        Crude observation platforms have been erected for this purpose in the centre of
                        each field and the women and the young boys of the family concerned, take it in turn to
                        occupy the platform and scare the birds. Each watcher has a sling and uses clods of
                        earth for ammunition. The clod is placed in the centre of the sling which is then whirled
                        around at arms length. Suddenly one end of the sling is released and the clod of earth
                        flies out and shatters against the mtama stalks. The sling makes a loud whip like crack and
                        the noise is quite startling and very effective in keeping the birds at a safe distance.

                        Eleanor.

                        Karatu 3rd July 1938

                        Dearest Family,

                        Still on safari you see! We left Babati ten days ago and passed through Mbulu
                        on our way to this spot. We slept out of doors one night beside Lake Tiawa about eight
                        miles from Mbulu. It was a peaceful spot and we enjoyed watching the reflection of the
                        sunset on the lake and the waterhens and duck and pelicans settling down for the night.
                        However it turned piercingly cold after sunset so we had an early supper and then all
                        three of us lay down to sleep in the back of the boxbody (station wagon). It was a tight
                        fit and a real case of ‘When Dad turns, we all turn.’

                        Here at Karatu we are living in a grass hut with only three walls. It is rather sweet
                        and looks like the setting for a Nativity Play. Kate and I share the only camp bed and
                        George and the dogs sleep on the floor. The air here is very fresh and exhilarating and
                        we all feel very fit. George is occupied all day supervising the cutting of firebreaks
                        around existing plantations and the forest reserve of indigenous trees. Our camp is on
                        the hillside and below us lie the fertile wheat lands of European farmers.

                        They are mostly Afrikaners, the descendants of the Boer families who were
                        invited by the Germans to settle here after the Boer War. Most of them are pro-British
                        now and a few have called in here to chat to George about big game hunting. George
                        gets on extremely well with them and recently attended a wedding where he had a
                        lively time dancing at the reception. He likes the older people best as most are great
                        individualists. One fine old man, surnamed von Rooyen, visited our camp. He is a Boer
                        of the General Smuts type with spare figure and bearded face. George tells me he is a
                        real patriarch with an enormous family – mainly sons. This old farmer fought against the
                        British throughout the Boer War under General Smuts and again against the British in the
                        German East Africa campaign when he was a scout and right hand man to Von Lettow. It
                        is said that Von Lettow was able to stay in the field until the end of the Great War
                        because he listened to the advise given to him by von Rooyen. However his dislike for
                        the British does not extend to George as they have a mutual interest in big game
                        hunting.

                        Kate loves being on safari. She is now so accustomed to having me as her nurse
                        and constant companion that I do not know how she will react to paid help. I shall have to
                        get someone to look after her during my confinement in the little German Red Cross
                        hospital at Oldeani.

                        George has obtained permission from the District Commissioner, for Kate and
                        me to occupy the Government Rest House at Oldeani from the end of July until the end
                        of August when my baby is due. He will have to carry on with his field work but will join
                        us at weekends whenever possible.

                        Eleanor.

                        Karatu 12th July 1938

                        Dearest Family,

                        Not long now before we leave this camp. We have greatly enjoyed our stay
                        here in spite of the very chilly earl mornings and the nights when we sit around in heavy
                        overcoats until our early bed time.

                        Last Sunday I persuaded George to take Kate and me to the famous Ngoro-
                        Ngoro Crater. He was not very keen to do so because the road is very bumpy for
                        anyone in my interesting condition but I feel so fit that I was most anxious to take this
                        opportunity of seeing the enormous crater. We may never be in this vicinity again and in
                        any case safari will not be so simple with a small baby.

                        What a wonderful trip it was! The road winds up a steep escarpment from which
                        one gets a glorious birds eye view of the plains of the Great Rift Valley far, far below.
                        The crater is immense. There is a road which skirts the rim in places and one has quite
                        startling views of the floor of the crater about two thousand feet below.

                        A camp for tourists has just been built in a clearing in the virgin forest. It is most
                        picturesque as the camp buildings are very neatly constructed log cabins with very high
                        pitched thatched roofs. We spent about an hour sitting on the grass near the edge of the
                        crater enjoying the sunshine and the sharp air and really awe inspiring view. Far below us
                        in the middle of the crater was a small lake and we could see large herds of game
                        animals grazing there but they were too far away to be impressive, even seen through
                        George’s field glasses. Most appeared to be wildebeest and zebra but I also picked
                        out buffalo. Much more exciting was my first close view of a wild elephant. George
                        pointed him out to me as we approached the rest camp on the inward journey. He
                        stood quietly under a tree near the road and did not seem to be disturbed by the car
                        though he rolled a wary eye in our direction. On our return journey we saw him again at
                        almost uncomfortably close quarters. We rounded a sharp corner and there stood the
                        elephant, facing us and slap in the middle of the road. He was busily engaged giving
                        himself a dust bath but spared time to give us an irritable look. Fortunately we were on a
                        slight slope so George quickly switched off the engine and backed the car quietly round
                        the corner. He got out of the car and loaded his rifle, just in case! But after he had finished
                        his toilet the elephant moved off the road and we took our chance and passed without
                        incident.

                        One notices the steepness of the Ngoro-Ngoro road more on the downward
                        journey than on the way up. The road is cut into the side of the mountain so that one has
                        a steep slope on one hand and a sheer drop on the other. George told me that a lorry
                        coming down the mountain was once charged from behind by a rhino. On feeling and
                        hearing the bash from behind the panic stricken driver drove off down the mountain as
                        fast as he dared and never paused until he reached level ground at the bottom of the
                        mountain. There was no sign of the rhino so the driver got out to examine his lorry and
                        found the rhino horn embedded in the wooden tail end of the lorry. The horn had been
                        wrenched right off!

                        Happily no excitement of that kind happened to us. I have yet to see a rhino.

                        Eleanor.

                        Oldeani. 19th July 1938

                        Dearest Family,

                        Greetings from a lady in waiting! Kate and I have settled down comfortably in the
                        new, solidly built Government Rest House which comprises one large living room and
                        one large office with a connecting door. Outside there is a kitchen and a boys quarter.
                        There are no resident Government officials here at Oldeani so the office is in use only
                        when the District Officer from Mbulu makes his monthly visit. However a large Union
                        Jack flies from a flagpole in the front of the building as a gentle reminder to the entirely
                        German population of Oldeani that Tanganyika is now under British rule.

                        There is quite a large community of German settlers here, most of whom are
                        engaged in coffee farming. George has visited several of the farms in connection with his
                        forestry work and says the coffee plantations look very promising indeed. There are also
                        a few German traders in the village and there is a large boarding school for German
                        children and also a very pleasant little hospital where I have arranged to have the baby.
                        Right next door to the Rest House is a General Dealers Store run by a couple named
                        Schnabbe. The shop is stocked with drapery, hardware, china and foodstuffs all
                        imported from Germany and of very good quality. The Schnabbes also sell local farm
                        produce, beautiful fresh vegetables, eggs and pure rich milk and farm butter. Our meat
                        comes from a German butchery and it is a great treat to get clean, well cut meat. The
                        sausages also are marvellous and in great variety.

                        The butcher is an entertaining character. When he called round looking for custom I
                        expected him to break out in a yodel any minute, as it was obvious from a glance that
                        the Alps are his natural background. From under a green Tyrollean hat with feather,
                        blooms a round beefy face with sparkling small eyes and such widely spaced teeth that
                        one inevitably thinks of a garden rake. Enormous beefy thighs bulge from greasy
                        lederhosen which are supported by the traditional embroidered braces. So far the
                        butcher is the only cheery German, male or female, whom I have seen, and I have met
                        most of the locals at the Schnabbe’s shop. Most of the men seem to have cultivated
                        the grim Hitler look. They are all fanatical Nazis and one is usually greeted by a raised
                        hand and Heil Hitler! All very theatrical. I always feel like crying in ringing tones ‘God
                        Save the King’ or even ‘St George for England’. However the men are all very correct
                        and courteous and the women friendly. The women all admire Kate and cry, “Ag, das
                        kleine Englander.” She really is a picture with her rosy cheeks and huge grey eyes and
                        golden curls. Kate is having a wonderful time playing with Manfried, the Scnabbe’s small
                        son. Neither understands a word said by the other but that doesn’t seem to worry them.

                        Before he left on safari, George took me to hospital for an examination by the
                        nurse, Sister Marianne. She has not been long in the country and knows very little
                        English but is determined to learn and carried on an animated, if rather quaint,
                        conversation with frequent references to a pocket dictionary. She says I am not to worry
                        because there is not doctor here. She is a very experienced midwife and anyway in an
                        emergency could call on the old retired Veterinary Surgeon for assistance.
                        I asked sister Marianne whether she knew of any German woman or girl who
                        would look after Kate whilst I am in hospital and today a very top drawer German,
                        bearing a strong likeness to ‘Little Willie’, called and offered the services of his niece who
                        is here on a visit from Germany. I was rather taken aback and said, “Oh no Baron, your
                        niece would not be the type I had in mind. I’m afraid I cannot pay much for a companion.”
                        However the Baron was not to be discouraged. He told me that his niece is seventeen
                        but looks twenty, that she is well educated and will make a cheerful companion. Her
                        father wishes her to learn to speak English fluently and that is why the Baron wished her
                        to come to me as a house daughter. As to pay, a couple of pounds a month for pocket
                        money and her keep was all he had in mind. So with some misgivings I agreed to take
                        the niece on as a companion as from 1st August.

                        Eleanor.

                        Oldeani. 10th August 1938

                        Dearest Family,

                        Never a dull moment since my young companion arrived. She is a striking looking
                        girl with a tall boyish figure and very short and very fine dark hair which she wears
                        severely slicked back. She wears tweeds, no make up but has shiny rosy cheeks and
                        perfect teeth – she also,inevitably, has a man friend and I have an uncomfortable
                        suspicion that it is because of him that she was planted upon me. Upon second
                        thoughts though, maybe it was because of her excessive vitality, or even because of
                        her healthy appetite! The Baroness, I hear is in poor health and I can imagine that such
                        abundant health and spirit must have been quite overpowering. The name is Ingeborg,
                        but she is called Mouche, which I believe means Mouse. Someone in her family must
                        have a sense of humour.

                        Her English only needed practice and she now chatters fluently so that I know her
                        background and views on life. Mouche’s father is a personal friend of Goering. He was
                        once a big noise in the German Airforce but is now connected with the car industry and
                        travels frequently and intensively in Europe and America on business. Mouche showed
                        me some snap shots of her family and I must say they look prosperous and charming.
                        Mouche tells me that her father wants her to learn to speak English fluently so that
                        she can get a job with some British diplomat in Cairo. I had immediate thought that I
                        might be nursing a future Mata Hari in my bosom, but this was immediately extinguished
                        when Mouche remarked that her father would like her to marry an Englishman. However
                        it seems that the mere idea revolts her. “Englishmen are degenerates who swill whisky
                        all day.” I pointed out that she had met George, who was a true blue Englishman, but
                        was nevertheless a fine physical specimen and certainly didn’t drink all day. Mouche
                        replied that George is not an Englishman but a hunter, as though that set him apart.
                        Mouche is an ardent Hitler fan and an enthusiastic member of the Hitler Youth
                        Movement. The house resounds with Hitler youth songs and when she is not singing,
                        her gramophone is playing very stirring marching songs. I cannot understand a word,
                        which is perhaps as well. Every day she does the most strenuous exercises watched
                        with envy by me as my proportions are now those of a circus Big Top. Mouche eats a
                        fantastic amount of meat and I feel it is a blessing that she is much admired by our
                        Tyrollean butcher who now delivers our meat in person and adds as a token of his
                        admiration some extra sausages for Mouche.

                        I must confess I find her stimulating company as George is on safari most of the
                        time and my evenings otherwise would be lonely. I am a little worried though about
                        leaving Kate here with Mouche when I go to hospital. The dogs and Kate have not taken
                        to her. I am trying to prepare Kate for the separation but she says, “She’s not my
                        mummy. You are my dear mummy, and I want you, I want you.” George has got
                        permission from the Provincial Forestry Officer to spend the last week of August here at
                        the Rest House with me and I only hope that the baby will be born during that time.
                        Kate adores her dad and will be perfectly happy to remain here with him.

                        One final paragraph about Mouche. I thought all German girls were domesticated
                        but not Mouche. I have Kesho-Kutwa here with me as cook and I have engaged a local
                        boy to do the laundry. I however expected Mouche would take over making the
                        puddings and pastry but she informed me that she can only bake a chocolate cake and
                        absolutely nothing else. She said brightly however that she would do the mending. As
                        there is none for her to do, she has rescued a large worn handkerchief of George’s and
                        sits with her feet up listening to stirring gramophone records whilst she mends the
                        handkerchief with exquisite darning.

                        Eleanor.

                        Oldeani. 20th August 1938

                        Dearest Family,

                        Just after I had posted my last letter I received what George calls a demi official
                        letter from the District Officer informing me that I would have to move out of the Rest
                        House for a few days as the Governor and his hangers on would be visiting Oldeani
                        and would require the Rest House. Fortunately George happened to be here for a few
                        hours and he arranged for Kate and Mouche and me to spend a few days at the
                        German School as borders. So here I am at the school having a pleasant and restful
                        time and much entertained by all the goings on.

                        The school buildings were built with funds from Germany and the school is run on
                        the lines of a contemporary German school. I think the school gets a grant from the
                        Tanganyika Government towards running expenses, but I am not sure. The school hall is
                        dominated by a more than life sized oil painting of Adolf Hitler which, at present, is
                        flanked on one side by the German Flag and on the other by the Union Jack. I cannot
                        help feeling that the latter was put up today for the Governor’s visit today.
                        The teachers are very amiable. We all meet at mealtimes, and though few of the
                        teachers speak English, the ones who do are anxious to chatter. The headmaster is a
                        scholarly man but obviously anti-British. He says he cannot understand why so many
                        South Africans are loyal to Britain – or rather to England. “They conquered your country
                        didn’t they?” I said that that had never occurred to me and that anyway I was mainly of
                        Scots descent and that loyalty to the crown was natural to me. “But the English
                        conquered the Scots and yet you are loyal to England. That I cannot understand.” “Well I
                        love England,” said I firmly, ”and so do all British South Africans.” Since then we have
                        stuck to English literature. Shakespeare, Lord Byron and Galsworthy seem to be the
                        favourites and all, thank goodness, make safe topics for conversation.
                        Mouche is in her element but Kate and I do not enjoy the food which is typically
                        German and consists largely of masses of fat pork and sauerkraut and unfamiliar soups. I
                        feel sure that the soup at lunch today had blobs of lemon curd in it! I also find most
                        disconcerting the way that everyone looks at me and says, “Bon appetite”, with much
                        smiling and nodding so I have to fight down my nausea and make a show of enjoying
                        the meals.

                        The teacher whose room adjoins mine is a pleasant woman and I take my
                        afternoon tea with her. She, like all the teachers, has a large framed photo of Hitler on her
                        wall flanked by bracket vases of fresh flowers. One simply can’t get away from the man!
                        Even in the dormitories each child has a picture of Hitler above the bed. Hitler accepting
                        flowers from a small girl, or patting a small boy on the head. Even the children use the
                        greeting ‘Heil Hitler’. These German children seem unnaturally prim when compared with
                        my cheerful ex-pupils in South Africa but some of them are certainly very lovely to look
                        at.

                        Tomorrow Mouche, Kate and I return to our quarters in the Rest House and in a
                        few days George will join us for a week.

                        Eleanor.

                        Oldeani Hospital. 9th September 1938

                        Dearest Family,

                        You will all be delighted to hear that we have a second son, whom we have
                        named John. He is a darling, so quaint and good. He looks just like a little old man with a
                        high bald forehead fringed around the edges with a light brown fluff. George and I call
                        him Johnny Jo because he has a tiny round mouth and a rather big nose and reminds us
                        of A.A.Milne’s ‘Jonathan Jo has a mouth like an O’ , but Kate calls him, ‘My brother John’.
                        George was not here when he was born on September 5th, just two minutes
                        before midnight. He left on safari on the morning of the 4th and, of course, that very night
                        the labour pains started. Fortunately Kate was in bed asleep so Mouche walked with
                        me up the hill to the hospital where I was cheerfully received by Sister Marianne who
                        had everything ready for the confinement. I was lucky to have such an experienced
                        midwife because this was a breech birth and sister had to manage single handed. As
                        there was no doctor present I was not allowed even a sniff of anaesthetic. Sister slaved
                        away by the light of a pressure lamp endeavouring to turn the baby having first shoved
                        an inverted baby bath under my hips to raise them.

                        What a performance! Sister Marianne was very much afraid that she might not be
                        able to save the baby and great was our relief when at last she managed to haul him out
                        by the feet. One slap and the baby began to cry without any further attention so Sister
                        wrapped him up in a blanket and took Johnny to her room for the night. I got very little
                        sleep but was so thankful to have the ordeal over that I did not mind even though I
                        heard a hyaena cackling and calling under my window in a most evil way.
                        When Sister brought Johnny to me in the early morning I stared in astonishment.
                        Instead of dressing him in one of his soft Viyella nighties, she had dressed him in a short
                        sleeved vest of knitted cotton with a cotton cloth swayed around his waist sarong
                        fashion. When I protested, “But Sister why is the baby not dressed in his own clothes?”
                        She answered firmly, “I find it is not allowed. A baby’s clotheses must be boiled and I
                        cannot boil clotheses of wool therefore your baby must wear the clotheses of the Red
                        Cross.”

                        It was the same with the bedding. Poor Johnny lies all day in a deep wicker
                        basket with a detachable calico lining. There is no pillow under his head but a vast kind of
                        calico covered pillow is his only covering. There is nothing at all cosy and soft round my
                        poor baby. I said crossly to the Sister, “As every thing must be so sterile, I wonder you
                        don’t boil me too.” This she ignored.

                        When my message reached George he dashed back to visit us. Sister took him
                        first to see the baby and George was astonished to see the baby basket covered by a
                        sheet. “She has the poor little kid covered up like a bloody parrot,” he told me. So I
                        asked him to go at once to buy a square of mosquito netting to replace the sheet.
                        Kate is quite a problem. She behaves like an Angel when she is here in my
                        room but is rebellious when Sister shoos her out. She says she “Hates the Nanny”
                        which is what she calls Mouche. Unfortunately it seems that she woke before midnight
                        on the night Johnny Jo was born to find me gone and Mouche in my bed. According to
                        Mouche, Kate wept all night and certainly when she visited me in the early morning
                        Kate’s face was puffy with crying and she clung to me crying “Oh my dear mummy, why
                        did you go away?” over and over again. Sister Marianne was touched and suggested
                        that Mouche and Kate should come to the hospital as boarders as I am the only patient
                        at present and there is plenty of room. Luckily Kate does not seem at all jealous of the
                        baby and it is a great relief to have here here under my eye.

                        Eleanor.

                        #6264
                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          From Tanganyika with Love

                          continued  ~ part 5

                          With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                          Chunya 16th December 1936

                          Dearest Family,

                          Since last I wrote I have visited Chunya and met several of the diggers wives.
                          On the whole I have been greatly disappointed because there is nothing very colourful
                          about either township or women. I suppose I was really expecting something more like
                          the goldrush towns and women I have so often seen on the cinema screen.
                          Chunya consists of just the usual sun-dried brick Indian shops though there are
                          one or two double storied buildings. Most of the life in the place centres on the
                          Goldfields Hotel but we did not call there. From the store opposite I could hear sounds
                          of revelry though it was very early in the afternoon. I saw only one sight which was quite
                          new to me, some elegantly dressed African women, with high heels and lipsticked
                          mouths teetered by on their way to the silk store. “Native Tarts,” said George in answer
                          to my enquiry.

                          Several women have called on me and when I say ‘called’ I mean called. I have
                          grown so used to going without stockings and wearing home made dresses that it was
                          quite a shock to me to entertain these ladies dressed to the nines in smart frocks, silk
                          stockings and high heeled shoes, handbags, makeup and whatnot. I feel like some
                          female Rip van Winkle. Most of the women have a smart line in conversation and their
                          talk and views on life would make your nice straight hair curl Mummy. They make me feel
                          very unsophisticated and dowdy but George says he has a weakness for such types
                          and I am to stay exactly as I am. I still do not use any makeup. George says ‘It’s all right
                          for them. They need it poor things, you don’t.” Which, though flattering, is hardly true.
                          I prefer the men visitors, though they also are quite unlike what I had expected
                          diggers to be. Those whom George brings home are all well educated and well
                          groomed and I enjoy listening to their discussion of the world situation, sport and books.
                          They are extremely polite to me and gentle with the children though I believe that after a
                          few drinks at the pub tempers often run high. There were great arguments on the night
                          following the abdication of Edward VIII. Not that the diggers were particularly attached to
                          him as a person, but these men are all great individualists and believe in freedom of
                          choice. George, rather to my surprise, strongly supported Edward. I did not.

                          Many of the diggers have wireless sets and so we keep up to date with the
                          news. I seldom leave camp. I have my hands full with the three children during the day
                          and, even though Janey is a reliable ayah, I would not care to leave the children at night
                          in these grass roofed huts. Having experienced that fire on the farm, I know just how
                          unlikely it would be that the children would be rescued in time in case of fire. The other
                          women on the diggings think I’m crazy. They leave their children almost entirely to ayahs
                          and I must confess that the children I have seen look very well and happy. The thing is
                          that I simply would not enjoy parties at the hotel or club, miles away from the children
                          and I much prefer to stay at home with a book.

                          I love hearing all about the parties from George who likes an occasional ‘boose
                          up’ with the boys and is terribly popular with everyone – not only the British but with the
                          Germans, Scandinavians and even the Afrikaans types. One Afrikaans woman said “Jou
                          man is ‘n man, al is hy ‘n Engelsman.” Another more sophisticated woman said, “George
                          is a handsome devil. Aren’t you scared to let him run around on his own?” – but I’m not. I
                          usually wait up for George with sandwiches and something hot to drink and that way I
                          get all the news red hot.

                          There is very little gold coming in. The rains have just started and digging is
                          temporarily at a standstill. It is too wet for dry blowing and not yet enough water for
                          panning and sluicing. As this camp is some considerable distance from the claims, all I see of the process is the weighing of the daily taking of gold dust and tiny nuggets.
                          Unless our luck changes I do not think we will stay on here after John Molteno returns.
                          George does not care for the life and prefers a more constructive occupation.
                          Ann and young George still search optimistically for gold. We were all saddened
                          last week by the death of Fanny, our bull terrier. She went down to the shopping centre
                          with us and we were standing on the verandah of a store when a lorry passed with its
                          canvas cover flapping. This excited Fanny who rushed out into the street and the back
                          wheel of the lorry passed right over her, killing her instantly. Ann was very shocked so I
                          soothed her by telling her that Fanny had gone to Heaven. When I went to bed that
                          night I found Ann still awake and she asked anxiously, “Mummy, do you think God
                          remembered to give Fanny her bone tonight?”

                          Much love to all,
                          Eleanor.

                          Itewe, Chunya 23rd December 1936

                          Dearest Family,

                          Your Christmas parcel arrived this morning. Thank you very much for all the
                          clothing for all of us and for the lovely toys for the children. George means to go hunting
                          for a young buffalo this afternoon so that we will have some fresh beef for Christmas for
                          ourselves and our boys and enough for friends too.

                          I had a fright this morning. Ann and Georgie were, as usual, searching for gold
                          whilst I sat sewing in the living room with Kate toddling around. She wandered through
                          the curtained doorway into the store and I heard her playing with the paraffin pump. At
                          first it did not bother me because I knew the tin was empty but after ten minutes or so I
                          became irritated by the noise and went to stop her. Imagine my horror when I drew the
                          curtain aside and saw my fat little toddler fiddling happily with the pump whilst, curled up
                          behind the tin and clearly visible to me lay the largest puffadder I have ever seen.
                          Luckily I acted instinctively and scooped Kate up from behind and darted back into the
                          living room without disturbing the snake. The houseboy and cook rushed in with sticks
                          and killed the snake and then turned the whole storeroom upside down to make sure
                          there were no more.

                          I have met some more picturesque characters since I last wrote. One is a man
                          called Bishop whom George has known for many years having first met him in the
                          Congo. I believe he was originally a sailor but for many years he has wandered around
                          Central Africa trying his hand at trading, prospecting, a bit of elephant hunting and ivory
                          poaching. He is now keeping himself by doing ‘Sign Writing”. Bish is a gentle and
                          dignified personality. When we visited his camp he carefully dusted a seat for me and
                          called me ‘Marm’, quite ye olde world. The only thing is he did spit.

                          Another spitter is the Frenchman in a neighbouring camp. He is in bed with bad
                          rheumatism and George has been going across twice a day to help him and cheer him
                          up. Once when George was out on the claim I went across to the Frenchman’s camp in
                          response to an SOS, but I think he was just lonely. He showed me snapshots of his
                          two daughters, lovely girls and extremely smart, and he chatted away telling me his life
                          history. He punctuated his remarks by spitting to right and left of the bed, everywhere in
                          fact, except actually at me.

                          George took me and the children to visit a couple called Bert and Hilda Farham.
                          They have a small gold reef which is worked by a very ‘Heath Robinson’ type of
                          machinery designed and erected by Bert who is reputed to be a clever engineer though
                          eccentric. He is rather a handsome man who always looks very spruce and neat and
                          wears a Captain Kettle beard. Hilda is from Johannesburg and quite a character. She
                          has a most generous figure and literally masses of beetroot red hair, but she also has a
                          warm deep voice and a most generous disposition. The Farhams have built
                          themselves a more permanent camp than most. They have a brick cottage with proper
                          doors and windows and have made it attractive with furniture contrived from petrol
                          boxes. They have no children but Hilda lavishes a great deal of affection on a pet
                          monkey. Sometimes they do quite well out of their gold and then they have a terrific
                          celebration at the Club or Pub and Hilda has an orgy of shopping. At other times they
                          are completely broke but Hilda takes disasters as well as triumphs all in her stride. She
                          says, “My dear, when we’re broke we just live on tea and cigarettes.”

                          I have met a young woman whom I would like as a friend. She has a dear little
                          baby, but unfortunately she has a very wet husband who is also a dreadful bore. I can’t
                          imagine George taking me to their camp very often. When they came to visit us George
                          just sat and smoked and said,”Oh really?” to any remark this man made until I felt quite
                          hysterical. George looks very young and fit and the children are lively and well too. I ,
                          however, am definitely showing signs of wear and tear though George says,
                          “Nonsense, to me you look the same as you always did.” This I may say, I do not
                          regard as a compliment to the young Eleanor.

                          Anyway, even though our future looks somewhat unsettled, we are all together
                          and very happy.

                          With love,
                          Eleanor.

                          Itewe, Chunya 30th December 1936

                          Dearest Family,

                          We had a very cheery Christmas. The children loved the toys and are so proud
                          of their new clothes. They wore them when we went to Christmas lunch to the
                          Cresswell-Georges. The C-Gs have been doing pretty well lately and they have a
                          comfortable brick house and a large wireless set. The living room was gaily decorated
                          with bought garlands and streamers and balloons. We had an excellent lunch cooked by
                          our ex cook Abel who now works for the Cresswell-Georges. We had turkey with
                          trimmings and plum pudding followed by nuts and raisons and chocolates and sweets
                          galore. There was also a large variety of drinks including champagne!

                          There were presents for all of us and, in addition, Georgie and Ann each got a
                          large tin of chocolates. Kate was much admired. She was a picture in her new party frock
                          with her bright hair and rosy cheeks. There were other guests beside ourselves and
                          they were already there having drinks when we arrived. Someone said “What a lovely
                          child!” “Yes” said George with pride, “She’s a Marie Stopes baby.” “Truby King!” said I
                          quickly and firmly, but too late to stop the roar of laughter.

                          Our children played amicably with the C-G’s three, but young George was
                          unusually quiet and surprised me by bringing me his unopened tin of chocolates to keep
                          for him. Normally he is a glutton for sweets. I might have guessed he was sickening for
                          something. That night he vomited and had diarrhoea and has had an upset tummy and a
                          slight temperature ever since.

                          Janey is also ill. She says she has malaria and has taken to her bed. I am dosing
                          her with quinine and hope she will soon be better as I badly need her help. Not only is
                          young George off his food and peevish but Kate has a cold and Ann sore eyes and
                          they all want love and attention. To complicate things it has been raining heavily and I
                          must entertain the children indoors.

                          Eleanor.

                          Itewe, Chunya 19th January 1937

                          Dearest Family,

                          So sorry I have not written before but we have been in the wars and I have had neither
                          the time nor the heart to write. However the worst is now over. Young George and
                          Janey are both recovering from Typhoid Fever. The doctor had Janey moved to the
                          native hospital at Chunya but I nursed young George here in the camp.

                          As I told you young George’s tummy trouble started on Christmas day. At first I
                          thought it was only a protracted bilious attack due to eating too much unaccustomed rich
                          food and treated him accordingly but when his temperature persisted I thought that the
                          trouble might be malaria and kept him in bed and increased the daily dose of quinine.
                          He ate less and less as the days passed and on New Years Day he seemed very
                          weak and his stomach tender to the touch.

                          George fetched the doctor who examined small George and said he had a very
                          large liver due no doubt to malaria. He gave the child injections of emertine and quinine
                          and told me to give young George frequent and copious drinks of water and bi-carb of
                          soda. This was more easily said than done. Young George refused to drink this mixture
                          and vomited up the lime juice and water the doctor had suggested as an alternative.
                          The doctor called every day and gave George further injections and advised me
                          to give him frequent sips of water from a spoon. After three days the child was very
                          weak and weepy but Dr Spiers still thought he had malaria. During those anxious days I
                          also worried about Janey who appeared to be getting worse rather that better and on
                          January the 3rd I asked the doctor to look at her. The next thing I knew, the doctor had
                          put Janey in his car and driven her off to hospital. When he called next morning he
                          looked very grave and said he wished to talk to my husband. I said that George was out
                          on the claim but if what he wished to say concerned young George’s condition he might
                          just as well tell me.

                          With a good deal of reluctance Dr Spiers then told me that Janey showed all the
                          symptoms of Typhoid Fever and that he was very much afraid that young George had
                          contracted it from her. He added that George should be taken to the Mbeya Hospital
                          where he could have the professional nursing so necessary in typhoid cases. I said “Oh
                          no,I’d never allow that. The child had never been away from his family before and it
                          would frighten him to death to be sick and alone amongst strangers.” Also I was sure that
                          the fifty mile drive over the mountains in his weak condition would harm him more than
                          my amateur nursing would. The doctor returned to the camp that afternoon to urge
                          George to send our son to hospital but George staunchly supported my argument that
                          young George would stand a much better chance of recovery if we nursed him at home.
                          I must say Dr Spiers took our refusal very well and gave young George every attention
                          coming twice a day to see him.

                          For some days the child was very ill. He could not keep down any food or liquid
                          in any quantity so all day long, and when he woke at night, I gave him a few drops of
                          water at a time from a teaspoon. His only nourishment came from sucking Macintosh’s
                          toffees. Young George sweated copiously especially at night when it was difficult to
                          change his clothes and sponge him in the draughty room with the rain teeming down
                          outside. I think I told you that the bedroom is a sort of shed with only openings in the wall
                          for windows and doors, and with one wall built only a couple of feet high leaving a six
                          foot gap for air and light. The roof leaked and the damp air blew in but somehow young
                          George pulled through.

                          Only when he was really on the mend did the doctor tell us that whilst he had
                          been attending George, he had also been called in to attend to another little boy of the same age who also had typhoid. He had been called in too late and the other little boy,
                          an only child, had died. Young George, thank God, is convalescent now, though still on a
                          milk diet. He is cheerful enough when he has company but very peevish when left
                          alone. Poor little lad, he is all hair, eyes, and teeth, or as Ann says” Georgie is all ribs ribs
                          now-a-days Mummy.” He shares my room, Ann and Kate are together in the little room.
                          Anyway the doctor says he should be up and around in about a week or ten days time.
                          We were all inoculated against typhoid on the day the doctor made the diagnosis
                          so it is unlikely that any of us will develop it. Dr Spiers was most impressed by Ann’s
                          unconcern when she was inoculated. She looks gentle and timid but has always been
                          very brave. Funny thing when young George was very ill he used to wail if I left the
                          room, but now that he is convalescent he greatly prefers his dad’s company. So now I
                          have been able to take the girls for walks in the late afternoons whilst big George
                          entertains small George. This he does with the minimum of effort, either he gets out
                          cartons of ammunition with which young George builds endless forts, or else he just sits
                          beside the bed and cleans one of his guns whilst small George watches with absorbed
                          attention.

                          The Doctor tells us that Janey is also now convalescent. He says that exhusband
                          Abel has been most attentive and appeared daily at the hospital with a tray of
                          food that made his, the doctor’s, mouth water. All I dare say, pinched from Mrs
                          Cresswell-George.

                          I’ll write again soon. Lots of love to all,
                          Eleanor.

                          Chunya 29th January 1937

                          Dearest Family,

                          Georgie is up and about but still tires very easily. At first his legs were so weak
                          that George used to carry him around on his shoulders. The doctor says that what the
                          child really needs is a long holiday out of the Tropics so that Mrs Thomas’ offer, to pay all
                          our fares to Cape Town as well as lending us her seaside cottage for a month, came as
                          a Godsend. Luckily my passport is in order. When George was in Mbeya he booked
                          seats for the children and me on the first available plane. We will fly to Broken Hill and go
                          on to Cape Town from there by train.

                          Ann and George are wildly thrilled at the idea of flying but I am not. I remember
                          only too well how airsick I was on the old Hannibal when I flew home with the baby Ann.
                          I am longing to see you all and it will be heaven to give the children their first seaside
                          holiday.

                          I mean to return with Kate after three months but, if you will have him, I shall leave
                          George behind with you for a year. You said you would all be delighted to have Ann so
                          I do hope you will also be happy to have young George. Together they are no trouble
                          at all. They amuse themselves and are very independent and loveable.
                          George and I have discussed the matter taking into consideration the letters from
                          you and George’s Mother on the subject. If you keep Ann and George for a year, my
                          mother-in-law will go to Cape Town next year and fetch them. They will live in England
                          with her until they are fit enough to return to the Tropics. After the children and I have left
                          on this holiday, George will be able to move around and look for a job that will pay
                          sufficiently to enable us to go to England in a few years time to fetch our children home.
                          We both feel very sad at the prospect of this parting but the children’s health
                          comes before any other consideration. I hope Kate will stand up better to the Tropics.
                          She is plump and rosy and could not look more bonny if she lived in a temperate
                          climate.

                          We should be with you in three weeks time!

                          Very much love,
                          Eleanor.

                          Broken Hill, N Rhodesia 11th February 1937

                          Dearest Family,

                          Well here we are safe and sound at the Great Northern Hotel, Broken Hill, all
                          ready to board the South bound train tonight.

                          We were still on the diggings on Ann’s birthday, February 8th, when George had
                          a letter from Mbeya to say that our seats were booked on the plane leaving Mbeya on
                          the 10th! What a rush we had packing up. Ann was in bed with malaria so we just
                          bundled her up in blankets and set out in John Molteno’s car for the farm. We arrived that
                          night and spent the next day on the farm sorting things out. Ann and George wanted to
                          take so many of their treasures and it was difficult for them to make a small selection. In
                          the end young George’s most treasured possession, his sturdy little boots, were left
                          behind.

                          Before leaving home on the morning of the tenth I took some snaps of Ann and
                          young George in the garden and one of them with their father. He looked so sad. After
                          putting us on the plane, George planned to go to the fishing camp for a day or two
                          before returning to the empty house on the farm.

                          John Molteno returned from the Cape by plane just before we took off, so he
                          will take over the running of his claims once more. I told John that I dreaded the plane trip
                          on account of air sickness so he gave me two pills which I took then and there. Oh dear!
                          How I wished later that I had not done so. We had an extremely bumpy trip and
                          everyone on the plane was sick except for small George who loved every moment.
                          Poor Ann had a dreadful time but coped very well and never complained. I did not
                          actually puke until shortly before we landed at Broken Hill but felt dreadfully ill all the way.
                          Kate remained rosy and cheerful almost to the end. She sat on my lap throughout the
                          trip because, being under age, she travelled as baggage and was not entitled to a seat.
                          Shortly before we reached Broken Hill a smartly dressed youngish man came up
                          to me and said, “You look so poorly, please let me take the baby, I have children of my
                          own and know how to handle them.” Kate made no protest and off they went to the
                          back of the plane whilst I tried to relax and concentrate on not getting sick. However,
                          within five minutes the man was back. Kate had been thoroughly sick all over his collar
                          and jacket.

                          I took Kate back on my lap and then was violently sick myself, so much so that
                          when we touched down at Broken Hill I was unable to speak to the Immigration Officer.
                          He was so kind. He sat beside me until I got my diaphragm under control and then
                          drove me up to the hotel in his own car.

                          We soon recovered of course and ate a hearty dinner. This morning after
                          breakfast I sallied out to look for a Bank where I could exchange some money into
                          Rhodesian and South African currency and for the Post Office so that I could telegraph
                          to George and to you. What a picnic that trip was! It was a terribly hot day and there was
                          no shade. By the time we had done our chores, the children were hot, and cross, and
                          tired and so indeed was I. As I had no push chair for Kate I had to carry her and she is
                          pretty heavy for eighteen months. George, who is still not strong, clung to my free arm
                          whilst Ann complained bitterly that no one was helping her.

                          Eventually Ann simply sat down on the pavement and declared that she could
                          not go another step, whereupon George of course decided that he also had reached his
                          limit and sat down too. Neither pleading no threats would move them so I had to resort
                          to bribery and had to promise that when we reached the hotel they could have cool
                          drinks and ice-cream. This promise got the children moving once more but I am determined that nothing will induce me to stir again until the taxi arrives to take us to the
                          station.

                          This letter will go by air and will reach you before we do. How I am longing for
                          journeys end.

                          With love to you all,
                          Eleanor.

                          Leaving home 10th February 1937,  George Gilman Rushby with Ann and Georgie (Mike) Rushby:

                          George Rushby Ann and Georgie

                          NOTE
                          We had a very warm welcome to the family home at Plumstead Cape Town.
                          After ten days with my family we moved to Hout Bay where Mrs Thomas lent us her
                          delightful seaside cottage. She also provided us with two excellent maids so I had
                          nothing to do but rest and play on the beach with the children.

                          After a month at the sea George had fully recovered his health though not his
                          former gay spirits. After another six months with my parents I set off for home with Kate,
                          leaving Ann and George in my parent’s home under the care of my elder sister,
                          Marjorie.

                          One or two incidents during that visit remain clearly in my memory. Our children
                          had never met elderly people and were astonished at the manifestations of age. One
                          morning an elderly lady came around to collect church dues. She was thin and stooped
                          and Ann surveyed her with awe. She turned to me with a puzzled expression and
                          asked in her clear voice, “Mummy, why has that old lady got a moustache – oh and a
                          beard?’ The old lady in question was very annoyed indeed and said, “What a rude little
                          girl.” Ann could not understand this, she said, “But Mummy, I only said she had a
                          moustache and a beard and she has.” So I explained as best I could that when people
                          have defects of this kind they are hurt if anyone mentions them.

                          A few days later a strange young woman came to tea. I had been told that she
                          had a most disfiguring birthmark on her cheek and warned Ann that she must not
                          comment on it. Alas! with the kindest intentions Ann once again caused me acute
                          embarrassment. The young woman was hardly seated when Ann went up to her and
                          gently patted the disfiguring mark saying sweetly, “Oh, I do like this horrible mark on your
                          face.”

                          I remember also the afternoon when Kate and George were christened. My
                          mother had given George a white silk shirt for the occasion and he wore it with intense
                          pride. Kate was baptised first without incident except that she was lost in admiration of a
                          gold bracelet given her that day by her Godmother and exclaimed happily, “My
                          bangle, look my bangle,” throughout the ceremony. When George’s turn came the
                          clergyman held his head over the font and poured water on George’s forehead. Some
                          splashed on his shirt and George protested angrily, “Mum, he has wet my shirt!” over
                          and over again whilst I led him hurriedly outside.

                          My last memory of all is at the railway station. The time had come for Kate and
                          me to get into our compartment. My sisters stood on the platform with Ann and George.
                          Ann was resigned to our going, George was not so, at the last moment Sylvia, my
                          younger sister, took him off to see the engine. The whistle blew and I said good-bye to
                          my gallant little Ann. “Mummy”, she said urgently to me, “Don’t forget to wave to
                          George.”

                          And so I waved good-bye to my children, never dreaming that a war would
                          intervene and it would be eight long years before I saw them again.

                          #6261
                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            From Tanganyika with Love

                            continued

                            With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                            Mchewe Estate. 11th July 1931.

                            Dearest Family,

                            You say that you would like to know more about our neighbours. Well there is
                            not much to tell. Kath Wood is very good about coming over to see me. I admire her
                            very much because she is so capable as well as being attractive. She speaks very
                            fluent Ki-Swahili and I envy her the way she can carry on a long conversation with the
                            natives. I am very slow in learning the language possibly because Lamek and the
                            houseboy both speak basic English.

                            I have very little to do with the Africans apart from the house servants, but I do
                            run a sort of clinic for the wives and children of our employees. The children suffer chiefly
                            from sore eyes and worms, and the older ones often have bad ulcers on their legs. All
                            farmers keep a stock of drugs and bandages.

                            George also does a bit of surgery and last month sewed up the sole of the foot
                            of a boy who had trodden on the blade of a panga, a sort of sword the Africans use for
                            hacking down bush. He made an excellent job of it. George tells me that the Africans
                            have wonderful powers of recuperation. Once in his bachelor days, one of his men was
                            disembowelled by an elephant. George washed his “guts” in a weak solution of
                            pot.permang, put them back in the cavity and sewed up the torn flesh and he
                            recovered.

                            But to get back to the neighbours. We see less of Hicky Wood than of Kath.
                            Hicky can be charming but is often moody as I believe Irishmen often are.
                            Major Jones is now at home on his shamba, which he leaves from time to time
                            for temporary jobs on the district roads. He walks across fairly regularly and we are
                            always glad to see him for he is a great bearer of news. In this part of Africa there is no
                            knocking or ringing of doorbells. Front doors are always left open and visitors always
                            welcome. When a visitor approaches a house he shouts “Hodi”, and the owner of the
                            house yells “Karibu”, which I believe means “Come near” or approach, and tea is
                            produced in a matter of minutes no matter what hour of the day it is.
                            The road that passes all our farms is the only road to the Gold Diggings and
                            diggers often drop in on the Woods and Major Jones and bring news of the Goldfields.
                            This news is sometimes about gold but quite often about whose wife is living with
                            whom. This is a great country for gossip.

                            Major Jones now has his brother Llewyllen living with him. I drove across with
                            George to be introduced to him. Llewyllen’s health is poor and he looks much older than
                            his years and very like the portrait of Trader Horn. He has the same emaciated features,
                            burning eyes and long beard. He is proud of his Welsh tenor voice and often bursts into
                            song.

                            Both brothers are excellent conversationalists and George enjoys walking over
                            sometimes on a Sunday for a bit of masculine company. The other day when George
                            walked across to visit the Joneses, he found both brothers in the shamba and Llew in a
                            great rage. They had been stooping to inspect a water furrow when Llew backed into a
                            hornets nest. One furious hornet stung him on the seat and another on the back of his
                            neck. Llew leapt forward and somehow his false teeth shot out into the furrow and were
                            carried along by the water. When George arrived Llew had retrieved his teeth but
                            George swears that, in the commotion, the heavy leather leggings, which Llew always
                            wears, had swivelled around on his thin legs and were calves to the front.
                            George has heard that Major Jones is to sell pert of his land to his Swedish brother-in-law, Max Coster, so we will soon have another couple in the neighbourhood.

                            I’ve had a bit of a pantomime here on the farm. On the day we went to Tukuyu,
                            all our washing was stolen from the clothes line and also our new charcoal iron. George
                            reported the matter to the police and they sent out a plain clothes policeman. He wears
                            the long white Arab gown called a Kanzu much in vogue here amongst the African elite
                            but, alas for secrecy, huge black police boots protrude from beneath the Kanzu and, to
                            add to this revealing clue, the askari springs to attention and salutes each time I pass by.
                            Not much hope of finding out the identity of the thief I fear.

                            George’s furrow was entirely successful and we now have water running behind
                            the kitchen. Our drinking water we get from a lovely little spring on the farm. We boil and
                            filter it for safety’s sake. I don’t think that is necessary. The furrow water is used for
                            washing pots and pans and for bath water.

                            Lots of love,
                            Eleanor

                            Mchewe Estate. 8th. August 1931

                            Dearest Family,

                            I think it is about time I told you that we are going to have a baby. We are both
                            thrilled about it. I have not seen a Doctor but feel very well and you are not to worry. I
                            looked it up in my handbook for wives and reckon that the baby is due about February
                            8th. next year.

                            The announcement came from George, not me! I had been feeling queasy for
                            days and was waiting for the right moment to tell George. You know. Soft lights and
                            music etc. However when I was listlessly poking my food around one lunch time
                            George enquired calmly, “When are you going to tell me about the baby?” Not at all
                            according to the book! The problem is where to have the baby. February is a very wet
                            month and the nearest Doctor is over 50 miles away at Tukuyu. I cannot go to stay at
                            Tukuyu because there is no European accommodation at the hospital, no hotel and no
                            friend with whom I could stay.

                            George thinks I should go South to you but Capetown is so very far away and I
                            love my little home here. Also George says he could not come all the way down with
                            me as he simply must stay here and get the farm on its feet. He would drive me as far
                            as the railway in Northern Rhodesia. It is a difficult decision to take. Write and tell me what
                            you think.

                            The days tick by quietly here. The servants are very willing but have to be
                            supervised and even then a crisis can occur. Last Saturday I was feeling squeamish and
                            decided not to have lunch. I lay reading on the couch whilst George sat down to a
                            solitary curry lunch. Suddenly he gave an exclamation and pushed back his chair. I
                            jumped up to see what was wrong and there, on his plate, gleaming in the curry gravy
                            were small bits of broken glass. I hurried to the kitchen to confront Lamek with the plate.
                            He explained that he had dropped the new and expensive bottle of curry powder on
                            the brick floor of the kitchen. He did not tell me as he thought I would make a “shauri” so
                            he simply scooped up the curry powder, removed the larger pieces of glass and used
                            part of the powder for seasoning the lunch.

                            The weather is getting warmer now. It was very cold in June and July and we had
                            fires in the daytime as well as at night. Now that much of the land has been cleared we
                            are able to go for pleasant walks in the weekends. My favourite spot is a waterfall on the
                            Mchewe River just on the boundary of our land. There is a delightful little pool below the
                            waterfall and one day George intends to stock it with trout.

                            Now that there are more Europeans around to buy meat the natives find it worth
                            their while to kill an occasional beast. Every now and again a native arrives with a large
                            bowl of freshly killed beef for sale. One has no way of knowing whether the animal was
                            healthy and the meat is often still warm and very bloody. I hated handling it at first but am
                            becoming accustomed to it now and have even started a brine tub. There is no other
                            way of keeping meat here and it can only be kept in its raw state for a few hours before
                            going bad. One of the delicacies is the hump which all African cattle have. When corned
                            it is like the best brisket.

                            See what a housewife I am becoming.
                            With much love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. Sept.6th. 1931

                            Dearest Family,

                            I have grown to love the life here and am sad to think I shall be leaving
                            Tanganyika soon for several months. Yes I am coming down to have the baby in the
                            bosom of the family. George thinks it best and so does the doctor. I didn’t mention it
                            before but I have never recovered fully from the effects of that bad bout of malaria and
                            so I have been persuaded to leave George and our home and go to the Cape, in the
                            hope that I shall come back here as fit as when I first arrived in the country plus a really
                            healthy and bouncing baby. I am torn two ways, I long to see you all – but how I would
                            love to stay on here.

                            George will drive me down to Northern Rhodesia in early October to catch a
                            South bound train. I’ll telegraph the date of departure when I know it myself. The road is
                            very, very bad and the car has been giving a good deal of trouble so, though the baby
                            is not due until early February, George thinks it best to get the journey over soon as
                            possible, for the rains break in November and the the roads will then be impassable. It
                            may take us five or six days to reach Broken Hill as we will take it slowly. I am looking
                            forward to the drive through new country and to camping out at night.
                            Our days pass quietly by. George is out on the shamba most of the day. He
                            goes out before breakfast on weekdays and spends most of the day working with the
                            men – not only supervising but actually working with his hands and beating the labourers
                            at their own jobs. He comes to the house for meals and tea breaks. I potter around the
                            house and garden, sew, mend and read. Lamek continues to be a treasure. he turns out
                            some surprising dishes. One of his specialities is stuffed chicken. He carefully skins the
                            chicken removing all bones. He then minces all the chicken meat and adds minced onion
                            and potatoes. He then stuffs the chicken skin with the minced meat and carefully sews it
                            together again. The resulting dish is very filling because the boned chicken is twice the
                            size of a normal one. It lies on its back as round as a football with bloated legs in the air.
                            Rather repulsive to look at but Lamek is most proud of his accomplishment.
                            The other day he produced another of his masterpieces – a cooked tortoise. It
                            was served on a dish covered with parsley and crouched there sans shell but, only too
                            obviously, a tortoise. I took one look and fled with heaving diaphragm, but George said
                            it tasted quite good. He tells me that he has had queerer dishes produced by former
                            cooks. He says that once in his hunting days his cook served up a skinned baby
                            monkey with its hands folded on its breast. He says it would take a cannibal to eat that
                            dish.

                            And now for something sad. Poor old Llew died quite suddenly and it was a sad
                            shock to this tiny community. We went across to the funeral and it was a very simple and
                            dignified affair. Llew was buried on Joni’s farm in a grave dug by the farm boys. The
                            body was wrapped in a blanket and bound to some boards and lowered into the
                            ground. There was no service. The men just said “Good-bye Llew.” and “Sleep well
                            Llew”, and things like that. Then Joni and his brother-in-law Max, and George shovelled
                            soil over the body after which the grave was filled in by Joni’s shamba boys. It was a
                            lovely bright afternoon and I thought how simple and sensible a funeral it was.
                            I hope you will be glad to have me home. I bet Dad will be holding thumbs that
                            the baby will be a girl.

                            Very much love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Note
                            “There are no letters to my family during the period of Sept. 1931 to June 1932
                            because during these months I was living with my parents and sister in a suburb of
                            Cape Town. I had hoped to return to Tanganyika by air with my baby soon after her
                            birth in Feb.1932 but the doctor would not permit this.

                            A month before my baby was born, a company called Imperial Airways, had
                            started the first passenger service between South Africa and England. One of the night
                            stops was at Mbeya near my husband’s coffee farm, and it was my intention to take the
                            train to Broken Hill in Northern Rhodesia and to fly from there to Mbeya with my month
                            old baby. In those days however, commercial flying was still a novelty and the doctor
                            was not sure that flying at a high altitude might not have an adverse effect upon a young
                            baby.

                            He strongly advised me to wait until the baby was four months old and I did this
                            though the long wait was very trying to my husband alone on our farm in Tanganyika,
                            and to me, cherished though I was in my old home.

                            My story, covering those nine long months is soon told. My husband drove me
                            down from Mbeya to Broken Hill in NorthernRhodesia. The journey was tedious as the
                            weather was very hot and dry and the road sandy and rutted, very different from the
                            Great North road as it is today. The wooden wheel spokes of the car became so dry
                            that they rattled and George had to bind wet rags around them. We had several
                            punctures and with one thing and another I was lucky to catch the train.
                            My parents were at Cape Town station to welcome me and I stayed
                            comfortably with them, living very quietly, until my baby was born. She arrived exactly
                            on the appointed day, Feb.8th.

                            I wrote to my husband “Our Charmian Ann is a darling baby. She is very fair and
                            rather pale and has the most exquisite hands, with long tapering fingers. Daddy
                            absolutely dotes on her and so would you, if you were here. I can’t bear to think that you
                            are so terribly far away. Although Ann was born exactly on the day, I was taken quite by
                            surprise. It was awfully hot on the night before, and before going to bed I had a fancy for
                            some water melon. The result was that when I woke in the early morning with labour
                            pains and vomiting I thought it was just an attack of indigestion due to eating too much
                            melon. The result was that I did not wake Marjorie until the pains were pretty frequent.
                            She called our next door neighbour who, in his pyjamas, drove me to the nursing home
                            at breakneck speed. The Matron was very peeved that I had left things so late but all
                            went well and by nine o’clock, Mother, positively twittering with delight, was allowed to
                            see me and her first granddaughter . She told me that poor Dad was in such a state of
                            nerves that he was sick amongst the grapevines. He says that he could not bear to go
                            through such an anxious time again, — so we will have to have our next eleven in
                            Tanganyika!”

                            The next four months passed rapidly as my time was taken up by the demands
                            of my new baby. Dr. Trudy King’s method of rearing babies was then the vogue and I
                            stuck fanatically to all the rules he laid down, to the intense exasperation of my parents
                            who longed to cuddle the child.

                            As the time of departure drew near my parents became more and more reluctant
                            to allow me to face the journey alone with their adored grandchild, so my brother,
                            Graham, very generously offered to escort us on the train to Broken Hill where he could
                            put us on the plane for Mbeya.

                            Eleanor Rushby

                             

                            Mchewe Estate. June 15th 1932

                            Dearest Family,

                            You’ll be glad to know that we arrived quite safe and sound and very, very
                            happy to be home.The train Journey was uneventful. Ann slept nearly all the way.
                            Graham was very kind and saw to everything. He even sat with the baby whilst I went
                            to meals in the dining car.

                            We were met at Broken Hill by the Thoms who had arranged accommodation for
                            us at the hotel for the night. They also drove us to the aerodrome in the morning where
                            the Airways agent told us that Ann is the first baby to travel by air on this section of the
                            Cape to England route. The plane trip was very bumpy indeed especially between
                            Broken Hill and Mpika. Everyone was ill including poor little Ann who sicked up her milk
                            all over the front of my new coat. I arrived at Mbeya looking a sorry caricature of Radiant
                            Motherhood. I must have been pale green and the baby was snow white. Under the
                            circumstances it was a good thing that George did not meet us. We were met instead
                            by Ken Menzies, the owner of the Mbeya Hotel where we spent the night. Ken was
                            most fatherly and kind and a good nights rest restored Ann and me to our usual robust
                            health.

                            Mbeya has greatly changed. The hotel is now finished and can accommodate
                            fifty guests. It consists of a large main building housing a large bar and dining room and
                            offices and a number of small cottage bedrooms. It even has electric light. There are
                            several buildings out at the aerodrome and private houses going up in Mbeya.
                            After breakfast Ken Menzies drove us out to the farm where we had a warm
                            welcome from George, who looks well but rather thin. The house was spotless and the
                            new cook, Abel, had made light scones for tea. George had prepared all sorts of lovely
                            surprises. There is a new reed ceiling in the living room and a new dresser gay with
                            willow pattern plates which he had ordered from England. There is also a writing table
                            and a square table by the door for visitors hats. More personal is a lovely model ship
                            which George assembled from one of those Hobbie’s kits. It puts the finishing touch to
                            the rather old world air of our living room.

                            In the bedroom there is a large double bed which George made himself. It has
                            strips of old car tyres nailed to a frame which makes a fine springy mattress and on top
                            of this is a thick mattress of kapok.In the kitchen there is a good wood stove which
                            George salvaged from a Mission dump. It looks a bit battered but works very well. The
                            new cook is excellent. The only blight is that he will wear rubber soled tennis shoes and
                            they smell awful. I daren’t hurt his feelings by pointing this out though. Opposite the
                            kitchen is a new laundry building containing a forty gallon hot water drum and a sink for
                            washing up. Lovely!

                            George has been working very hard. He now has forty acres of coffee seedlings
                            planted out and has also found time to plant a rose garden and fruit trees. There are
                            orange and peach trees, tree tomatoes, paw paws, guavas and berries. He absolutely
                            adores Ann who has been very good and does not seem at all unsettled by the long
                            journey.

                            It is absolutely heavenly to be back and I shall be happier than ever now that I
                            have a baby to play with during the long hours when George is busy on the farm,
                            Thank you for all your love and care during the many months I was with you. Ann
                            sends a special bubble for granddad.

                            Your very loving,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate Mbeya July 18th 1932

                            Dearest Family,

                            Ann at five months is enchanting. She is a very good baby, smiles readily and is
                            gaining weight steadily. She doesn’t sleep much during the day but that does not
                            matter, because, apart from washing her little things, I have nothing to do but attend to
                            her. She sleeps very well at night which is a blessing as George has to get up very
                            early to start work on the shamba and needs a good nights rest.
                            My nights are not so good, because we are having a plague of rats which frisk
                            around in the bedroom at night. Great big ones that come up out of the long grass in the
                            gorge beside the house and make cosy homes on our reed ceiling and in the thatch of
                            the roof.

                            We always have a night light burning so that, if necessary, I can attend to Ann
                            with a minimum of fuss, and the things I see in that dim light! There are gaps between
                            the reeds and one night I heard, plop! and there, before my horrified gaze, lay a newly
                            born hairless baby rat on the floor by the bed, plop, plop! and there lay two more.
                            Quite dead, poor things – but what a careless mother.

                            I have also seen rats scampering around on the tops of the mosquito nets and
                            sometimes we have them on our bed. They have a lovely game. They swarm down
                            the cord from which the mosquito net is suspended, leap onto the bed and onto the
                            floor. We do not have our net down now the cold season is here and there are few
                            mosquitoes.

                            Last week a rat crept under Ann’s net which hung to the floor and bit her little
                            finger, so now I tuck the net in under the mattress though it makes it difficult for me to
                            attend to her at night. We shall have to get a cat somewhere. Ann’s pram has not yet
                            arrived so George carries her when we go walking – to her great content.
                            The native women around here are most interested in Ann. They come to see
                            her, bearing small gifts, and usually bring a child or two with them. They admire my child
                            and I admire theirs and there is an exchange of gifts. They produce a couple of eggs or
                            a few bananas or perhaps a skinny fowl and I hand over sugar, salt or soap as they
                            value these commodities. The most lavish gift went to the wife of Thomas our headman,
                            who produced twin daughters in the same week as I had Ann.

                            Our neighbours have all been across to welcome me back and to admire the
                            baby. These include Marion Coster who came out to join her husband whilst I was in
                            South Africa. The two Hickson-Wood children came over on a fat old white donkey.
                            They made a pretty picture sitting astride, one behind the other – Maureen with her arms
                            around small Michael’s waist. A native toto led the donkey and the children’ s ayah
                            walked beside it.

                            It is quite cold here now but the sun is bright and the air dry. The whole
                            countryside is beautifully green and we are a very happy little family.

                            Lots and lots of love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate August 11th 1932

                            Dearest Family,

                            George has been very unwell for the past week. He had a nasty gash on his
                            knee which went septic. He had a swelling in the groin and a high temperature and could
                            not sleep at night for the pain in his leg. Ann was very wakeful too during the same
                            period, I think she is teething. I luckily have kept fit though rather harassed. Yesterday the
                            leg looked so inflamed that George decided to open up the wound himself. he made
                            quite a big cut in exactly the right place. You should have seen the blackish puss
                            pouring out.

                            After he had thoroughly cleaned the wound George sewed it up himself. he has
                            the proper surgical needles and gut. He held the cut together with his left hand and
                            pushed the needle through the flesh with his right. I pulled the needle out and passed it
                            to George for the next stitch. I doubt whether a surgeon could have made a neater job
                            of it. He is still confined to the couch but today his temperature is normal. Some
                            husband!

                            The previous week was hectic in another way. We had a visit from lions! George
                            and I were having supper about 8.30 on Tuesday night when the back verandah was
                            suddenly invaded by women and children from the servants quarters behind the kitchen.
                            They were all yelling “Simba, Simba.” – simba means lions. The door opened suddenly
                            and the houseboy rushed in to say that there were lions at the huts. George got up
                            swiftly, fetched gun and ammunition from the bedroom and with the houseboy carrying
                            the lamp, went off to investigate. I remained at the table, carrying on with my supper as I
                            felt a pioneer’s wife should! Suddenly something big leapt through the open window
                            behind me. You can imagine what I thought! I know now that it is quite true to say one’s
                            hair rises when one is scared. However it was only Kelly, our huge Irish wolfhound,
                            taking cover.

                            George returned quite soon to say that apparently the commotion made by the
                            women and children had frightened the lions off. He found their tracks in the soft earth
                            round the huts and a bag of maize that had been playfully torn open but the lions had
                            moved on.

                            Next day we heard that they had moved to Hickson-Wood’s shamba. Hicky
                            came across to say that the lions had jumped over the wall of his cattle boma and killed
                            both his white Muskat riding donkeys.
                            He and a friend sat up all next night over the remains but the lions did not return to
                            the kill.

                            Apart from the little set back last week, Ann is blooming. She has a cap of very
                            fine fair hair and clear blue eyes under straight brow. She also has lovely dimples in both
                            cheeks. We are very proud of her.

                            Our neighbours are picking coffee but the crops are small and the price is low. I
                            am amazed that they are so optimistic about the future. No one in these parts ever
                            seems to grouse though all are living on capital. They all say “Well if the worst happens
                            we can always go up to the Lupa Diggings.”

                            Don’t worry about us, we have enough to tide us over for some time yet.

                            Much love to all,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 28th Sept. 1932

                            Dearest Family,

                            News! News! I’m going to have another baby. George and I are delighted and I
                            hope it will be a boy this time. I shall be able to have him at Mbeya because things are
                            rapidly changing here. Several German families have moved to Mbeya including a
                            German doctor who means to build a hospital there. I expect he will make a very good
                            living because there must now be some hundreds of Europeans within a hundred miles
                            radius of Mbeya. The Europeans are mostly British or German but there are also
                            Greeks and, I believe, several other nationalities are represented on the Lupa Diggings.
                            Ann is blooming and developing according to the Book except that she has no
                            teeth yet! Kath Hickson-Wood has given her a very nice high chair and now she has
                            breakfast and lunch at the table with us. Everything within reach goes on the floor to her
                            amusement and my exasperation!

                            You ask whether we have any Church of England missionaries in our part. No we
                            haven’t though there are Lutheran and Roman Catholic Missions. I have never even
                            heard of a visiting Church of England Clergyman to these parts though there are babies
                            in plenty who have not been baptised. Jolly good thing I had Ann Christened down
                            there.

                            The R.C. priests in this area are called White Fathers. They all have beards and
                            wear white cassocks and sun helmets. One, called Father Keiling, calls around frequently.
                            Though none of us in this area is Catholic we take it in turn to put him up for the night. The
                            Catholic Fathers in their turn are most hospitable to travellers regardless of their beliefs.
                            Rather a sad thing has happened. Lucas our old chicken-boy is dead. I shall miss
                            his toothy smile. George went to the funeral and fired two farewell shots from his rifle
                            over the grave – a gesture much appreciated by the locals. Lucas in his day was a good
                            hunter.

                            Several of the locals own muzzle loading guns but the majority hunt with dogs
                            and spears. The dogs wear bells which make an attractive jingle but I cannot bear the
                            idea of small antelope being run down until they are exhausted before being clubbed of
                            stabbed to death. We seldom eat venison as George does not care to shoot buck.
                            Recently though, he shot an eland and Abel rendered down the fat which is excellent for
                            cooking and very like beef fat.

                            Much love to all,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. P.O.Mbeya 21st November 1932

                            Dearest Family,

                            George has gone off to the Lupa for a week with John Molteno. John came up
                            here with the idea of buying a coffee farm but he has changed his mind and now thinks of
                            staking some claims on the diggings and also setting up as a gold buyer.

                            Did I tell you about his arrival here? John and George did some elephant hunting
                            together in French Equatorial Africa and when John heard that George had married and
                            settled in Tanganyika, he also decided to come up here. He drove up from Cape Town
                            in a Baby Austin and arrived just as our labourers were going home for the day. The little
                            car stopped half way up our hill and John got out to investigate. You should have heard
                            the astonished exclamations when John got out – all 6 ft 5 ins. of him! He towered over
                            the little car and even to me it seemed impossible for him to have made the long
                            journey in so tiny a car.

                            Kath Wood has been over several times lately. She is slim and looks so right in
                            the shirt and corduroy slacks she almost always wears. She was here yesterday when
                            the shamba boy, digging in the front garden, unearthed a large earthenware cooking pot,
                            sealed at the top. I was greatly excited and had an instant mental image of fabulous
                            wealth. We made the boy bring the pot carefully on to the verandah and opened it in
                            happy anticipation. What do you think was inside? Nothing but a grinning skull! Such a
                            treat for a pregnant female.

                            We have a tree growing here that had lovely straight branches covered by a
                            smooth bark. I got the garden boy to cut several of these branches of a uniform size,
                            peeled off the bark and have made Ann a playpen with the poles which are much like
                            broom sticks. Now I can leave her unattended when I do my chores. The other morning
                            after breakfast I put Ann in her playpen on the verandah and gave her a piece of toast
                            and honey to keep her quiet whilst I laundered a few of her things. When I looked out a
                            little later I was horrified to see a number of bees buzzing around her head whilst she
                            placidly concentrated on her toast. I made a rapid foray and rescued her but I still don’t
                            know whether that was the thing to do.

                            We all send our love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mbeya Hospital. April 25th. 1933

                            Dearest Family,

                            Here I am, installed at the very new hospital, built by Dr Eckhardt, awaiting the
                            arrival of the new baby. George has gone back to the farm on foot but will walk in again
                            to spend the weekend with us. Ann is with me and enjoys the novelty of playing with
                            other children. The Eckhardts have two, a pretty little girl of two and a half and a very fair
                            roly poly boy of Ann’s age. Ann at fourteen months is very active. She is quite a little girl
                            now with lovely dimples. She walks well but is backward in teething.

                            George, Ann and I had a couple of days together at the hotel before I moved in
                            here and several of the local women visited me and have promised to visit me in
                            hospital. The trip from farm to town was very entertaining if not very comfortable. There
                            is ten miles of very rough road between our farm and Utengule Mission and beyond the
                            Mission there is a fair thirteen or fourteen mile road to Mbeya.

                            As we have no car now the doctor’s wife offered to drive us from the Mission to
                            Mbeya but she would not risk her car on the road between the Mission and our farm.
                            The upshot was that I rode in the Hickson-Woods machila for that ten mile stretch. The
                            machila is a canopied hammock, slung from a bamboo pole, in which I reclined, not too
                            comfortably in my unwieldy state, with Ann beside me or sometime straddling me. Four
                            of our farm boys carried the machila on their shoulders, two fore and two aft. The relief
                            bearers walked on either side. There must have been a dozen in all and they sang a sort
                            of sea shanty song as they walked. One man would sing a verse and the others took up
                            the chorus. They often improvise as they go. They moaned about my weight (at least
                            George said so! I don’t follow Ki-Swahili well yet) and expressed the hope that I would
                            have a son and that George would reward them handsomely.

                            George and Kelly, the dog, followed close behind the machila and behind
                            George came Abel our cook and his wife and small daughter Annalie, all in their best
                            attire. The cook wore a palm beach suit, large Terai hat and sunglasses and two colour
                            shoes and quite lent a tone to the proceedings! Right at the back came the rag tag and
                            bobtail who joined the procession just for fun.

                            Mrs Eckhardt was already awaiting us at the Mission when we arrived and we had
                            an uneventful trip to the Mbeya Hotel.

                            During my last week at the farm I felt very tired and engaged the cook’s small
                            daughter, Annalie, to amuse Ann for an hour after lunch so that I could have a rest. They
                            played in the small verandah room which adjoins our bedroom and where I keep all my
                            sewing materials. One afternoon I was startled by a scream from Ann. I rushed to the
                            room and found Ann with blood steaming from her cheek. Annalie knelt beside her,
                            looking startled and frightened, with my embroidery scissors in her hand. She had cut off
                            half of the long curling golden lashes on one of Ann’s eyelids and, in trying to finish the
                            job, had cut off a triangular flap of skin off Ann’s cheek bone.

                            I called Abel, the cook, and demanded that he should chastise his daughter there and
                            then and I soon heard loud shrieks from behind the kitchen. He spanked her with a
                            bamboo switch but I am sure not as well as she deserved. Africans are very tolerant
                            towards their children though I have seen husbands and wives fighting furiously.
                            I feel very well but long to have the confinement over.

                            Very much love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mbeya Hospital. 2nd May 1933.

                            Dearest Family,

                            Little George arrived at 7.30 pm on Saturday evening 29 th. April. George was
                            with me at the time as he had walked in from the farm for news, and what a wonderful bit
                            of luck that was. The doctor was away on a case on the Diggings and I was bathing Ann
                            with George looking on, when the pains started. George dried Ann and gave her
                            supper and put her to bed. Afterwards he sat on the steps outside my room and a
                            great comfort it was to know that he was there.

                            The confinement was short but pretty hectic. The Doctor returned to the Hospital
                            just in time to deliver the baby. He is a grand little boy, beautifully proportioned. The
                            doctor says he has never seen a better formed baby. He is however rather funny
                            looking just now as his head is, very temporarily, egg shaped. He has a shock of black
                            silky hair like a gollywog and believe it or not, he has a slight black moustache.
                            George came in, looked at the baby, looked at me, and we both burst out
                            laughing. The doctor was shocked and said so. He has no sense of humour and couldn’t
                            understand that we, though bursting with pride in our son, could never the less laugh at
                            him.

                            Friends in Mbeya have sent me the most gorgeous flowers and my room is
                            transformed with delphiniums, roses and carnations. The room would be very austere
                            without the flowers. Curtains, bedspread and enamelware, walls and ceiling are all
                            snowy white.

                            George hired a car and took Ann home next day. I have little George for
                            company during the day but he is removed at night. I am longing to get him home and
                            away from the German nurse who feeds him on black tea when he cries. She insists that
                            tea is a medicine and good for him.

                            Much love from a proud mother of two.
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate 12May 1933

                            Dearest Family,

                            We are all together at home again and how lovely it feels. Even the house
                            servants seem pleased. The boy had decorated the lounge with sprays of
                            bougainvillaea and Abel had backed one of his good sponge cakes.

                            Ann looked fat and rosy but at first was only moderately interested in me and the
                            new baby but she soon thawed. George is good with her and will continue to dress Ann
                            in the mornings and put her to bed until I am satisfied with Georgie.

                            He, poor mite, has a nasty rash on face and neck. I am sure it is just due to that
                            tea the nurse used to give him at night. He has lost his moustache and is fast loosing his
                            wild black hair and emerging as quite a handsome babe. He is a very masculine looking
                            infant with much more strongly marked eyebrows and a larger nose that Ann had. He is
                            very good and lies quietly in his basket even when awake.

                            George has been making a hatching box for brown trout ova and has set it up in
                            a small clear stream fed by a spring in readiness for the ova which is expected from
                            South Africa by next weeks plane. Some keen fishermen from Mbeya and the District
                            have clubbed together to buy the ova. The fingerlings are later to be transferred to
                            streams in Mbeya and Tukuyu Districts.

                            I shall now have my hands full with the two babies and will not have much time for the
                            garden, or I fear, for writing very long letters. Remember though, that no matter how
                            large my family becomes, I shall always love you as much as ever.

                            Your affectionate,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 14th June 1933

                            Dearest Family,

                            The four of us are all well but alas we have lost our dear Kelly. He was rather a
                            silly dog really, although he grew so big he retained all his puppy ways but we were all
                            very fond of him, especially George because Kelly attached himself to George whilst I
                            was away having Ann and from that time on he was George’s shadow. I think he had
                            some form of biliary fever. He died stretched out on the living room couch late last night,
                            with George sitting beside him so that he would not feel alone.

                            The children are growing fast. Georgie is a darling. He now has a fluff of pale
                            brown hair and his eyes are large and dark brown. Ann is very plump and fair.
                            We have had several visitors lately. Apart from neighbours, a car load of diggers
                            arrived one night and John Molteno and his bride were here. She is a very attractive girl
                            but, I should say, more suited to life in civilisation than in this back of beyond. She has
                            gone out to the diggings with her husband and will have to walk a good stretch of the fifty
                            or so miles.

                            The diggers had to sleep in the living room on the couch and on hastily erected
                            camp beds. They arrived late at night and left after breakfast next day. One had half a
                            beard, the other side of his face had been forcibly shaved in the bar the night before.

                            your affectionate,
                            Eleanor

                            Mchewe Estate. August 10 th. 1933

                            Dearest Family,

                            George is away on safari with two Indian Army officers. The money he will get for
                            his services will be very welcome because this coffee growing is a slow business, and
                            our capitol is rapidly melting away. The job of acting as White Hunter was unexpected
                            or George would not have taken on the job of hatching the ova which duly arrived from
                            South Africa.

                            George and the District Commissioner, David Pollock, went to meet the plane
                            by which the ova had been consigned but the pilot knew nothing about the package. It
                            came to light in the mail bag with the parcels! However the ova came to no harm. David
                            Pollock and George brought the parcel to the farm and carefully transferred the ova to
                            the hatching box. It was interesting to watch the tiny fry hatch out – a process which took
                            several days. Many died in the process and George removed the dead by sucking
                            them up in a glass tube.

                            When hatched, the tiny fry were fed on ant eggs collected by the boys. I had to
                            take over the job of feeding and removing the dead when George left on safari. The fry
                            have to be fed every four hours, like the baby, so each time I have fed Georgie. I hurry
                            down to feed the trout.

                            The children are very good but keep me busy. Ann can now say several words
                            and understands more. She adores Georgie. I long to show them off to you.

                            Very much love
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. October 27th 1933

                            Dear Family,

                            All just over flu. George and Ann were very poorly. I did not fare so badly and
                            Georgie came off best. He is on a bottle now.

                            There was some excitement here last Wednesday morning. At 6.30 am. I called
                            for boiling water to make Georgie’s food. No water arrived but muffled shouting and the
                            sound of blows came from the kitchen. I went to investigate and found a fierce fight in
                            progress between the house boy and the kitchen boy. In my efforts to make them stop
                            fighting I went too close and got a sharp bang on the mouth with the edge of an
                            enamelled plate the kitchen boy was using as a weapon. My teeth cut my lip inside and
                            the plate cut it outside and blood flowed from mouth to chin. The boys were petrified.
                            By the time I had fed Georgie the lip was stiff and swollen. George went in wrath
                            to the kitchen and by breakfast time both house boy and kitchen boy had swollen faces
                            too. Since then I have a kettle of boiling water to hand almost before the words are out
                            of my mouth. I must say that the fight was because the house boy had clouted the
                            kitchen boy for keeping me waiting! In this land of piece work it is the job of the kitchen
                            boy to light the fire and boil the kettle but the houseboy’s job to carry the kettle to me.
                            I have seen little of Kath Wood or Marion Coster for the past two months. Major
                            Jones is the neighbour who calls most regularly. He has a wireless set and calls on all of
                            us to keep us up to date with world as well as local news. He often brings oranges for
                            Ann who adores him. He is a very nice person but no oil painting and makes no effort to
                            entertain Ann but she thinks he is fine. Perhaps his monocle appeals to her.

                            George has bought a six foot long galvanised bath which is a great improvement
                            on the smaller oval one we have used until now. The smaller one had grown battered
                            from much use and leaks like a sieve. Fortunately our bathroom has a cement floor,
                            because one had to fill the bath to the brim and then bath extremely quickly to avoid
                            being left high and dry.

                            Lots and lots of love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. P.O. Mbeya 1st December 1933

                            Dearest Family,

                            Ann has not been well. We think she has had malaria. She has grown a good
                            deal lately and looks much thinner and rather pale. Georgie is thriving and has such
                            sparkling brown eyes and a ready smile. He and Ann make a charming pair, one so fair
                            and the other dark.

                            The Moltenos’ spent a few days here and took Georgie and me to Mbeya so
                            that Georgie could be vaccinated. However it was an unsatisfactory trip because the
                            doctor had no vaccine.

                            George went to the Lupa with the Moltenos and returned to the farm in their Baby
                            Austin which they have lent to us for a week. This was to enable me to go to Mbeya to
                            have a couple of teeth filled by a visiting dentist.

                            We went to Mbeya in the car on Saturday. It was quite a squash with the four of
                            us on the front seat of the tiny car. Once George grabbed the babies foot instead of the
                            gear knob! We had Georgie vaccinated at the hospital and then went to the hotel where
                            the dentist was installed. Mr Dare, the dentist, had few instruments and they were very
                            tarnished. I sat uncomfortably on a kitchen chair whilst he tinkered with my teeth. He filled
                            three but two of the fillings came out that night. This meant another trip to Mbeya in the
                            Baby Austin but this time they seem all right.

                            The weather is very hot and dry and the garden a mess. We are having trouble
                            with the young coffee trees too. Cut worms are killing off seedlings in the nursery and
                            there is a borer beetle in the planted out coffee.

                            George bought a large grey donkey from some wandering Masai and we hope
                            the children will enjoy riding it later on.

                            Very much love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 14th February 1934.

                            Dearest Family,

                            You will be sorry to hear that little Ann has been very ill, indeed we were terribly
                            afraid that we were going to lose her. She enjoyed her birthday on the 8th. All the toys
                            you, and her English granny, sent were unwrapped with such delight. However next
                            day she seemed listless and a bit feverish so I tucked her up in bed after lunch. I dosed
                            her with quinine and aspirin and she slept fitfully. At about eleven o’clock I was
                            awakened by a strange little cry. I turned up the night light and was horrified to see that
                            Ann was in a convulsion. I awakened George who, as always in an emergency, was
                            perfectly calm and practical. He filled the small bath with very warm water and emersed
                            Ann in it, placing a cold wet cloth on her head. We then wrapped her in blankets and
                            gave her an enema and she settled down to sleep. A few hours later we had the same
                            thing over again.

                            At first light we sent a runner to Mbeya to fetch the doctor but waited all day in
                            vain and in the evening the runner returned to say that the doctor had gone to a case on
                            the diggings. Ann had been feverish all day with two or three convulsions. Neither
                            George or I wished to leave the bedroom, but there was Georgie to consider, and in
                            the afternoon I took him out in the garden for a while whilst George sat with Ann.
                            That night we both sat up all night and again Ann had those wretched attacks of
                            convulsions. George and I were worn out with anxiety by the time the doctor arrived the
                            next afternoon. Ann had not been able to keep down any quinine and had had only
                            small sips of water since the onset of the attack.

                            The doctor at once diagnosed the trouble as malaria aggravated by teething.
                            George held Ann whilst the Doctor gave her an injection. At the first attempt the needle
                            bent into a bow, George was furious! The second attempt worked and after a few hours
                            Ann’s temperature dropped and though she was ill for two days afterwards she is now
                            up and about. She has also cut the last of her baby teeth, thank God. She looks thin and
                            white, but should soon pick up. It has all been a great strain to both of us. Georgie
                            behaved like an angel throughout. He played happily in his cot and did not seem to
                            sense any tension as people say, babies do. Our baby was cheerful and not at all
                            subdued.

                            This is the rainy season and it is a good thing that some work has been done on
                            our road or the doctor might not have got through.

                            Much love to all,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 1st October 1934

                            Dearest Family,

                            We are all well now, thank goodness, but last week Georgie gave us such a
                            fright. I was sitting on the verandah, busy with some sewing and not watching Ann and
                            Georgie, who were trying to reach a bunch of bananas which hung on a rope from a
                            beam of the verandah. Suddenly I heard a crash, Georgie had fallen backward over the
                            edge of the verandah and hit the back of his head on the edge of the brick furrow which
                            carries away the rainwater. He lay flat on his back with his arms spread out and did not
                            move or cry. When I picked him up he gave a little whimper, I carried him to his cot and
                            bathed his face and soon he began sitting up and appeared quite normal. The trouble
                            began after he had vomited up his lunch. He began to whimper and bang his head
                            against the cot.

                            George and I were very worried because we have no transport so we could not
                            take Georgie to the doctor and we could not bear to go through again what we had gone
                            through with Ann earlier in the year. Then, in the late afternoon, a miracle happened. Two
                            men George hardly knew, and complete strangers to me, called in on their way from the
                            diggings to Mbeya and they kindly drove Georgie and me to the hospital. The Doctor
                            allowed me to stay with Georgie and we spent five days there. Luckily he responded to
                            treatment and is now as alive as ever. Children do put years on one!

                            There is nothing much else to report. We have a new vegetable garden which is
                            doing well but the earth here is strange. Gardens seem to do well for two years but by
                            that time the soil is exhausted and one must move the garden somewhere else. The
                            coffee looks well but it will be another year before we can expect even a few bags of
                            coffee and prices are still low. Anyway by next year George should have some good
                            return for all his hard work.

                            Lots of love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. November 4th 1934

                            Dearest Family,

                            George is home from his White Hunting safari looking very sunburnt and well.
                            The elderly American, who was his client this time, called in here at the farm to meet me
                            and the children. It is amazing what spirit these old lads have! This one looked as though
                            he should be thinking in terms of slippers and an armchair but no, he thinks in terms of
                            high powered rifles with telescopic sights.

                            It is lovely being together again and the children are delighted to have their Dad
                            home. Things are always exciting when George is around. The day after his return
                            George said at breakfast, “We can’t go on like this. You and the kids never get off the
                            shamba. We’ll simply have to get a car.” You should have heard the excitement. “Get a
                            car Daddy?’” cried Ann jumping in her chair so that her plaits bounced. “Get a car
                            Daddy?” echoed Georgie his brown eyes sparkling. “A car,” said I startled, “However
                            can we afford one?”

                            “Well,” said George, “on my way back from Safari I heard that a car is to be sold
                            this week at the Tukuyu Court, diseased estate or bankruptcy or something, I might get it
                            cheap and it is an A.C.” The name meant nothing to me, but George explained that an
                            A.C. is first cousin to a Rolls Royce.

                            So off he went to the sale and next day the children and I listened all afternoon for
                            the sound of an approaching car. We had many false alarms but, towards evening we
                            heard what appeared to be the roar of an aeroplane engine. It was the A.C. roaring her
                            way up our steep hill with a long plume of steam waving gaily above her radiator.
                            Out jumped my beaming husband and in no time at all, he was showing off her
                            points to an admiring family. Her lines are faultless and seats though worn are most
                            comfortable. She has a most elegant air so what does it matter that the radiator leaks like
                            a sieve, her exhaust pipe has broken off, her tyres are worn almost to the canvas and
                            she has no windscreen. She goes, and she cost only five pounds.

                            Next afternoon George, the kids and I piled into the car and drove along the road
                            on lookout for guinea fowl. All went well on the outward journey but on the homeward
                            one the poor A.C. simply gasped and died. So I carried the shot gun and George
                            carried both children and we trailed sadly home. This morning George went with a bunch
                            of farmhands and brought her home. Truly temperamental, she came home literally
                            under her own steam.

                            George now plans to get a second hand engine and radiator for her but it won’t
                            be an A.C. engine. I think she is the only one of her kind in the country.
                            I am delighted to hear, dad, that you are sending a bridle for Joseph for
                            Christmas. I am busy making a saddle out of an old piece of tent canvas stuffed with
                            kapok, some webbing and some old rug straps. A car and a riding donkey! We’re
                            definitely carriage folk now.

                            Lots of love to all,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 28th December 1934

                            Dearest Family,

                            Thank you for the wonderful Christmas parcel. My frock is a splendid fit. George
                            declares that no one can knit socks like Mummy and the children love their toys and new
                            clothes.

                            Joseph, the donkey, took his bit with an air of bored resignation and Ann now
                            rides proudly on his back. Joseph is a big strong animal with the looks and disposition of
                            a mule. he will not go at all unless a native ‘toto’ walks before him and when he does go
                            he wears a pained expression as though he were carrying fourteen stone instead of
                            Ann’s fly weight. I walk beside the donkey carrying Georgie and our cat, ‘Skinny Winnie’,
                            follows behind. Quite a cavalcade. The other day I got so exasperated with Joseph that
                            I took Ann off and I got on. Joseph tottered a few paces and sat down! to the huge
                            delight of our farm labourers who were going home from work. Anyway, one good thing,
                            the donkey is so lazy that there is little chance of him bolting with Ann.

                            The Moltenos spent Christmas with us and left for the Lupa Diggings yesterday.
                            They arrived on the 22nd. with gifts for the children and chocolates and beer. That very
                            afternoon George and John Molteno left for Ivuna, near Lake Ruckwa, to shoot some
                            guinea fowl and perhaps a goose for our Christmas dinner. We expected the menfolk
                            back on Christmas Eve and Anne and I spent a busy day making mince pies and
                            sausage rolls. Why I don’t know, because I am sure Abel could have made them better.
                            We decorated the Christmas tree and sat up very late but no husbands turned up.
                            Christmas day passed but still no husbands came. Anne, like me, is expecting a baby
                            and we both felt pretty forlorn and cross. Anne was certain that they had been caught up
                            in a party somewhere and had forgotten all about us and I must say when Boxing Day
                            went by and still George and John did not show up I felt ready to agree with her.
                            They turned up towards evening and explained that on the homeward trip the car
                            had bogged down in the mud and that they had spent a miserable Christmas. Anne
                            refused to believe their story so George, to prove their case, got the game bag and
                            tipped the contents on to the dining room table. Out fell several guinea fowl, long past
                            being edible, followed by a large goose so high that it was green and blue where all the
                            feathers had rotted off.

                            The stench was too much for two pregnant girls. I shot out of the front door
                            closely followed by Anne and we were both sick in the garden.

                            I could not face food that evening but Anne is made of stronger stuff and ate her
                            belated Christmas dinner with relish.

                            I am looking forward enormously to having Marjorie here with us. She will be able
                            to carry back to you an eyewitness account of our home and way of life.

                            Much love to you all,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 5th January 1935

                            Dearest Family,

                            You cannot imagine how lovely it is to have Marjorie here. She came just in time
                            because I have had pernicious vomiting and have lost a great deal of weight and she
                            took charge of the children and made me spend three days in hospital having treatment.
                            George took me to the hospital on the afternoon of New Years Eve and decided
                            to spend the night at the hotel and join in the New Years Eve celebrations. I had several
                            visitors at the hospital that evening and George actually managed to get some imported
                            grapes for me. He returned to the farm next morning and fetched me from the hospital
                            four days later. Of course the old A.C. just had to play up. About half way home the
                            back axle gave in and we had to send a passing native some miles back to a place
                            called Mbalizi to hire a lorry from a Greek trader to tow us home to the farm.
                            The children looked well and were full of beans. I think Marjorie was thankful to
                            hand them over to me. She is delighted with Ann’s motherly little ways but Georgie she
                            calls “a really wild child”. He isn’t, just has such an astonishing amount of energy and is
                            always up to mischief. Marjorie brought us all lovely presents. I am so thrilled with my
                            sewing machine. It may be an old model but it sews marvellously. We now have an
                            Alsatian pup as well as Joseph the donkey and the two cats.

                            Marjorie had a midnight encounter with Joseph which gave her quite a shock but
                            we had a good laugh about it next day. Some months ago George replaced our wattle
                            and daub outside pit lavatory by a substantial brick one, so large that Joseph is being
                            temporarily stabled in it at night. We neglected to warn Marj about this and one night,
                            storm lamp in hand, she opened the door and Joseph walked out braying his thanks.
                            I am afraid Marjorie is having a quiet time, a shame when the journey from Cape
                            Town is so expensive. The doctor has told me to rest as much as I can, so it is
                            impossible for us to take Marj on sight seeing trips.

                            I hate to think that she will be leaving in ten days time.

                            Much love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 18th February 1935

                            Dearest Family,

                            You must be able to visualise our life here quite well now that Marj is back and
                            has no doubt filled in all the details I forget to mention in my letters. What a journey we
                            had in the A.C. when we took her to the plane. George, the children and I sat in front and
                            Marj sat behind with numerous four gallon tins of water for the insatiable radiator. It was
                            raining and the canvas hood was up but part of the side flaps are missing and as there is
                            no glass in the windscreen the rain blew in on us. George got fed up with constantly
                            removing the hot radiator cap so simply stuffed a bit of rag in instead. When enough
                            steam had built up in the radiator behind the rag it blew out and we started all over again.
                            The car still roars like an aeroplane engine and yet has little power so that George sent
                            gangs of boys to the steep hills between the farm and the Mission to give us a push if
                            necessary. Fortunately this time it was not, and the boys cheered us on our way. We
                            needed their help on the homeward journey however.

                            George has now bought an old Chev engine which he means to install before I
                            have to go to hospital to have my new baby. It will be quite an engineering feet as
                            George has few tools.

                            I am sorry to say that I am still not well, something to do with kidneys or bladder.
                            George bought me some pills from one of the several small shops which have opened
                            in Mbeya and Ann is most interested in the result. She said seriously to Kath Wood,
                            “Oh my Mummy is a very clever Mummy. She can do blue wee and green wee as well
                            as yellow wee.” I simply can no longer manage the children without help and have
                            engaged the cook’s wife, Janey, to help. The children are by no means thrilled. I plead in
                            vain that I am not well enough to go for walks. Ann says firmly, “Ann doesn’t want to go
                            for a walk. Ann will look after you.” Funny, though she speaks well for a three year old,
                            she never uses the first person. Georgie say he would much rather walk with
                            Keshokutwa, the kitchen boy. His name by the way, means day-after-tomorrow and it
                            suits him down to the ground, Kath Wood walks over sometimes with offers of help and Ann will gladly go walking with her but Georgie won’t. He on the other hand will walk with Anne Molteno
                            and Ann won’t. They are obstinate kids. Ann has developed a very fertile imagination.
                            She has probably been looking at too many of those nice women’s magazines you
                            sent. A few days ago she said, “You are sick Mummy, but Ann’s got another Mummy.
                            She’s not sick, and my other mummy (very smugly) has lovely golden hair”. This
                            morning’ not ten minutes after I had dressed her, she came in with her frock wet and
                            muddy. I said in exasperation, “Oh Ann, you are naughty.” To which she instantly
                            returned, “My other Mummy doesn’t think I am naughty. She thinks I am very nice.” It
                            strikes me I shall have to get better soon so that I can be gay once more and compete
                            with that phantom golden haired paragon.

                            We had a very heavy storm over the farm last week. There was heavy rain with
                            hail which stripped some of the coffee trees and the Mchewe River flooded and the
                            water swept through the lower part of the shamba. After the water had receded George
                            picked up a fine young trout which had been stranded. This was one of some he had
                            put into the river when Georgie was a few months old.

                            The trials of a coffee farmer are legion. We now have a plague of snails. They
                            ring bark the young trees and leave trails of slime on the glossy leaves. All the ring
                            barked trees will have to be cut right back and this is heartbreaking as they are bearing
                            berries for the first time. The snails are collected by native children, piled upon the
                            ground and bashed to a pulp which gives off a sickening stench. I am sorry for the local
                            Africans. Locusts ate up their maize and now they are losing their bean crop to the snails.

                            Lots of love, Eleanor

                            #6226
                            TracyTracy
                            Participant

                              Border Straddlers of The Midlands

                              It has become obvious while doing my family tree that I come from a long line of border straddlers.  We seem to like to live right on the edge of a county, sometimes living on one side of the border, sometimes on the other.  What this means is that for every record search, one must do separate searches in both counties.

                              The Purdy’s and Housley’s of Eastwood and Smalley are on the Derbyshire Nottinghamshire border.   The Brookes in Sutton Coldfield are on the Staffordshire Warwickshire border.  The Malkins of Ellastone and Ashbourne are on the Staffordshire Derbyshire border, as are the Grettons and Warrens of Burton Upon Trent. The Warrens and Grettons of  Swadlincote are also on the Leicestershire border, and cross over into Ashby de la Zouch.

                              I noticed while doing the family research during the covid restrictions that I am a border straddler too.  My village is half in Cadiz province and half in Malaga, and if I turn right on my morning walk along the dirt roads, I cross the town boundary into Castellar, and if I turn left, I cross into San Roque.  Not to mention at the southern tip of Spain, I’m on the edge of Europe as well.

                              More recent generations of the family have emigrated to Canada, USA, South Africa, Australia, and Spain, but researching further back, the family on all sides seems to have stuck to the midlands, like a dart board in the middle of England, the majority in Derbyshire, although there is one family story of Scottish blood.

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