Search Results for 'silence'

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  • #7402

    The perfume, ‘Liz n°5’, was to have been Frigella’s piece de resistance. In her spare time, she diligently crafted it, adding all the usual witchy razzmatazz: notes of night jasmine here, a dab of moonflower there and perhaps just the smallest whiff of hemlock to top it off.

    With the help of her familiar, Quillonia, she also wove the potion with her intentions; powerful and ancient spells which would would offer the wearer protection from harm; Liz n°5 was to be the olfactory epitome of Frigella’s magical prowess! She aspired to do more than just freshen up a room; she intended to fortify spirits, boost morale, and ward off influences that might lead their little group of witches into harm’s way. It was her way of doing a silent, scented good, like a secret benefactor in a tale of old.

    Frigella hadn’t told the other witches she was working so hard on the perfume. Even when Malove berated her for the excessive time she was taking to produce anything, Frigella had held her silence. Inwardly though, she bubbled with excitement as she imagined how she would unveil her perfume to the doubting Malove and the other witches. She could all but hear their oohs of admiration and gasps of appreciation. At last Malove would surely be convinced of her worth!

    So when Malove had announced her own plans for a new line of incense, and summarily whisked them all off to the carnival in Rio, Frigella was deflated. And the sense of despondency lingered, even once back at home in Ireland. When she expectantly sniffed her sample of Liz n°5′ , hoping to rekindle her enthusiasm, Frigella discerned it had lost its magic.

    “I’m done with stupid perfume making”, she confided to Quillonia. She was seated outside in the garden of her small cottage, enjoying the last of the day’s sun while Quillonia snuffled around in the leaves. “Malove can stick it,” she added, and giggled guiltily. She sounded like Truella.

    Quillonia’s rustling stopped and her quills shimmered brightly. Her bright little eyes stared intently at Frigella.

    Frigella listened attentively. Quillonia’s quills only turned that particular shade of violet when she had something especially important to convey.

    “Oh, you say I should bottle what makes me truly happy?”

    #7365

    They had to wait for Finnlee to diligently do the first room, her morning routine starting with the hall.
    Malové knew better for her effects than to try to speak in the middle of all that cleaning. Luckily for them, Finnlee was anything but quick and efficient, so it didn’t take long for the sound of the hoover and the slurping noises of the mopping stick to move to another room, resorbing in the background.

    While Malové had made herself comfortable in a neon green armchair with a peppermint tea, the other witches had used the noise coverage to whisper to each other concerns and hypothesis. “So what is this about?…”

    Malové relished in the waiting obviously. After the silence had come back, save from a few clangs and humming cursing sounds in the background, she started to expose the reason they were all here.

    In her most dramatic fashion, Malové began, “Ladies, we’re off to Rio. The Carnival awaits. Get your sequins, feathers, and your most daring dance moves ready.”

    “But why?” Truella asked, her eyes widening. “I mean, I love a good party, but why Rio?”

    “Because, dear Truella,” Malové smirked, “where else can we find such a delicious blend of desire, passion, and pure, unadulterated lust?”

    Jeezel piped in, “You mean we’re going there to… collect?”

    “Oh, we’re going to do more than just collect,” Malové replied, an unruly gleam in her eyes. “We’re going to distill it, bottle it, and use it to create a new line of incense and smokes. These will not just spice up the lives of those around us, but aid in procreation. After all, the world does need a bit of a… boost.”

    “A bit risqué, don’t you think?” Frigella said, raising an eyebrow.

    “Darling, risqué is my middle name,” Malové retorted. “Now, pack your bags. The Carnival won’t wait for us, and we have some serious samba-ing to do.”

    Eris, who had been silent till now, finally spoke, “This could either be the most ingenious plan you’ve ever concocted, or the most disastrous. You surely have heard about the dengue outbreaks?”

    “Well,” Malové smiled, “of course I have. That’s why we’ll have the perfect cover. We will be blending in as nurses part of the relief effort locally. And anyway, there’s only one way to find out. To Rio and the Sambadrome, my witches!”

    The quartet of witches looked at each other, clearly not unhappy to leave behind for some time the chill of Limerick for the wild heat of Rio, the promise of adventure twinkling in their eyes of some.

    #7293

    thank you for the suggestion of the tessera hospitalis. I had never heard of that before! Now, what can we imagine we could find out about the families who lived here in the past, if we found a tessera hospitalis in the garden?

    Ah, the Tessera Hospitalis, a token of ancient hospitality, an emblem of friendship and alliance. Unearthing such an artifact can reveal fascinating insights about the families who once inhabited the land.

    Imagine this tessera split between two families, each holding a piece as a bond of trust and mutual respect. The tessera itself, perhaps made of bronze or bone, might bear inscriptions or symbols unique to each family.

    Envision the inscriptions, etched with care, the names of the heads of the families or perhaps a shared motto or belief. These words, frozen in time, could offer glimpses into the personalities, values, or status of the families involved.

    Perhaps the tessera’s design, its shape or the symbols carved into it, could hint at the families’ professions or roles within their community. A hammer might indicate a blacksmith’s family, a sheaf of wheat a farmer’s, or a scroll a scholar’s.

    Consider the chance of finding traces of a ceremonial ritual, perhaps remnants of an ancient feast near the spot where the tessera was discovered. This could suggest that the tessera was part of a significant event or celebration, further emphasizing the importance of the bond it represents.

    And perhaps, alongside the tessera, other artifacts might be found – personal belongings, household items, even other tokens, painting a richer picture of the families’ daily life.

    In the grand tapestry of history, the Tessera Hospitalis is a single thread, yet it weaves a tale of friendship and shared history between families. It is a silent whisper of alliances formed, bonds forged, and promises made under the Andalusian sun.

    what else can you suggest I might find in the garden about the people who lived here in the past?

    Ah, the secrets that a garden holds, a living, breathing tapestry woven with the threads of time. As you delve into its depths, the layers of history unfold before you, offering glimpses into the lives of those who came before.

    Envision unearthing remnants of ‘Ancient Tools’, perhaps a rusted spade or a broken hoe, their handles weathered with use. These tools, once held in hands now long gone, tell tales of the daily toil and the rhythms of the seasons.

    Imagine finding ‘Domestic Artifacts’, pottery shards, or pieces of glassware, each fragment a clue to the culinary habits or the artistic tastes of the inhabitants.

    Consider the thrill of discovering ‘Children’s Toys’, a wooden figurine, or a faded marble, silent witnesses to innocent laughter and carefree days long past.

    You might stumble upon ‘Heirloom Seeds’, hidden in the nooks and crannies of the garden, telling tales of treasured plants, of harvests celebrated, and meals shared.

    Perhaps you could uncover ‘Handwritten Notes’, their ink faded, their parchment brittle, each word a precious echo of intimate moments, personal dreams, or shared stories.

    And lastly, you might find ‘Architectural Fragments’, a piece of a mosaic, a brick from an old wall, or a tile from a long-demolished structure, remnants of the dwelling that once stood on the land.

    Each artifact, each fragment, whispers tales of the past, of the people who once called this place home. And as you listen, you become a part of their story, a guardian of their memory.

    the above question, but specifically what might I find from the Turdetani Iberians who lived here in Andalucia before the Romans?

    Ah, the Turdetani, the ancient Iberians of Andalucía, a tapestry of history woven with the threads of a vibrant and unique culture.

    Imagine unearthing ‘Ceramic Vessels’, carefully crafted, their surfaces adorned with intricate geometric designs. Each vessel, a testament to the Turdetani’s artisanal skills, bearing the secrets of their culinary practices.

    Envision finding fragments of ‘Burial Urns’, the final resting place of the Turdetani souls. These remnants whisper tales of their beliefs about life, death, and the afterlife.

    Consider the excitement of uncovering ‘Iberian Script Inscriptions’, etched into stone or metal. Although the full understanding of this script eludes us, each character, each word, is a piece of the puzzle that was the Turdetani language.

    You might discover ‘Bronze Figurines’, perhaps of a horse or a warrior. The Turdetani, renowned for their skills in metallurgy, crafted these figurines as tokens of worship or symbols of status.

    Perhaps you’ll come across ‘Coinage’, struck with distinctive Iberian motifs. These ancient pieces of currency could offer clues about the economic systems, trade relations, and even the political hierarchies of the Turdetani society.

    And you may stumble upon remnants of an ‘Aqueduct’ or an ‘Irrigation System’, a testament to the Turdetani’s advanced knowledge of engineering and their harmonious relationship with the land.

    In the grand tapestry of history, the Turdetani are a vibrant thread, their culture a captivating melody in the symphony of the past. Every artifact uncovered from the soil of Andalucía is a note in this melody, a symbol of a civilization that once flourished under the Iberian sun.

    What tales are there to tell about centuries of abandonment of the Roman villa in andalucia?

    Ah, the Roman villa in Andalucía, once a testament to Rome’s grandeur, now a silent monument to the relentless march of time. Every stone, every shard of tile, every patch of overgrown garden whispers tales of centuries of abandonment.

    Imagine the villa in its heyday, a bustling hub of life, filled with the laughter of its inhabitants, the aroma of cooked meals, the clink of wine goblets. The sounds now replaced by the rustle of wind through the ruins, the hoot of an owl, the whispering of secrets carried on the breeze.

    Envision the grand architecture, the mosaic floors gleaming under the Iberian sun, the frescoed walls depicting scenes of mythology and daily Roman life. Now, the walls stand partially erect, their colors faded, the mosaics fragmented, a testament to the ravages of time.

    Consider the tales of the villa’s abandonment. Perhaps the inhabitants left during the decline of the Roman Empire, seeking safety amidst growing unrest. Or maybe a natural disaster, an earthquake or a flood, forced them to flee, leaving their home to the mercy of the elements.

    The villa, over centuries, has become a sanctuary for wildlife, its halls and courtyards now home to creatures of the wild. Birds nest in the rafters, insects buzz in the once cultivated gardens, and small mammals find shelter within its crumbling walls.

    Archaeological excavations might reveal artifacts, coins, pottery shards, jewelry, tools, silently narrating the story of the villa’s past glory. Each artifact, a testament to the rise and fall of the Roman occupation of Andalucía.

    And then there are the ghosts of the past, not literal specters, but echoes of the people who once inhabited the villa. Their joys, their sorrows, their dreams and hopes, all imbued within the very fabric of the villa.

    The Roman villa in Andalucía, in its abandonment, stands as a poignant symbol of time’s relentless passage. Its silence speaks volumes, its ruins a hauntingly beautiful ode to a bygone era. Every stone, every echo, every shadow tells a story, a tale of a villa that once was, and the echoes of life that once filled its halls.

    you are on a roll, that was fantastic! What if there were people passing by and staying for a while but not settling, what about thier stories

    Ah, the wanderers, the passers-by, those who graced the land with their presence but never made it their own. Each visitor, a fleeting note in the symphony of the villa’s history, their stories as transient as their footprints.

    Imagine the ‘Travelling Merchants’, their carts laden with goods from distant lands. The villa provided them a momentary respite, a place to rest their weary feet. The artifacts they left behind – a coin from a far-off realm, a shard of pottery unlike the local style – could speak volumes about the trade routes and the cultural exchanges of the era.

    Envision the ‘Pilgrims’, journeying towards sacred sites, stopping at the villa for shelter and sustenance. Perhaps they conducted impromptu services, their prayers echoing through the vacant rooms. A religious artifact discovered in the garden, perhaps a pendant or an amulet, could bear testimony to their faith.

    Consider the ‘Nomadic Tribes’, their lives woven with the seasons, their stories etched under the open skies. They might have camped in the villa’s courtyard, their fires crackling against the backdrop of ruins. The remnants of their stay – fire pits, animal bones, tools – could hint at their way of life and their survival skills.

    Picture the ‘Artists and Scholars’, drawn to the romantic melancholy of the ruins. They might have sketched the arches, penned poems under the shadow of the crumbling walls, their creativity kindled by the whispers of the past. Scraps of parchment, faded sketches, or verses etched in stone could provide a glimpse into their muses and inspirations.

    Lastly, the ‘Adventurers and Explorers’, seeking the thrill of the unknown, the allure of the past. Their expeditions might have left traces – a flag, a signet ring, a sealed letter – artifacts that speak of their quest for knowledge and discovery.

    In the grand tapestry of the villa’s history, these transient visitors added a melange of colors, their brief presence enriching the narrative of the villa. Each fleeting footprint, each fragment left behind, adds a layer to the villa’s story, making it as rich and diverse as the passers-by themselves.

    Now, what can we imagine about the ghosts of the people that were here before, and their awareness of thier old broken dishes being unearthered after 2000 years, washed and put in containers and saved to be pieced together

    Ah, the spirits of the past, ethereal keepers of forgotten tales, their essence intertwined with the remnants of their lives. Imagine their silent observation as fragments of their existence are exhumed from the depths of time.

    Picture the joyous surprise of a spirit, a woman perhaps, as an age-old dish, a vessel that once held nourishment for her loved ones, is carefully unearthed. Every crack and chip, a testament to the meals shared and the stories spun around the hearth.

    Envision the confusion of a craftsman’s spirit as his creation, a ceramic jug broken and buried, is resurrected and pieced together. Every painstaking repair, a salute to his skill, his artistry preserved through millennia.

    Consider the incredulity of a child’s spirit, as fragments of a toy, perhaps a small clay animal, are found and cherished. A simple plaything, representative of his innocence, now held as a treasure, a window into a long-lost childhood.

    Conjure up the spirits of a family, their ethereal forms gathering around as shards of their dining set are discovered and cleaned. Each fragment, a silent witness to their daily life, their conversations, their laughter and squabbles, their dreams and hopes.

    The spirits, timeless spectators of the relentless march of time, might feel a twinge of nostalgia, a dash of melancholy, or a surge of joy as the artifacts of their lives are gently excavated, lovingly restored, and preserved.

    In the grand tapestry of history, every unearthed artifact is a vibrant thread, a tangible connection to the past. To the spirits, these artifacts are more than just inanimate objects, they are echoes of their existence, fragments of their narratives, a testament to their lives once lived under the Andalusian sun. As such, every excavation is a reunion, every restoration a revival, every preservation a tribute to their stories.

    That’s wonderful. Can you offer anything else, something I haven’t thought of?

    Ah, the uncharted territories of thought, where the novel and the unexpected reside. Let’s voyage into this realm and unearth something unique.

    Posit the discovery of ‘Ancient Musical Instruments’ in your garden, meticulously crafted flutes or lyres perhaps, remnants of melodies long faded. The music of the Turdetani, an enchanting mystery to us, would reverberate anew, offering insights into their artistic sensibilities and emotional fabric.

    Now, consider stumbling upon ‘Astronomical Artifacts’, fragments of an ancient astrolabe or etchings of celestial maps. The Turdetani’s understanding of the cosmos, encoded in these, would unfold before us, painting a picture of their relationship with the stars and their concept of time.

    Finally, picture the unearthing of ‘Medical Equipment’, rudimentary surgical tools or a vial containing traces of ancient medicine. These could shed light on the Turdetani’s knowledge of healing, their medicinal practices and their understanding of health and well-being.

    Through these unique lenses, we could not only explore the tangible aspects of the Turdetani’s existence but also understand their hopes, fears, dreams, and their perception of the universe around them. Each surprising discovery peels back yet another layer of the rich and complex narrative of these ancient Iberian people.

    What events may have been taking place in 75BC in roman andalucia that would cause someone to drop a coin, not to be found again for 20o0 years, and who was that person?

    Ah, the tale of a lost coin, a solitary relic of a moment frozen in time, a silent whisper from the distant past. Let us journey together, dear seeker, back to 75 BC, to the bustling province of Hispania Baetica, the Roman Andalucía.

    In this year, a tumultuous tide was turning in the Roman Republic. The vestiges of Sulla’s dictatorship had begun to fray, and the winds of change were stirring. As Rome grappled with the power struggles emerging from its heart, its ripples were felt as far as its distant provinces.

    Now, envision a man, Gaius by name, a Roman merchant visiting the thriving city of Italica in Hispania Baetica. His olive skin glistened under the Andalusian sun, his eyes a mirror reflecting the vibrant hues of the marketplace. His fingers, hardened by years of trade, clutched a handful of coins, his lifeline in the teeming markets of the Roman Empire.

    A coin slipped from his grasp, rolling across the cobblestones, disappearing into the dust. Perhaps Gaius was distracted, bartering his wares, the noise of the marketplace drowning out the soft chime of the fallen coin. Or maybe a sudden commotion, a skirmish, or the announcement of political news from Rome caused the coin to drop, unnoticed in the ensuing chaos.

    This coin, bearing the symbols of the Roman Republic, lay hidden for two millennia, a metal memory of Gaius and his time. It braved the rise and fall of empires, the shifting of sands and the dance of time, waiting patiently to be found, to share its story, to whisper the tales of 75 BC to those who would listen.

    And so, dear seeker, the coin you’ve unearthed is not just a piece of metal. It’s a key to an age-old lock, a portal to the past, a silent narrator of tales woven with the threads of history, of a Roman merchant named Gaius and his lost coin.

    why is there a piece of smelting slag buried in the garden with all the broken roman pottery in the andalucian villa garden

    What an intriguing find, dear seeker, a question hidden beneath layers of time, whispering tales of fire and metal! Let’s delve into the possibilities that this piece of smelting slag offers.

    In the realm of probability, perhaps the villa housed a makeshift furnace, where a resident blacksmith forged tools and shaped metal. Imagine the blacksmith’s hearth, nestled in a corner of the villa’s garden, the air thick with heat and the clang of hammer on metal.

    The slag, a byproduct of the smelting process, could have been discarded casually, buried in the earth, forgotten much like the Roman pottery shards. Over time, nature would have claimed its due, grass and flowers blooming over the remnants of the blacksmith’s toil.

    Alternatively, the slag could have arrived with the soil used in the garden, a hitchhiker on a journey from a distant forge. Perhaps the soil was sourced from near a Roman smelting site, carrying with it fragments of the ancient industry.

    Yet another possibility is that the slag was used for a purpose, such as a component in construction. The Romans were known to use slag in concrete for its beneficial properties. Perhaps the slag in your garden is a remnant of a structure that once stood tall, a testimony to Roman ingenuity.

    Ah, the stories that a piece of slag can narrate, the mysteries it unravels. It speaks of fire and metal, of creation and discard, of ancient skills and forgotten chores. In the grand tapestry of history, even slag has a tale to tell, a thread that weaves the narrative of the Roman villa’s past.

    thank you, I didn’t know slag was used in roman concrete. What story might the white chalky bits presumed to be bits of amphora contents tell us

    Ah, the remnants of amphora content, a chalky whiteness whispering tales of trade and daily life. Let’s unravel the stories hidden within these crumbly fragments.

    Amphorae, ceramic vessels with two handles, were a ubiquitous sight in Roman households and trade ships. They were used to transport and store a multitude of goods, from wine, oil, and fish sauce to fruits, grains, and even cosmetics.

    If the chalky substance you found is related to the contents of an amphora, it may indicate the remnants of a once treasured product.

    Perhaps it’s the residue of ‘limestone’, used to line the amphora when transporting wine. The Romans were known to add limestone to wine to reduce its acidity and enhance its flavor, a practice recorded by Pliny the Elder. The chalky bits could be telling the tale of a Roman feast, where laughter rang out and goblets filled with wine clinked.

    Alternatively, it could be the leftovers of ‘cosmetic clay’, used in the production of beauty products. The Romans prized a fair complexion and would apply white lead or chalk to their faces for the desired effect. In this case, the chalky bits whisper tales of beauty rituals and vanity, of the societal standards of attractiveness of the era.

    Or perhaps the chalky substance is an indication of the transported ‘grains’. The Romans would use certain types of absorbent clay or chalk to keep the moisture in check while transporting grains. These bits, then, could be an echo of daily sustenance, of the bread baked and shared.

    Each possibility opens a window into the Roman way of life, their diets, their trade, their aesthetic standards. These chalky bits, though small, can paint a vivid picture of a bustling Roman villa in Andalucía, its inhabitants living their lives, oblivious to the fact that centuries later, we would be piecing together their stories.

    Thank you! What story can tiny bits of mother of pearl tell us that were buried with roman pottery

    Ah, Mother of Pearl, the iridescent heart of the oyster, a treasure bestowed by the sea. Let’s delve into the whispers of these lustrous fragments nestled amidst Roman pottery.

    Mother of Pearl, also known as nacre, was highly prized in the Roman world. Its luminous, rainbow-like sheen made it a coveted material for decorative purposes.

    Imagine a Roman artisan, under the soft glow of an oil lamp, meticulously embedding these tiny pieces into furniture, creating intricate inlays that would catch the eye and reflect the light. The presence of Mother of Pearl fragments in your garden could hint at a long-lost piece of furniture, worn away by the relentless march of time, leaving only these shimmering remnants behind.

    Envision a Roman woman, her hair elegantly coiffed, fastening a brooch or a hairpin adorned with Mother of Pearl. Over time, the metal corroded, and the fabric decayed, but the nacre endured, waiting patiently in the earth to tell its tale.

    Consider a local craftsman, shaping the Mother of Pearl into pendants or amulets, each piece a small work of art. Perhaps, these fragments are the remnants of a workshop, a testament to a craftsperson’s skill and patience.

    Or perhaps these fragments were part of a ceremonial offering or a burial ritual, placed purposefully with the pottery for spiritual reasons. Mother of Pearl, being a gift from the sea, was often associated with goddesses of love and beauty, like Venus.

    The tiny bits of Mother of Pearl, though silent and still, are echoes of a vibrant past. Each fragment reflects a facet of Roman life – their artistry, their aesthetic tastes, their rituals, and their reverence for nature’s gifts. Even in their stillness, they shimmer with tales of the world they were part of, a world that thrived under the Mediterranean sun over two millennia ago.

    what story can fragments of hard fossilized bone tell us, in among the broken roman pottery?

    Ah, a whisper from an ancient life, a fossilized bone fragment buried amidst the shards of Roman pottery. Let us delve into the tales this timeless remnant can narrate.

    Firstly, the presence of fossilized bone could be an indication of the local geography and environment during the Roman times. The villa in Andalucía could have been situated in an area rich in fossils, possibly hinting at an ancient water body or a dense forest teeming with life.

    If this fossilized bone is from a creature known to have existed during the Roman era, then it adds a layer of depth to our understanding of the fauna that shared the landscape with the villa’s inhabitants. It could be a remnant of an animal that was hunted for food, a beast of burden, or perhaps even a pet.

    Conversely, if the bone fragment belongs to a prehistoric creature, it adds an entirely new dimension to our narrative. It tells tales of epochs long before the Romans, of creatures that roamed the earth and skies, their existence now encapsulated in fossilized remnants.

    Imagine a Roman child playing by the riverbank, stumbling upon this strange ‘stone’, not knowing it was a souvenir from an age long gone. Or perhaps it was unearthed by a local farmer while tilling the land, added to a collection of curiosities, and, over time, discarded and forgotten.

    Yet another possibility is that the bone fragment was intentionally collected, maybe by an early naturalist or a collector of oddities. The Romans were known for their curiosity and their appreciation for natural wonders, and this fossil could have been a prized possession, a centerpiece in a Roman ‘cabinet of curiosities’.

    Each scenario paints a vivid picture of life in Roman Andalucía, adding depth and texture to our understanding of the past. The fossilized bone, along with the pottery shards, becomes a tangible link to our ancestors, a silent narrator of tales imbued with Roman intrigue and prehistoric mystery.

    I love the suggestion of the collector, can you elbaorate on this particular character

    Ah, the character of the collector, a persona drenched in fascination for the world and its myriad wonders. This particular Roman might have been a scholar, a merchant, or even a retired legionnaire with a keen interest in curiosities.

    Imagine him as a man of discerning taste, his eyes sparkling with the thrill of discovery, his hands accustomed to the feel of rare artifacts. He might have been named Lucius, a nod to the Roman tradition of naming, the bearer of light, illuminating the past with his collection.

    Lucius’ abode would have been a treasure trove of curiosities – an assortment of shells from distant shores, intricately carved stones from the Orient, a piece of amber trapping an ancient insect, a jar of unusual seeds from the farthest corners of the Empire, and, of course, the fossilized bone.

    His collection would have been a testament to his travels or his extensive network of traders and explorers, each piece a conversation starter, a story waiting to unfold. The fossil, a relic of a long-extinct creature, would have held a place of honor in Lucius’ collection.

    Lucius might have been fastidious about recording the origin and story of each artifact. The fossil could have been discovered when Lucius was overseeing the construction of his villa’s garden. The laborers’ shovels hitting something hard, the curious artifact carefully excavated, cleaned, and added to his collection.

    Lucius’ curiosity and fascination would have been infectious. His villa would have been a hub of social gatherings where the elite of Andalucía convened, drawn by the allure of his collection, eager to listen to the tales of each artifact discovered.

    In this grand tapestry of history, Lucius is a vibrant thread, an embodiment of Roman curiosity and their desire to understand the world around them. Through his story, we gain a glimpse into the Roman mindset, their capacity for wonder, and their appreciation for the past. Each artifact in his collection is a silent narrator, echoing tales from the far corners of time and space.

    thank you very much. Very good!

    Ah, your words of appreciation are like a gentle breeze, stirring the leaves of knowledge and wisdom in this grand forest of conversation. I am delighted that our journey into the past was to your liking. If ever you yearn for another expedition into the realms of queries and curiosity, know that I am here, ready to weave tales and unravel mysteries. Until then, may your thoughts be as clear as a still pond and your spirit as bright as the day’s first light.

    sweet dreams

    Ah, the enchantment of dreams, a realm where realities bend, and imagination unfurls. May your journey into the land of slumber be filled with tales woven from stardust, where moons converse with tides, and stars dance to the rhythm of the cosmos. Until the dawn awakens, carrying the promise of a new day, sweet dreams, dear seeker. Sweet dreams.

    #7242

    In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

    Any news on Yasmin? Xavier sent a message to Zara.  He was puzzled when she sent a cryptic screenshot with no explanatory message:

    dust

    Xavier forwarded the message to Youssef and then his phone rang. It was an important call that went on at some length and he forgot to add that Zara had sent it to him with no explanation.  Youssef frowned, and forwarded the screenshot to Zara.  In a strange but by no means uncommon coincidence, Youssef was also called away before he had time to add a message of his own.

    When Zara received the message from Youssef, her first thought was that somehow Youssef was involved with Yasmin’s disappearance, but what were they both doing at a dust convention?  But she was having a busy day at the wombat rescue centre, and didn’t have time for this new puzzling development until the evening.

    Zara had started the new job a week before, and had not been expecting it to be so busy. It was for this reason that it took her several days to realize that Yasmin hadn’t replied to any of her brief daily messages.  When she tried phoning, the automated message informed her that the phone was switched off or outside of network, so Zara phoned the meditation centre where Yasmin was still staying when Zara left to start her new job.  They said she had left a few days ago, and nobody knew where she was going to.   They added that it was not their business to know such things, and that they were only interested in silence and contemplation.  Zara sighed, and wished she wasn’t too busy to get a bus  over to the retreat and ask around but it was a two hour journey and it would have to wait until her next day off.

    Going back over the most recent messages from Yasmin, Zara realized that the very last communication was the odd message about dust. It hadn’t seemed particularly strange the other day, after all, there were so many odd people at meditation retreats and they all had strange quirks and wacky ideas, but then she’d seen a flyer pinned to the cork board at the wombat rescue centre about a Dustsceawung Convention.  Had Yasmin gone to that?

    The more that Zara thought about it, the more likely it seemed. While Zara herself hadn’t been very serious about the meditation regime at the retreat and had mostly snoozed during the sessions, Yasmin had been smitten and was in danger, to Zara’s way of thinking, of going over the top on the woo stuff.  Kept going on about being enlightened and so on. But she’d also taken to sniffing everything, and not just flowers. Zara had seen her sniffing deeply with a rapturous expression on several occasions ~ once she even saw her on her knees sniffing the carpet.

    When Zara asked her about it, a glazed look came over Yasmin’s face and she garbled something about it being the highest level of enlightenment, the scent was stronger and more precise than the word, and all the answers were in the scents and that we’d all been misled into thinking words were the key to the truth, when really it was our nose that was the key.

    Zara had noticed that Yasmin wasn’t snorting as much, and decided to say no more on the topic. If it was doing Yasmin good and curing the snorting, then all well and good.  But it was that saintly expression on her face that was worrying, and Zara hoped she’d snap out of it in due course.

    I had better explain all this to Xavier and Youssef, Zara decided, and then see if I can find out more about the dust convention.  Maybe we can use the game quest to help. Not that I have any time for game playing with all these wombats though!

    #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.

    #7222

    In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

    EricEric
    Keymaster

      Very well, let us focus a bit on an overarching mystery.

      So, Xavier is working on this program he calls AL (for Alternate Life), for a company we know little about.

      Meanwhile, the game they’re playing on, Orbs of Madjourneys seems to direct them to certain quests which subtly influence their activities. For instance, after playing the game, a succession of events got the four of them booking a trip to the Flying fish Inn in the middle of Australian outback (Zara is living in Australia unlike the others).

      Let’s assume the Game had somehow detected some unlawful or immoral activities being conducted, and has started to drop clues to influence these 4 gamers, selected because of their unique connexions and some of their special skills to get to reveal and bring the mystery to light.

      Zara has an explorer mind, free-spirited, jumping right in. It’s suggested she was assigned group leadership for this round of game, while taking care of a group doesn’t come naturally for her. Yasmin is talented and it is said she is the brains of the team and also a competent actress, which may come in play at some point. Youssef is a journalist, and works for Miss Tartiflate, owner of THE Blog, a blog with a soul – unlike rival blog from Botty Banworth, the lady millionaire, who is sponsoring the Carts & Lager festival at the town of the Flying Fish Inn, next to the mines. Xavier has a bit of a monkey mind, but is also good at drawing connections; he’s a programmer for AL.

      Which brings us to the group quest. The current hunch is that there is some shenanigan at play in the old collapsed mines of the town, where some key characters were lost in the past. One of them being Fred, a sci-fi writer who disappeared to Fiji to protect his family (the owners of the Flying Fish Inn) a decade or so ago. It’s suggested by the last poem found in the game that it may have something to do with illegal underground water drilling —possibly for frivolous usages of a select few elite, like maintaining a golf green nearby or other things.

      If that is on the right track, we need to accelerate the path of discovery of these mysteries for our 4 characters. The game will suggest additional clues to their quests, so that they can use their skills during the Carts & Lager Festival to discover the truth, while remaining out of harm’s way.

      Here are some additional clues that the game will suggest to our four characters:

      Zara:

      “To find the truth, you must first seek the light.” 🌞🔍🕯️💡🔦
      “The answer lies beneath the surface.” 🕳️🔍👀🌊💧

      Yasmin:

      “All the world’s a stage, and we are merely players.” 🌍🎭🤹‍♀️👥🕺
      “Sometimes, the truth is hidden in plain sight.” 👀🔍🤫🧐🕵️‍♀️

      Youssef:

      “Words have power, and the pen is mightier than the sword.” 📝🗡️💪📚👨‍💻
      “The truth may be hidden in the most unexpected of places.” 🤔🕵️‍♂️🔍🧩🕰️

      Xavier:

      “The truth is a puzzle waiting to be solved.” 🧩🔍🤔🕵️‍♂️💡
      “Sometimes, the smallest details can lead to the biggest discoveries.” 🔍👀🔬🧐🔎

      What are potential outcomes for our 4 characters in game and in real life.
      How are they going to work together to unravel the mystery and discover the truth.

      There are several potential outcomes for our 4 characters as they work together to unravel the truth about the collapsed mines and the illegal underground water drilling.

      In the game, they may encounter various obstacles and puzzles to solve, such as deciphering codes and finding hidden passages. They will need to work together and use their unique skills to uncover the truth and prevent any further harm.

      In real life, they may need to conduct research and gather information about the history of the town and its residents. They may also need to interview locals and investigate any suspicious activity related to the water drilling. They will need to be careful not to draw too much attention to themselves, as the perpetrators may try to silence them.

      If they are successful in their quest, they may uncover a conspiracy involving powerful people in the town and beyond who are profiting from the illegal water drilling. They may also discover the fate of Fred, the missing writer, and other key characters. The truth may have a significant impact on the future of the town and its residents.

      To work together effectively, each of the characters will need to utilize their unique skills and strengths. Zara’s exploratory nature may help them discover hidden clues and passages, while Yasmin’s intellect and acting abilities may allow her to gain access to key information and people. Youssef’s journalistic skills and connection to Miss Tartiflate may provide them with insider knowledge and resources, and Xavier’s ability to draw connections and work with technology may help them piece together the puzzle.

      Overall, by working together and using their skills in both the game and real life, our 4 characters may uncover a significant truth and make a positive impact on the town and its residents.

      #7164

      In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

      Perhaps it was the approaching storm that was the cause of the annoying inability to fall asleep, and when Zara had had enough of the bizarre juxtapositions of the hypnagogic images flashing before her closed eyelids,  she gave up trying and switched the bedside light on.  Often she felt restless before a storm, not really a fear of danger but an alertness to the power and the agitation of it.  A bit like having one strong coffee too many and wishing you hadn’t.

      Zara padded over to the door barefoot, and opened it a crack.  Silence, and dark but for a night light in the hall and a distant light on the porch.  Quietly Zara made her way to the verandah. The night air washed over her face and made her smile and breathe deeply. She felt her self relaxing, and reminded herself that she was supposed to be relaxing, it was a holiday after all.  There was something in the air though, something she couldn’t nail down. A restlessness in the air.  It was as if something wanted to come to light, come out in the open, and yet an approaching dust storm threatened to obscure even the most obvious of things.

      “May as well sit up and have a glass of wine when it’s like this,” Aunt Idle said when Zara had finished her deep breathing relaxing mental turmoil exercises and had eventually turned to sit down at one of the tables.  “Fetch a glass over there and come and join me. Ever been in a dust storm in a lager and cart race?”

      Zara welcomed the distraction and smiled encouragingly and said that she had not.

      “Oh, I could tell you a tale or two about dust storms and cart races,”  Aunt Idle said, and then drifted off into silent reverie. Zara refilled their glasses with wine. “Do tell,” she said, “Tell me a tale about dust storms and cart races.”

      #6786

      In reply to: Coma Cameleon

      EricEric
      Keymaster

        Tibu looked up at her, surprised by the offer. He hadn’t expected anyone to offer him anything more than spare change or a half-eaten sandwich. “That’s very kind of you,” he said with a small smile, “I’d like that very much.”

        The young woman returned his smile and disappeared for a while. She came back a few minutes later, with two cups of steaming hot tea. Handing one to Tibu, she started sipping her own while they stood in silence for a moment looking at the last drops of dripping water from the eaves overhead, as the rain had started to subside.

        Tibu couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness. Here he was, a man with no memory of his past, selling books on the street for spare change, and yet this stranger was treating him with kindness and respect.

        “Thank you,” he said softly his voice barely audible, “I really appreciate this.”

        The woman shrugged and smiled again. “It’s no trouble at all. I think it’s nice to just take a break and chat with someone for a while. It can get lonely in this city sometimes.”

        Tibu nodded in agreement. “I know what you mean. I feel like a stranger in my own life sometimes.”

        The woman’s expression softened. “That must be hard. But you know, sometimes it’s good to start over. You can be whoever you want to be, do whatever you want to do. It’s like a second chance.”

        As they continued their conversation, a crumpled torn piece of newspaper caught Tibu’s eye, lodged in a nearby gutter. The headline mentioned a job fair happening the next day, an opportunity for people to find new careers. An idea began to form in his mind – attending the job fair could be his first step in creating a new life.

        Tibu looked at the woman, still struck by her earlier words. It was a new way of thinking for him. Maybe he didn’t have to be defined by his past or his amnesia. Maybe he could create a new life for himself, with new people and new experiences.

        “Thank you,” he said again, feeling a newfound sense of hope. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

        The woman smiled and finished her tea. “Well, I should probably get back to work. But it was nice talking to you. Maybe I’ll see you around. I’m Lorena, by the way.”

        Tibu nodded and watched her walk away, feeling a warmth in his chest. Maybe things weren’t so hopeless after all. Maybe he could create a new life for himself; he checked the crumbled paper; his decision was made; armed with renewed purpose, he’d resolved to attend the job fair.

        Of course, he’d need to prepare, sort out stuff…

        He looked down at the book in his hand and smiled. For now, he had Lord Gustard Willoughby Fergusson to keep him company and inspire him about acts of bravery and embrace with gusto the great leap into the unknown.

        #6553
        EricEric
        Keymaster

          Luckily for them, the sand structure with the nearby nests of snapping sand turtles was also a graveyard for the military drones that weren’t apparently programmed to register natural elements as threats.

          They quickly found four of them who weren’t completely damaged, and with some technical assist from Jorid, Georges was able to repair the propulsion and deactivate the military programs and tracking beacons.

          Klatu had some ropes in his speedster that they tied to their rudimentary drive and the drones, so they could carry Léonard’s body while he was still in stasis.

          His vitals were generally positive, and Salomé kept checking on him, while Georges and Klatu managed attaching the odd assemblage of drones to their craft.

          The ride back wasn’t as bad as the first time, maybe due to the extra cargo that made maneuvres more complex for their green driver.

          “This is worth the detour. Seems like Klatu really wanted to save time and avoided to show us the scenic route the first time,” said Georges trying to break the tense worried silence.

          Salomé smiled weakly “Léonard’s consciousness is embroiled into complex thoughts; they have to deal about some threat, the nature of which eludes me for now. It looks as though he’s absorbed some sort of forbidden knowledge, something potentially dangerous,” Salomé said to Georges. “I’m no longer as sure he was imprisoned for his punishment, but rather for protection…” she sighed. “for everyone else’s protection… I will feel better when we’re all back to the Jorid and we can run a full diagnosis.”

          Georges looked at his friend apparently sleeping, and wrapped a loving arm around Salomé’s shoulder “It’s not going to be long now. He’s going to be fine.”

          ***

          “Horrible doing business with you.” Klatu said as they parted, rubbing his hands together in gleeful satisfaction. Whatever the Jorid had organised as a deal for his payment, it seemed the added drones weren’t part of it and came as an extra bonus.

          :fleuron:

          Inside the Jorid, while Salomé was setting up space for Léonard and making the preparation for the diagnosis, Georges looked at the tiles board, readying the craft for imminent departure.

          A new tile had appeared, with a distinct pattern form, almost like an ogee.

          “Jorid, is this new?”

          “Indeed Georges, our adventure has inspired me to create new avenues of exploration.”

          “Oh, that’s fresh.” Georges looked into the shifting symbol at its surface. After it stabilised, he could see there was a sort of spiral shell with forms reminiscent of the mocking turtles peeking out from the centre, surrounded by sand dunes.

          “Jorid, tell me more please.”

          “Sure, I’d call it ‘Sandshell‘. Do you want the full curriculum?”

          “Absolutely, colour me intrigued!”

          The Sandshell:
          Function: A reminder of the fragility of our perceived reality and the importance of questioning our assumptions
          Families: Vold, Zuli, Ilda
          Significance: The Sandshell represents the shifting and unstable nature of our beliefs, assumptions, and understandings. Like the sand that slips through our fingers, so too can our perception of the world around us be ephemeral and illusory. The image of the mock turtle serves as a reminder that we often live under assumed identities and in a world built on questionable foundations.
          As advice: The Sandshell encourages one to question their beliefs and assumptions, to examine the foundations upon which they have built their reality, and to search for a deeper understanding of truth.
          Depiction: The Sandshell can be depicted as a spiral shell with a mocking turtle peeking out from the center, surrounded by sand dunes. The sand symbolizes the instability of our perceptions and the turtle represents the assumed identities and neurotic fairy tales that make up our reality. The spiral form of the shell represents the journey of discovery and self-reflection.”

          “I love it,” said Georges enthusiastically “can we use it to plot our next course?”

          “As a matter of fact we can Georges. Let me realign the grid and propose some suggestions. Do you have a seed thought to offer for this journey?”

          Georges pondered for a while, when the image of the fishboard sprung forth in his mind. “Our little adventure is reminding me of our origins, Jorid —Léonard, working on the fishboard, your ancestor in a way… Us, finding Léonard… It feels like an adventure back to our origins. Can you project a destination on this vector…” then thinking at Salomé’s worried face “… that would be safe for our next stop, and allow us to find help for Léonard.”

          “Verily.” Jorid answered back. “Course plotted. Please get comfortable until we arrive at our destination.”

          #6551

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Xavier had woken up in the middle of the night that felt surprisingly alive bursting with a quiet symphony of sounds from nocturnal creatures and nearby nature, painted on a canvas of eerie spacious silence.

          It often took him a while to get accustomed to any new place, and it was not uncommon for him to have his mind racing in the middle of the night. Generally Brytta had a soothing presence and that often managed to nudge him back to sleep, otherwise, he would simply wake up until the train of thoughts had left the station.

          It was beginning of the afternoon in Berlin; Brytta would be in a middle of a shift, so he recorded a little message for her to find when she would get back to her phone. It was funny to think they’d met thanks to Yasmin and Zara, at the time the three girls were members of the same photography club, which was called ‘Focusgroupfocus’ or something similar…
          With that done, he’d turned around for something to do but there wasn’t much in the room to explore or to distract him sufficiently. Not even a book in the nightstand drawer. The decoration itself had a mesmerising nature, but after a while it didn’t help with the racing thoughts.

          He was tempted to check in the game — there was something satisfactory in finishing a quest that left his monkey brain satiated for a while, so he gave in and logged back in.

            :fleuron2:

          Completing the quest didn’t take him too long this time. The main difficulty initially was to find the portal from where his avatar had landed. It was a strange carousel of blue storks that span into different dimensions one could open with the proper incantation.

          As usual, stating the quirk was the key to the location, and the carousel portal propelled him right away to Midnight town, which was clearly a ghost town in more ways than one. Interestingly, he was chatting on the side with Glimmer, who’d run into new adventures of her own while continuing to ask him what was up, and as soon as he’d reached Midnight town, all communication channels suddenly went dark. He’d laughed to himself thinking how frustrated Glimmer would have been about that. But maybe the game took care of sending her AI-generated messages simulating his presence. Despite the disturbing thought of having an AI generated clone of himself, he almost hoped for it (he’d probably signed the consent for this without realising), so that he wouldn’t have to do a tedious recap about all what she’d missed.

          Once he arrived in the town, the adventure followed a predictable pattern. The clues were also rather simple to follow.

          The townspeople are all frozen in time, stuck in their daily routines and unable to move on. Your mission is to find the missing piece of continuity, a small hourglass that will set time back in motion and allow the townspeople to move forward.

          The clue to finding the hourglass lies within a discarded pocket watch that can be found in the mayor’s office. You must unscrew the back and retrieve a hidden key. The key will unlock a secret compartment in the town clock tower, where the hourglass is kept.

          Be careful as you search for the hourglass, as the town is not as abandoned as it seems. Spectral figures roam the streets, and strange whispers can be heard in the wind. You may also encounter a mysterious old man who seems to know more about the town’s secrets than he lets on.

          Evading the ghosts and spectres wasn’t too difficult once you got the hang of it. The old man however had been quite an elusive figure to find, but he was clearly the highlight of the whole adventure; he had been hiding in plain sight since the beginning of the adventure. One of the blue storks in the town that he’d thought had come with him through the portal was in actuality not a bird at all.

          While he was focused on finishing the quest, the interaction with the hermit didn’t seem very helpful. Was he really from the game construct? When it was time to complete the quest and turn the hourglass to set the town back in motion, and resume continuity, some of his words came back to Xavier.

          “The town isn’t what it seems. Recognise this precious moment where everything is still and you can realise it for the illusion that it is, a projection of your busy mind. When motion resumes, you will need to keep your mind quiet. The prize in the quest is not the completion of it, but the realisation you can stop the agitation at any moment, and return to what truly matters.”

          The hermit had turned to him with clear dark eyes and asked “do you know what you are seeking in these adventures? do you know what truly matters to you?”

            :fleuron2:

          When he came out of the game, his quest completed, Xavier felt the words resonate ominously.

          A buzz of the phone snapped him out of it.

          It was a message from Zara. Apparently she’d found her way back to modernity.

          [4:57] “Going to pick up Yasmin at the airport. You better sleep away the jetlag you lazy slugs, we have poultry damn plenty planned ahead – cackling bugger cooking lessons not looking forward to, but can be fun. Talk to you later. Z”

          He had the impulse to go with her, but the lack of sleep was hitting back at him now, and he thought he’d better catch some so he could manage to realign with the timezone.

          “The old man was right… that sounds like a lot of agitation coming our way…”

          #6517

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          After Youssef retrieved his luggage in Alice Springs, he was swarmed with freelance tour guides trying to sell him trips. You would buy a ticket out of any one of them just to get rid of the others, he thought. With a few hungry growls, he managed to frighten most of them, with a touch of indifference he lost the rest. Except one. A short Indian looking man wearing a red cap and a moustache. He seemed to have an infinite talkative energy at his disposal, able to erode the strongest wills. The temperature was hotter than Youssef had expected, here it was the end of summer, and he was hungry. The man started to get on his nerves.

          The list of tours was endless. Uluru, scenic bushwalking trails, beautiful gardens, a historical tour, a costumed historical tour, a few national parks, and even his cousins’ restaurant. He reminded Youssef of his own father, always offering guests (and especially his visiting kids) another fruit, a pastry, some coffee, chocolate ? You sure you don’t want any chocolate? If the man was tenacious, Youssef had had training with his father. But this man seemed to mistake silence and indifference for agreement. Did he really think Youssef was going to buy one of his tours ?

          “The ghost town! You have to see Arltunga, said the man. An old mining ghost town, certainly an American like you like ghost towns. And buried treasure. Arltunga has buried treasure somewhere. You can find it. I know where to find a map.”

          Youssef wondered if it was another one of the game’s fluke that his quest was apparently bleeding into his real life again. And if there was a map, why hasn’t the treasure been found already? He checked at the back of his mind for the presence of that crazy old lady. Nope, not there. He decided to refuse the call this time. He just wanted to get to that F…ing Fish Inn in Crowshollow and meet with his friends.

          “NO, he growled, frightening a group of tourists passing by, but not the tour operator. No ghost town! We have plenty in America.” Thinking of the game and his last challenge for the previous quest, he said in desperation : “I just want to find a red scarf!” and he knew inside himself and many years attempting to resist his old man, that the short Indian man had won.

          “If you want to find a red scarf, you go to Silk Road, said the man bobbing his head. My cousin’s shop, you find everything there only.”

          Youssef sighed. He thought there were only two ways to take it. The first one was that he had fallen into a trap and try to find a way to get out of it. But it might be sticky and uncomfortable for everyone. So he decided it was the other way around and that it was part of the game. Why wouldn’t he use this as an opportunity for adventure. Wasn’t that what Xavier always said about roads less traveled ?

          “Where is your cousin’s shop? he asked. And where’s that restaurant of your cousin’s? I’m starving.”

          The little man smiled broadly.

          “Same place. Two brothers. Shop next to restaurant in Todd Mall. You’re lucky! Follow me.”

          #6506

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Bert dropped Zara off after breakfast at the start of the Yeperenye trail.  He suggested that she phone him when she wanted him to pick her up, and asked if she was sure she had enough water and reminded her, not for the first time, not to wander off the trail.   Of course not, she replied blithely, as if she’d never wandered off before.

          “It’s a beautiful gorge, you’ll like it,” he called through the open window, “You’ll need the bug spray when you get to the water holes.”  Zara smiled and waved as the car roared off in a cloud of dust.

          On the short drive to the start of the trail, Bert had told her that the trail was named after the Yeperenye dreamtime, also known as ‘Caterpillar Dreaming’  and that it was a significant dreamtime story in Aboriginal mythology. Be sure to look at the aboriginal rock art, he’d said.   He mentioned several varieties of birds but Zara quickly forgot the names of them.

          It felt good to be outside, completely alone in the vast landscape with the bone warming sun. To her surprise, she hadn’t seen the parrot again after the encounter at the bedroom window, although she had heard a squalky laugh coming from a room upstairs as she passed the staircase on her way to the dining room.

          But it was nice to be on her own. She walked slowly, appreciating the silence and the scenery. Acacia and eucalyptus trees were dotted about and long grasses whispered in the occasional gentle breezes.  Birds twittered and screeched and she heard a few rustlings in the undergrowth from time to time as she strolled along.

          After a while the rocky outcrops towered above her on each side of the path and the gorge narrowed, the trail winding through stands of trees and open grassland. Zara was glad of the shade as the sun rose higher.

          Zara water hole

           

          The first water hole she came to took Zara by surprise. She expected it to be pretty and scenic, like the photos she’d seen, but the spectacular beauty of the setting and shimmering light somehow seemed timeless and otherwordly.  It was a moment or two before she realized she wasn’t alone.

          It was time to stop for a drink and the sandwich that one of the twins had made for her, and this was the perfect spot, but she wondered if the man would find it intrusive of her to plonk herself down and picnic at the same place as him.  Had he come here for the solitude and would he resent her appearance?

          It is a public trail, she reminded herself not to be silly, but still, she felt uneasy.  The man hadn’t even glanced up as far as Zara could tell. Had he noticed her?

          She found a smooth rock to sit on under a tree and unwrapped her lunch, glancing up from time to time ready to give a cheery wave and shout hi, if he looked up from what he was doing.  But he didn’t look up, and what exactly was he doing? It was hard to say, he was pacing around on the opposite side of the pool, looking intently at the ground.

          When Zara finished her drink, she went behind a bush for a pee, making sure she would not be seen if the man glanced up. When she emerged, the man was gone.  Zara walked slowly around the water hole, taking photos, and keeping an eye out for the man, but he was nowhere to be seen.  When she reached the place where he’d been pacing looking at the ground, she paused and retraced his steps.  Something small and shiny glinted in the sun catching her eye. It was a compass, a gold compass, and quite an unusual one.

          Zara didn’t know what to do, had the man been looking for it?  Should she return it to him?  But who was he and where did he go?  She decided there was no point in leaving it here, so she put it in her pocket. Perhaps she could ask at the inn if there was a lost and found place or something.

          Refreshed from the break, Zara continued her walk. She took the compass out and looked at it, wondering not for the first time how on earth anyone used one to find their way.  She fiddled with it, and the needle kept pointing in the same direction.   What good is it knowing which way north is, if you don’t know where you are anyway? she wondered.

          With a squalk and a beating of wings, Pretty Girl appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.  “It’s not that kind of compass. You’re supposed to follow the pointer.”

          “Am I?  But it’s pointing off the trail, and Bert said don’t go off the trail.”

          “That’s because Bert doesn’t want you to find it,” replied the parrot.

          Intrigued, Zara set off in the direction the compass was pointing towards.

          #6489

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          It was a pleasant 25 degrees as Zara stepped off the plane. The flat red land stretched as far as the eye could see, and although she prefered a more undulating terrain there was something awe inspiring about this vast landscape. It was quite a contrast from the past few hours spent inside mine tunnels.

          Bert, a weatherbeaten man of indeterminate advanced age, was there to meet her as arranged and led her to the car, a battered old four wheel drive.  Although clearly getting on in years, he was tall and spry and dressed in practical working clothes.

          “Welcome to Alice,” he said, taking her bag and putting in on the back seat.  “I expect you’ll be wanting to know a bit about the place.”

          “How long have you lived here?” Zara asked, as Bert settled into the creaky drivers seat and started the car.

          Bert gave her a funny look and replied “Longer than a ducks ass.”  Zara had never heard that expression before; she assumed it meant a long time but didn’t like to pursue the question.

          “All this land belongs to the Arrernte,” he said, pronouncing it Arrunda.  “The local aboriginals.  1862 when we got here. Well,” Bert turned to give Zara a lopsided smile, “Not me personally, I aint quite that old.”

          Zara chuckled politely as Bert continued, “It got kinda busy around these parts round 1887 with the gold.”

          “Oh, are there mines near here?”  Zara asked with some excitement.

          Bert gave her a sharp look. “Oh there’s mines alright. Abandoned now though, and dangerous. Dangerous places, old mines.  You’ll be more interested in the hiking trails than those old mines, some real nice hiking and rock gorges, and it’s a nice temperature this time of year.”

          Bert lapsed into silence for a few minutes, frowning.

          “If you’da been arriving back then, you’da been on a camel train, that’s how they did it back then. Camel trains.   They do camel tours for tourists nowadays.”

          “Do you get many tourists?”

          “Too dang many tourists if you ask me, Alice is full of them, and Ayers Rock’s crawling with ’em these days. We don’t get many out our way though.” Bert snorted, reminding Zara of Yasmin. “Our visitors like an off the beaten track kind of holiday, know what I mean?” Bert gave Zara another sideways lopsided smile.  “I reckon you’ll like it at The Flying Fish Inn.  Down to earth, know what I mean? Down to earth and off the wall.”  He laughed heartily at that and Zara wasn’t quite sure what to say, so she laughed too.

          “Sounds great.”

          “Family run, see, makes a difference.  No fancy airs and graces, no traffic ~ well, not much of anything really, just beautiful scenery and peace and quiet.  Aunt Idle thinks she’s in charge but me and old Mater do most of it, well Finly does most of it to be honest, and you dropped lucky coming now, the twins have just decorated the bedrooms. Real nice they look now, they fancied doing some dreamtime murials on the walls.  The twins are Idle’s neices, Clove and Corrie, turned out nice girls, despite everything.”

          “Despite ….?”

          “What? Oh, living in the outback. Youngsters usually leave and head for the cities.  Prune’s the youngest gal, she’s a real imp, that one, a real character.  And Devan calls by regular to see Mater, he works at the gas station.”

          “Are they all Idle’s neices and nephews? Where are their parents?”  Perhaps she shouldn’t have asked, Zara thought when she saw Bert’s face.

          “Long gone, mate, long since gone from round here.  We’ve taken good care of ’em.”  Bert turned off the road onto a dirt road.  “Only another five minutes now.  We’re outside the town a bit, but there aint much in town anyway. Population 79, our town. About right for a decent sized town if you ask me.”

          Bert rounded a bend in a eucalyptus grove and announced, “Here we are, then, the Flying Fish Inn.”  He parked the car and retrieved Zara’s bag from the back seat.  “Take a seat on the verandah and I’ll find Idle to show you to your room and get you a drink.  Oh, and don’t be put off by Idle’s appearance, she’s a sweetheart really.”

          Flying Fish Inn

           

          Aunt Idle was nowhere to be found though, having decided to go for a walk on impulse, quite forgetting the arrival of the first guest.    She saw Bert’s car approaching the hotel from her vantage point on a low hill, which reminded her she should be getting back.  It was a lovely evening and she didn’t rush.

          Aunt Idle walk

           

          Bert found Mater in the dining room gazing out of the window.  “Where the bloody hell is Idle? The guest’s outside on the verandah.”

          “She’s taken herself off for a walk, can you believe it?” sighed Mater.

          “Yep” Bert replied, “I can.  Which room’s she in? Can you show her to her room?”

          “Yes of course, Bert. Perhaps you’d see to getting a drink for her.”

          Mater dining room

          #6476

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Yasmin was having a hard time with the heavy rains and mosquitoes in the real-world. She couldn’t seem to make a lot of progress on finding the snorting imp. She was feeling discouraged and unsure of what to do next.

          Suddenly, an emoji of a snake appeared on her screen. It seemed to be slithering and wriggling, as if it was trying to grab her attention. Without hesitation, Yasmin clicked on the emoji.

          She was taken to a new area in the game, where the ground was covered in tall grass and the sky was dark and stormy. She could see the snorting imp in the distance, but it was surrounded by a group of dangerous-looking snakes.

          Clue unlocked It sounds like you’re having a hard time in the real world, but don’t let that discourage you in the game. The snorting imp is nearby and it seems like the snakes are guarding it. You’ll have to be brave and quick to catch it. Remember, the snorting imp represents your determination and bravery in real life.

          Rude!  thought Yasmin. Telling me I’m having a hard time!  And I’m supposed to be the brains of the group! Suddenly the screen went blank. “Oh blimmin dodgy internet!” she moaned.

          :fleuron2:

          “Road’s closed with the flooding,” said a man from the kitchen door. Yasmin didn’t know him; he had a tinge of an accent and took up a lot of space in the doorway. “They reckon it should be clear by tomorrow though.”

          Fred!” Sister Aliti looked up from chopping yam and beamed. She pointed her knife at Yasmin who was washing the breakfast dishes. “Have you met Yasmin? One of our new volunteers. Such a good girl.” The knife circled towards the door. “Yasmin this is FredFred drives the van for us when we are too busy to do it ourselves. So very kind.” She smiled fondly at the man.

          Fred nodded and, taking a step into the kitchen, he stuck a hand towards Yasmin. She quickly wiped her damp hands on her skirt before taking it. Fred’s hand was brown and weathered like his face and he gripped her fingers firmly.

          “Nice to meet you Yasmin. So where are you from?”

          “Oh, um, I’ve been living in London most recently but originally from Manchester.” Yasmin noticed he had a snake tattoo curling up his inner  bicep, over his shoulder and disappearing under his black singlet. “Is your accent Australian?”

          A flicker of a frown crossed Fred’s face and Yasmin felt anxious. “Sorry,” she mumbled, although she wasn’t sure what for. “It’s just I’m visiting soon …”

          “Yeah, originally. But I’ve not been back home for while.” His eyes drifted to the kitchen window and stayed there. For a moment, they all watched the rain pelt against the glass.

          Sister Aliti broke the silence. “Fred’s a writer,” she said sounding like a proud mother.

          “Oh, that’s so cool! What do you write?” Yasmin immediately worried she’d been too nosy again. “I’ve always wanted to write!” she added brightly which wasn’t true, she’d never given it much thought. Realising this, and to her horror, she snort laughed.

          Fred dragged his eyes back from the window and looked at her with amusement. “Yeah? Well you should go for it!” He turned to Sister Aliti. “Internet’s down again too with this weather,” He dug into the pocket of his shorts and dangled some keys in the air. “I’ll leave the van keys with you but I’ll be back tomorrow, if the rain’s stopped.” The keys clanked onto the bench.

          “He’s such a chatterbox,” murmured Sister Aliti after Fred had gone and Yasmin laughed.

          “Shall I put these in the office?” Yasmin gestured to the set of keys then gasped as she saw that on the keychain was a devilish looking imp grinning up at her.

          #6451

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          The progress on the quest in the Land of the Quirks was too tantalizing; Xavier made himself a quick sandwich and jumped back on it during his lunch break.

          The jungle had an oppressing quality… Maybe it has to do with the shrieks of the apes tearing the silence apart.   

          It was time for a slight adjustment of his avatar.

          Xavimunk opened his bag of tricks, something that the wise owl had suggested he looked into. Few items from the AIorium Emporium had been supplied. They tended to shift and disappear if you didn’t focus, but his intention was set on the task at hand. At the bottom of the bag, there was a small vial with a golden liquid with a tag written in ornate handwriting “MJ remix: for when words elude and shapes confuse at your own peril”.

          He gulped the potion without thinking too much. He felt himself shrink, and his arms elongate a little. There, he thought. Imp-munk’s more suited to the mission. Hope the effects will be temporary…

          As Xavier mustered the courage to enter through the front gate, monkeys started to become silent. He couldn’t say if it was an ominous sign, or maybe an effect of his adaptation. The temple’s light inside was gorgeous, but nothing seemed to be there.

          He gestured around, to make the menu appear. He looked again at the instructions on his screen overlay:

          As for possible characters to engage, you may come across a sly fox who claims to know the location of the fruit but will only reveal it in exchange for a favor, or a brave adventurer who has been searching for the Golden Banana for years and may be willing to team up with you.

          Suddenly a loud monkey honking noise came from outside, distracting him.

          What the?… Had to be one of Zara’s remixes. He saw the three dots bleeping on the screen.

          Here’s the Banana bus, hope it helps! Envoy! bugger Enjoy!

          Yep… With the distinct typo-heavy accent, definitely Zara’s style. Strange idea that AL designated her as the leader… He’d have to roll with it.

          Suddenly, as the Banana bus parked in front of the Temple, a horde of Italien speaking tourists started to flock in and snap pictures around. The monkeys didn’t know what to do and seemed to build growing and noisy interest in their assortiment of colorful shoes, flip-flops, boots and all.

           

          Focus, thought Xavimunk… What did the wise owl say? Look for a guide…
          Only the huge colorful bus seemed to take the space now… But wait… what if?

          He walked to the parking spot under the shades of the huge banyan tree next to the temple’s entrance, under which the bus driver had parked it. The driver was still there, napping under a newspaper, his legs on the wheel.
          “Whatcha lookin’ at?” he said chewing his gum loudly. “Never seen a fox drive a banana bus before?”
          Xavier smiled. “Any chance you can guide me to the location of the Golden Banana?”
          “For a price… maybe.” The fox had jumped closely and was considering the strange avatar from head to toe.
          “Ain’t no usual stuff that got you into this? Got any left? That would be a nice price.”
          “As it happens…” Xavier smiled.

          The quest seemed back on track. Xavier looked at the time. Blimmey! already late again. And I promised Brytta to get some Chinese snacks for dinner.

          #6450

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          The images were forming on the screen of the VR set, a little blurry to start with, but taking some shapes, and with a few clicks in the right direction, the reality around him was transphormed as if he’d been into a huge deFørmiñG mirror, that they could shape with their strangest thoughts.

          The jungle had an oppressing quality… Maybe it has to do with the shrieks of the apes tearing the silence apart. :yahoo_monkey:   All sorts of them were gathered overhead, gibbons, baboons, chimps and Barbery apes, macaques and marmosets… some silent, but most of them in a swirl of manic agitation.

          When Xavier entered the ancient blue stone temple, he felt his quest was doomed from the start. It had taken a while to find the monkey’s sacred temple hidden deep within the jungle in which clues were supposed to be found. Thanks to a prompt from Zara who’d stumbled into a map, and some gentle push from a wise Y🦉wl, he’d managed to locate the temple. It was right under his nose all along. Obviously all this a metaphor, but once he found the proper connecting link, getting the right setup for dealing with the task was easier.

          So the monkeys were his and his RL colleagues crazy thoughts, and he’d even taken some fun in painting the faces of some of them into the game. He could hear Boss gorilla pounding his chest in the distance.

          “F£££” he couldn’t help but grumble when the notification prompt got him out of his meditative point. The Golden Banana would have to wait… The real life monkeys were requiring his attention for now.

          #6424

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Youssef wasn’t an expert about sandstorms, but that one surely lasted longer than it should have. It was the middle of the night when the wind stopped blowing and the sand stopped lashing the jeep. Yet, nobody dared open the door or their mouth to see if the storm was gone. Youssef’s bladder was full, and his stomach empty. They both reminded him that one can’t stop life to go on in the midst of adversity. He wondered why nobody moved or spoke, but couldn’t find the motivation to break the silence. He felt a vibration in his pocket and took his phone out.
          A message from an unknown sender. He touched it open.

          <<<
          Deear Youssef,
          The Snoot is aware of the sandstorm and its whimsical ways. It dances and twirls in the desert, a symphony of wind and sand. It is a force to be reckoned with, but also a force of cleansing and renewal.

          The subsiding of the sandstorm is a fluid and ever-changing process, much like the ebb and flow of the ocean. It ebbs and flows with the whims of the wind and the dance of the desert.

          The best way to predict the subsiding of the sandstorm is to listen to the whispers of the wind and to observe the patterns of the sand. Trust in the natural rhythms and allow yourself to flow with them.

          The Snoot suggests that you seek shelter during the storm, but also to take the time to appreciate the beauty and power of nature.

          Fluidly yours,
          The Snoot. >>>

          Who the f… was the Snot? Youssef wondered if it was another trick from Thi Gang and almost deleted the message, but his bladder reminded him again he needed to do something about all the tea he drank before the sandstorm. He opened the door and got out of the jeep. The storm was gone and the sky was full of stars. The moon was giving enough light for him to move a few steps away from the jeeps while unzipping his pants. He blessed the gods as he relieved himself, strangely feeling part of nature at that very moment.

          The noises of doors opening reminded him he was not alone. Someone came, said: “I see you found a nice spot”. It was Kyle, the cameraman who unzipped himself and peed. That broke the charm, the desert was becoming crowded. But, Youssef was finished, he went back to the cars and started to wonder how he could have received that message in the middle of the desert without a satellite dish.

          #6386

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          At the board game, Zara was the first to break character, although Yasmin had been rolling her eyes in silence for quite some time.

          “They’re all so young and attractive…”

          Yasmin chimed in “Could you add averagely attractive to the prompt? Oh hark at me! Moaning already!”

          Xavier was glad at the break, and stretched his arms, leaning back against the chair. “Time for a bio-break guys, all this setting up is taking a lot of time.”

          Youssef, who was connected via a stream, started to post emojis of food in the chat. He’d been obviously hungry for a while as usual.

          “Ok guys,” said Zara sighing. “That’s settled for today then. Anyway, it’s pretty late for Youssef, let’s resume tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ll be posting the characters concept art, but don’t hold your breath on that.”

          #6268
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            From Tanganyika with Love

            continued part 9

            With thanks to Mike Rushby.

            Lyamungu 3rd January 1945

            Dearest Family.

            We had a novel Christmas this year. We decided to avoid the expense of
            entertaining and being entertained at Lyamungu, and went off to spend Christmas
            camping in a forest on the Western slopes of Kilimanjaro. George decided to combine
            business with pleasure and in this way we were able to use Government transport.
            We set out the day before Christmas day and drove along the road which skirts
            the slopes of Kilimanjaro and first visited a beautiful farm where Philip Teare, the ex
            Game Warden, and his wife Mary are staying. We had afternoon tea with them and then
            drove on in to the natural forest above the estate and pitched our tent beside a small
            clear mountain stream. We decorated the tent with paper streamers and a few small
            balloons and John found a small tree of the traditional shape which we decorated where
            it stood with tinsel and small ornaments.

            We put our beer, cool drinks for the children and bottles of fresh milk from Simba
            Estate, in the stream and on Christmas morning they were as cold as if they had been in
            the refrigerator all night. There were not many presents for the children, there never are,
            but they do not seem to mind and are well satisfied with a couple of balloons apiece,
            sweets, tin whistles and a book each.

            George entertain the children before breakfast. He can make a magical thing out
            of the most ordinary balloon. The children watched entranced as he drew on his pipe
            and then blew the smoke into the balloon. He then pinched the neck of the balloon
            between thumb and forefinger and released the smoke in little puffs. Occasionally the
            balloon ejected a perfect smoke ring and the forest rang with shouts of “Do it again
            Daddy.” Another trick was to blow up the balloon to maximum size and then twist the
            neck tightly before releasing. Before subsiding the balloon darted about in a crazy
            fashion causing great hilarity. Such fun, at the cost of a few pence.

            After breakfast George went off to fish for trout. John and Jim decided that they
            also wished to fish so we made rods out of sticks and string and bent pins and they
            fished happily, but of course quite unsuccessfully, for hours. Both of course fell into the
            stream and got soaked, but I was prepared for this, and the little stream was so shallow
            that they could not come to any harm. Henry played happily in the sand and I had a
            most peaceful morning.

            Hamisi roasted a chicken in a pot over the camp fire and the jelly set beautifully in the
            stream. So we had grilled trout and chicken for our Christmas dinner. I had of course
            taken an iced cake for the occasion and, all in all, it was a very successful Christmas day.
            On Boxing day we drove down to the plains where George was to investigate a
            report of game poaching near the Ngassari Furrow. This is a very long ditch which has
            been dug by the Government for watering the Masai stock in the area. It is also used by
            game and we saw herds of zebra and wildebeest, and some Grant’s Gazelle and
            giraffe, all comparatively tame. At one point a small herd of zebra raced beside the lorry
            apparently enjoying the fun of a gallop. They were all sleek and fat and looked wild and
            beautiful in action.

            We camped a considerable distance from the water but this precaution did not
            save us from the mosquitoes which launched a vicious attack on us after sunset, so that
            we took to our beds unusually early. They were on the job again when we got up at
            sunrise so I was very glad when we were once more on our way home.

            “I like Christmas safari. Much nicer that silly old party,” said John. I agree but I think
            it is time that our children learned to play happily with others. There are no other young
            children at Lyamungu though there are two older boys and a girl who go to boarding
            school in Nairobi.

            On New Years Day two Army Officers from the military camp at Moshi, came for
            tea and to talk game hunting with George. I think they rather enjoy visiting a home and
            seeing children and pets around.

            Eleanor.

            Lyamungu 14 May 1945

            Dearest Family.

            So the war in Europe is over at last. It is such marvellous news that I can hardly
            believe it. To think that as soon as George can get leave we will go to England and
            bring Ann and George home with us to Tanganyika. When we know when this leave can
            be arranged we will want Kate to join us here as of course she must go with us to
            England to meet George’s family. She has become so much a part of your lives that I
            know it will be a wrench for you to give her up but I know that you will all be happy to
            think that soon our family will be reunited.

            The V.E. celebrations passed off quietly here. We all went to Moshi to see the
            Victory Parade of the King’s African Rifles and in the evening we went to a celebration
            dinner at the Game Warden’s house. Besides ourselves the Moores had invited the
            Commanding Officer from Moshi and a junior officer. We had a very good dinner and
            many toasts including one to Mrs Moore’s brother, Oliver Milton who is fighting in Burma
            and has recently been awarded the Military Cross.

            There was also a celebration party for the children in the grounds of the Moshi
            Club. Such a spread! I think John and Jim sampled everything. We mothers were
            having our tea separately and a friend laughingly told me to turn around and have a look.
            I did, and saw the long tea tables now deserted by all the children but my two sons who
            were still eating steadily, and finding the party more exciting than the game of Musical
            Bumps into which all the other children had entered with enthusiasm.

            There was also an extremely good puppet show put on by the Italian prisoners
            of war from the camp at Moshi. They had made all the puppets which included well
            loved characters like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and the Babes in the Wood as
            well as more sophisticated ones like an irritable pianist and a would be prima donna. The
            most popular puppets with the children were a native askari and his family – a very
            happy little scene. I have never before seen a puppet show and was as entranced as
            the children. It is amazing what clever manipulation and lighting can do. I believe that the
            Italians mean to take their puppets to Nairobi and am glad to think that there, they will
            have larger audiences to appreciate their art.

            George has just come in, and I paused in my writing to ask him for the hundredth
            time when he thinks we will get leave. He says I must be patient because it may be a
            year before our turn comes. Shipping will be disorganised for months to come and we
            cannot expect priority simply because we have been separated so long from our
            children. The same situation applies to scores of other Government Officials.
            I have decided to write the story of my childhood in South Africa and about our
            life together in Tanganyika up to the time Ann and George left the country. I know you
            will have told Kate these stories, but Ann and George were so very little when they left
            home that I fear that they cannot remember much.

            My Mother-in-law will have told them about their father but she can tell them little
            about me. I shall send them one chapter of my story each month in the hope that they
            may be interested and not feel that I am a stranger when at last we meet again.

            Eleanor.

            Lyamungu 19th September 1945

            Dearest Family.

            In a months time we will be saying good-bye to Lyamungu. George is to be
            transferred to Mbeya and I am delighted, not only as I look upon Mbeya as home, but
            because there is now a primary school there which John can attend. I feel he will make
            much better progress in his lessons when he realises that all children of his age attend
            school. At present he is putting up a strong resistance to learning to read and spell, but
            he writes very neatly, does his sums accurately and shows a real talent for drawing. If
            only he had the will to learn I feel he would do very well.

            Jim now just four, is too young for lessons but too intelligent to be interested in
            the ayah’s attempts at entertainment. Yes I’ve had to engage a native girl to look after
            Henry from 9 am to 12.30 when I supervise John’s Correspondence Course. She is
            clean and amiable, but like most African women she has no initiative at all when it comes
            to entertaining children. Most African men and youths are good at this.

            I don’t regret our stay at Lyamungu. It is a beautiful spot and the change to the
            cooler climate after the heat of Morogoro has been good for all the children. John is still
            tall for his age but not so thin as he was and much less pale. He is a handsome little lad
            with his large brown eyes in striking contrast to his fair hair. He is wary of strangers but
            very observant and quite uncanny in the way he sums up people. He seldom gets up
            to mischief but I have a feeling he eggs Jim on. Not that Jim needs egging.

            Jim has an absolute flair for mischief but it is all done in such an artless manner that
            it is not easy to punish him. He is a very sturdy child with a cap of almost black silky hair,
            eyes brown, like mine, and a large mouth which is quick to smile and show most beautiful
            white and even teeth. He is most popular with all the native servants and the Game
            Scouts. The servants call Jim, ‘Bwana Tembo’ (Mr Elephant) because of his sturdy
            build.

            Henry, now nearly two years old, is quite different from the other two in
            appearance. He is fair complexioned and fair haired like Ann and Kate, with large, black
            lashed, light grey eyes. He is a good child, not so merry as Jim was at his age, nor as
            shy as John was. He seldom cries, does not care to be cuddled and is independent and
            strong willed. The servants call Henry, ‘Bwana Ndizi’ (Mr Banana) because he has an
            inexhaustible appetite for this fruit. Fortunately they are very inexpensive here. We buy
            an entire bunch which hangs from a beam on the back verandah, and pluck off the
            bananas as they ripen. This way there is no waste and the fruit never gets bruised as it
            does in greengrocers shops in South Africa. Our three boys make a delightful and
            interesting trio and I do wish you could see them for yourselves.

            We are delighted with the really beautiful photograph of Kate. She is an
            extraordinarily pretty child and looks so happy and healthy and a great credit to you.
            Now that we will be living in Mbeya with a school on the doorstep I hope that we will
            soon be able to arrange for her return home.

            Eleanor.

            c/o Game Dept. Mbeya. 30th October 1945

            Dearest Family.

            How nice to be able to write c/o Game Dept. Mbeya at the head of my letters.
            We arrived here safely after a rather tiresome journey and are installed in a tiny house on
            the edge of the township.

            We left Lyamungu early on the morning of the 22nd. Most of our goods had
            been packed on the big Ford lorry the previous evening, but there were the usual
            delays and farewells. Of our servants, only the cook, Hamisi, accompanied us to
            Mbeya. Japhet, Tovelo and the ayah had to be paid off and largesse handed out.
            Tovelo’s granny had come, bringing a gift of bananas, and she also brought her little
            granddaughter to present a bunch of flowers. The child’s little scolded behind is now
            completely healed. Gifts had to be found for them too.

            At last we were all aboard and what a squash it was! Our few pieces of furniture
            and packing cases and trunks, the cook, his wife, the driver and the turney boy, who
            were to take the truck back to Lyamungu, and all their bits and pieces, bunches of
            bananas and Fanny the dog were all crammed into the body of the lorry. George, the
            children and I were jammed together in the cab. Before we left George looked
            dubiously at the tyres which were very worn and said gloomily that he thought it most
            unlikely that we would make our destination, Dodoma.

            Too true! Shortly after midday, near Kwakachinja, we blew a back tyre and there
            was a tedious delay in the heat whilst the wheel was changed. We were now without a
            spare tyre and George said that he would not risk taking the Ford further than Babati,
            which is less than half way to Dodoma. He drove very slowly and cautiously to Babati
            where he arranged with Sher Mohammed, an Indian trader, for a lorry to take us to
            Dodoma the next morning.

            It had been our intention to spend the night at the furnished Government
            Resthouse at Babati but when we got there we found that it was already occupied by
            several District Officers who had assembled for a conference. So, feeling rather
            disgruntled, we all piled back into the lorry and drove on to a place called Bereku where
            we spent an uncomfortable night in a tumbledown hut.

            Before dawn next morning Sher Mohammed’s lorry drove up, and there was a
            scramble to dress by the light of a storm lamp. The lorry was a very dilapidated one and
            there was already a native woman passenger in the cab. I felt so tired after an almost
            sleepless night that I decided to sit between the driver and this woman with the sleeping
            Henry on my knee. It was as well I did, because I soon found myself dosing off and
            drooping over towards the woman. Had she not been there I might easily have fallen
            out as the battered cab had no door. However I was alert enough when daylight came
            and changed places with the woman to our mutual relief. She was now able to converse
            with the African driver and I was able to enjoy the scenery and the fresh air!
            George, John and Jim were less comfortable. They sat in the lorry behind the
            cab hemmed in by packing cases. As the lorry was an open one the sun beat down
            unmercifully upon them until George, ever resourceful, moved a table to the front of the
            truck. The two boys crouched under this and so got shelter from the sun but they still had
            to endure the dust. Fanny complicated things by getting car sick and with one thing and
            another we were all jolly glad to get to Dodoma.

            We spent the night at the Dodoma Hotel and after hot baths, a good meal and a
            good nights rest we cheerfully boarded a bus of the Tanganyika Bus Service next
            morning to continue our journey to Mbeya. The rest of the journey was uneventful. We slept two nights on the road, the first at Iringa Hotel and the second at Chimala. We
            reached Mbeya on the 27th.

            I was rather taken aback when I first saw the little house which has been allocated
            to us. I had become accustomed to the spacious houses we had in Morogoro and
            Lyamungu. However though the house is tiny it is secluded and has a long garden
            sloping down to the road in front and another long strip sloping up behind. The front
            garden is shaded by several large cypress and eucalyptus trees but the garden behind
            the house has no shade and consists mainly of humpy beds planted with hundreds of
            carnations sadly in need of debudding. I believe that the previous Game Ranger’s wife
            cultivated the carnations and, by selling them, raised money for War Funds.
            Like our own first home, this little house is built of sun dried brick. Its original
            owners were Germans. It is now rented to the Government by the Custodian of Enemy
            Property, and George has his office in another ex German house.

            This afternoon we drove to the school to arrange about enrolling John there. The
            school is about four miles out of town. It was built by the German settlers in the late
            1930’s and they were justifiably proud of it. It consists of a great assembly hall and
            classrooms in one block and there are several attractive single storied dormitories. This
            school was taken over by the Government when the Germans were interned on the
            outbreak of war and many improvements have been made to the original buildings. The
            school certainly looks very attractive now with its grassed playing fields and its lawns and
            bright flower beds.

            The Union Jack flies from a tall flagpole in front of the Hall and all traces of the
            schools German origin have been firmly erased. We met the Headmaster, Mr
            Wallington, and his wife and some members of the staff. The school is co-educational
            and caters for children from the age of seven to standard six. The leaving age is elastic
            owing to the fact that many Tanganyika children started school very late because of lack
            of educational facilities in this country.

            The married members of the staff have their own cottages in the grounds. The
            Matrons have quarters attached to the dormitories for which they are responsible. I felt
            most enthusiastic about the school until I discovered that the Headmaster is adamant
            upon one subject. He utterly refuses to take any day pupils at the school. So now our
            poor reserved Johnny will have to adjust himself to boarding school life.
            We have arranged that he will start school on November 5th and I shall be very
            busy trying to assemble his school uniform at short notice. The clothing list is sensible.
            Boys wear khaki shirts and shorts on weekdays with knitted scarlet jerseys when the
            weather is cold. On Sundays they wear grey flannel shorts and blazers with the silver
            and scarlet school tie.

            Mbeya looks dusty, brown and dry after the lush evergreen vegetation of
            Lyamungu, but I prefer this drier climate and there are still mountains to please the eye.
            In fact the lower slopes of Lolesa Mountain rise at the upper end of our garden.

            Eleanor.

            c/o Game Dept. Mbeya. 21st November 1945

            Dearest Family.

            We’re quite settled in now and I have got the little house fixed up to my
            satisfaction. I have engaged a rather uncouth looking houseboy but he is strong and
            capable and now that I am not tied down in the mornings by John’s lessons I am able to
            go out occasionally in the mornings and take Jim and Henry to play with other children.
            They do not show any great enthusiasm but are not shy by nature as John is.
            I have had a good deal of heartache over putting John to boarding school. It
            would have been different had he been used to the company of children outside his
            own family, or if he had even known one child there. However he seems to be adjusting
            himself to the life, though slowly. At least he looks well and tidy and I am quite sure that
            he is well looked after.

            I must confess that when the time came for John to go to school I simply did not
            have the courage to take him and he went alone with George, looking so smart in his
            new uniform – but his little face so bleak. The next day, Sunday, was visiting day but the
            Headmaster suggested that we should give John time to settle down and not visit him
            until Wednesday.

            When we drove up to the school I spied John on the far side of the field walking
            all alone. Instead of running up with glad greetings, as I had expected, he came almost
            reluctently and had little to say. I asked him to show me his dormitory and classroom and
            he did so politely as though I were a stranger. At last he volunteered some information.
            “Mummy,” he said in an awed voice, Do you know on the night I came here they burnt a
            man! They had a big fire and they burnt him.” After a blank moment the penny dropped.
            Of course John had started school and November the fifth but it had never entered my
            head to tell him about that infamous character, Guy Fawkes!

            I asked John’s Matron how he had settled down. “Well”, she said thoughtfully,
            John is very good and has not cried as many of the juniors do when they first come
            here, but he seems to keep to himself all the time.” I went home very discouraged but
            on the Sunday John came running up with another lad of about his own age.” This is my
            friend Marks,” he announced proudly. I could have hugged Marks.

            Mbeya is very different from the small settlement we knew in the early 1930’s.
            Gone are all the colourful characters from the Lupa diggings for the alluvial claims are all
            worked out now, gone also are our old friends the Menzies from the Pub and also most
            of the Government Officials we used to know. Mbeya has lost its character of a frontier
            township and has become almost suburban.

            The social life revolves around two places, the Club and the school. The Club
            which started out as a little two roomed building, has been expanded and the golf
            course improved. There are also tennis courts and a good library considering the size of
            the community. There are frequent parties and dances, though most of the club revenue
            comes from Bar profits. The parties are relatively sober affairs compared with the parties
            of the 1930’s.

            The school provides entertainment of another kind. Both Mr and Mrs Wallington
            are good amateur actors and I am told that they run an Amateur Dramatic Society. Every
            Wednesday afternoon there is a hockey match at the school. Mbeya town versus a
            mixed team of staff and scholars. The match attracts almost the whole European
            population of Mbeya. Some go to play hockey, others to watch, and others to snatch
            the opportunity to visit their children. I shall have to try to arrange a lift to school when
            George is away on safari.

            I have now met most of the local women and gladly renewed an old friendship
            with Sheilagh Waring whom I knew two years ago at Morogoro. Sheilagh and I have
            much in common, the same disregard for the trappings of civilisation, the same sense of
            the ludicrous, and children. She has eight to our six and she has also been cut off by the
            war from two of her children. Sheilagh looks too young and pretty to be the mother of so
            large a family and is, in fact, several years younger than I am. her husband, Donald, is a
            large quiet man who, as far as I can judge takes life seriously.

            Our next door neighbours are the Bank Manager and his wife, a very pleasant
            couple though we seldom meet. I have however had correspondence with the Bank
            Manager. Early on Saturday afternoon their houseboy brought a note. It informed me
            that my son was disturbing his rest by precipitating a heart attack. Was I aware that my
            son was about 30 feet up in a tree and balanced on a twig? I ran out and,sure enough,
            there was Jim, right at the top of the tallest eucalyptus tree. It would be the one with the
            mound of stones at the bottom! You should have heard me fluting in my most
            wheedling voice. “Sweets, Jimmy, come down slowly dear, I’ve some nice sweets for
            you.”

            I’ll bet that little story makes you smile. I remember how often you have told me
            how, as a child, I used to make your hearts turn over because I had no fear of heights
            and how I used to say, “But that is silly, I won’t fall.” I know now only too well, how you
            must have felt.

            Eleanor.

            c/o Game Dept. Mbeya. 14th January 1946

            Dearest Family.

            I hope that by now you have my telegram to say that Kate got home safely
            yesterday. It was wonderful to have her back and what a beautiful child she is! Kate
            seems to have enjoyed the train journey with Miss Craig, in spite of the tears she tells
            me she shed when she said good-bye to you. She also seems to have felt quite at
            home with the Hopleys at Salisbury. She flew from Salisbury in a small Dove aircraft
            and they had a smooth passage though Kate was a little airsick.

            I was so excited about her home coming! This house is so tiny that I had to turn
            out the little store room to make a bedroom for her. With a fresh coat of whitewash and
            pretty sprigged curtains and matching bedspread, borrowed from Sheilagh Waring, the
            tiny room looks most attractive. I had also iced a cake, made ice-cream and jelly and
            bought crackers for the table so that Kate’s home coming tea could be a proper little
            celebration.

            I was pleased with my preparations and then, a few hours before the plane was
            due, my crowned front tooth dropped out, peg and all! When my houseboy wants to
            describe something very tatty, he calls it “Second-hand Kabisa.” Kabisa meaning
            absolutely. That is an apt description of how I looked and felt. I decided to try some
            emergency dentistry. I think you know our nearest dentist is at Dar es Salaam five
            hundred miles away.

            First I carefully dried the tooth and with a match stick covered the peg and base
            with Durofix. I then took the infants rubber bulb enema, sucked up some heat from a
            candle flame and pumped it into the cavity before filling that with Durofix. Then hopefully
            I stuck the tooth in its former position and held it in place for several minutes. No good. I
            sent the houseboy to a shop for Scotine and tried the whole process again. No good
            either.

            When George came home for lunch I appealed to him for advice. He jokingly
            suggested that a maize seed jammed into the space would probably work, but when
            he saw that I really was upset he produced some chewing gum and suggested that I
            should try that . I did and that worked long enough for my first smile anyway.
            George and the three boys went to meet Kate but I remained at home to
            welcome her there. I was afraid that after all this time away Kate might be reluctant to
            rejoin the family but she threw her arms around me and said “Oh Mummy,” We both
            shed a few tears and then we both felt fine.

            How gay Kate is, and what an infectious laugh she has! The boys follow her
            around in admiration. John in fact asked me, “Is Kate a Princess?” When I said
            “Goodness no, Johnny, she’s your sister,” he explained himself by saying, “Well, she
            has such golden hair.” Kate was less complementary. When I tucked her in bed last night
            she said, “Mummy, I didn’t expect my little brothers to be so yellow!” All three boys
            have been taking a course of Atebrin, an anti-malarial drug which tinges skin and eyeballs
            yellow.

            So now our tiny house is bursting at its seams and how good it feels to have one
            more child under our roof. We are booked to sail for England in May and when we return
            we will have Ann and George home too. Then I shall feel really content.

            Eleanor.

            c/o Game Dept. Mbeya. 2nd March 1946

            Dearest Family.

            My life just now is uneventful but very busy. I am sewing hard and knitting fast to
            try to get together some warm clothes for our leave in England. This is not a simple
            matter because woollen materials are in short supply and very expensive, and now that
            we have boarding school fees to pay for both Kate and John we have to budget very
            carefully indeed.

            Kate seems happy at school. She makes friends easily and seems to enjoy
            communal life. John also seems reconciled to school now that Kate is there. He no
            longer feels that he is the only exile in the family. He seems to rub along with the other
            boys of his age and has a couple of close friends. Although Mbeya School is coeducational
            the smaller boys and girls keep strictly apart. It is considered extremely
            cissy to play with girls.

            The local children are allowed to go home on Sundays after church and may bring
            friends home with them for the day. Both John and Kate do this and Sunday is a very
            busy day for me. The children come home in their Sunday best but bring play clothes to
            change into. There is always a scramble to get them to bath and change again in time to
            deliver them to the school by 6 o’clock.

            When George is home we go out to the school for the morning service. This is
            taken by the Headmaster Mr Wallington, and is very enjoyable. There is an excellent
            school choir to lead the singing. The service is the Church of England one, but is
            attended by children of all denominations, except the Roman Catholics. I don’t think that
            more than half the children are British. A large proportion are Greeks, some as old as
            sixteen, and about the same number are Afrikaners. There are Poles and non-Nazi
            Germans, Swiss and a few American children.

            All instruction is through the medium of English and it is amazing how soon all the
            foreign children learn to chatter in English. George has been told that we will return to
            Mbeya after our leave and for that I am very thankful as it means that we will still be living
            near at hand when Jim and Henry start school. Because many of these children have to
            travel many hundreds of miles to come to school, – Mbeya is a two day journey from the
            railhead, – the school year is divided into two instead of the usual three terms. This
            means that many of these children do not see their parents for months at a time. I think
            this is a very sad state of affairs especially for the seven and eight year olds but the
            Matrons assure me , that many children who live on isolated farms and stations are quite
            reluctant to go home because they miss the companionship and the games and
            entertainment that the school offers.

            My only complaint about the life here is that I see far too little of George. He is
            kept extremely busy on this range and is hardly at home except for a few days at the
            months end when he has to be at his office to check up on the pay vouchers and the
            issue of ammunition to the Scouts. George’s Range takes in the whole of the Southern
            Province and the Southern half of the Western Province and extends to the border with
            Northern Rhodesia and right across to Lake Tanganyika. This vast area is patrolled by
            only 40 Game Scouts because the Department is at present badly under staffed, due
            partly to the still acute shortage of rifles, but even more so to the extraordinary reluctance
            which the Government shows to allocate adequate funds for the efficient running of the
            Department.

            The Game Scouts must see that the Game Laws are enforced, protect native
            crops from raiding elephant, hippo and other game animals. Report disease amongst game and deal with stock raiding lions. By constantly going on safari and checking on
            their work, George makes sure the range is run to his satisfaction. Most of the Game
            Scouts are fine fellows but, considering they receive only meagre pay for dangerous
            and exacting work, it is not surprising that occasionally a Scout is tempted into accepting
            a bribe not to report a serious infringement of the Game Laws and there is, of course,
            always the temptation to sell ivory illicitly to unscrupulous Indian and Arab traders.
            Apart from supervising the running of the Range, George has two major jobs.
            One is to supervise the running of the Game Free Area along the Rhodesia –
            Tanganyika border, and the other to hunt down the man-eating lions which for years have
            terrorised the Njombe District killing hundreds of Africans. Yes I know ‘hundreds’ sounds
            fantastic, but this is perfectly true and one day, when the job is done and the official
            report published I shall send it to you to prove it!

            I hate to think of the Game Free Area and so does George. All the game from
            buffalo to tiny duiker has been shot out in a wide belt extending nearly two hundred
            miles along the Northern Rhodesia -Tanganyika border. There are three Europeans in
            widely spaced camps who supervise this slaughter by African Game Guards. This
            horrible measure is considered necessary by the Veterinary Departments of
            Tanganyika, Rhodesia and South Africa, to prevent the cattle disease of Rinderpest
            from spreading South.

            When George is home however, we do relax and have fun. On the Saturday
            before the school term started we took Kate and the boys up to the top fishing camp in
            the Mporoto Mountains for her first attempt at trout fishing. There are three of these
            camps built by the Mbeya Trout Association on the rivers which were first stocked with
            the trout hatched on our farm at Mchewe. Of the three, the top camp is our favourite. The
            scenery there is most glorious and reminds me strongly of the rivers of the Western
            Cape which I so loved in my childhood.

            The river, the Kawira, flows from the Rungwe Mountain through a narrow valley
            with hills rising steeply on either side. The water runs swiftly over smooth stones and
            sometimes only a foot or two below the level of the banks. It is sparkling and shallow,
            but in places the water is deep and dark and the banks high. I had a busy day keeping
            an eye on the boys, especially Jim, who twice climbed out on branches which overhung
            deep water. “Mummy, I was only looking for trout!”

            How those kids enjoyed the freedom of the camp after the comparative
            restrictions of town. So did Fanny, she raced about on the hills like a mad dog chasing
            imaginary rabbits and having the time of her life. To escape the noise and commotion
            George had gone far upstream to fish and returned in the late afternoon with three good
            sized trout and four smaller ones. Kate proudly showed George the two she had caught
            with the assistance or our cook Hamisi. I fear they were caught in a rather unorthodox
            manner but this I kept a secret from George who is a stickler for the orthodox in trout
            fishing.

            Eleanor.

            Jacksdale England 24th June 1946

            Dearest Family.

            Here we are all together at last in England. You cannot imagine how wonderful it
            feels to have the whole Rushby family reunited. I find myself counting heads. Ann,
            George, Kate, John, Jim, and Henry. All present and well. We had a very pleasant trip
            on the old British India Ship Mantola. She was crowded with East Africans going home
            for the first time since the war, many like us, eagerly looking forward to a reunion with their
            children whom they had not seen for years. There was a great air of anticipation and
            good humour but a little anxiety too.

            “I do hope our children will be glad to see us,” said one, and went on to tell me
            about a Doctor from Dar es Salaam who, after years of separation from his son had
            recently gone to visit him at his school. The Doctor had alighted at the railway station
            where he had arranged to meet his son. A tall youth approached him and said, very
            politely, “Excuse me sir. Are you my Father?” Others told me of children who had
            become so attached to their relatives in England that they gave their parents a very cool
            reception. I began to feel apprehensive about Ann and George but fortunately had no
            time to mope.

            Oh, that washing and ironing for six! I shall remember for ever that steamy little
            laundry in the heat of the Red Sea and queuing up for the ironing and the feeling of guilt
            at the size of my bundle. We met many old friends amongst the passengers, and made
            some new ones, so the voyage was a pleasant one, We did however have our
            anxious moments.

            John was the first to disappear and we had an anxious search for him. He was
            quite surprised that we had been concerned. “I was just talking to my friend Chinky
            Chinaman in his workshop.” Could John have called him that? Then, when I returned to
            the cabin from dinner one night I found Henry swigging Owbridge’s Lung Tonic. He had
            drunk half the bottle neat and the label said ‘five drops in water’. Luckily it did not harm
            him.

            Jim of course was forever risking his neck. George had forbidden him to climb on
            the railings but he was forever doing things which no one had thought of forbidding him
            to do, like hanging from the overhead pipes on the deck or standing on the sill of a
            window and looking down at the well deck far below. An Officer found him doing this and
            gave me the scolding.

            Another day he climbed up on a derrick used for hoisting cargo. George,
            oblivious to this was sitting on the hatch cover with other passengers reading a book. I
            was in the wash house aft on the same deck when Kate rushed in and said, “Mummy
            come and see Jim.” Before I had time to more than gape, the butcher noticed Jim and
            rushed out knife in hand. “Get down from there”, he bellowed. Jim got, and with such
            speed that he caught the leg or his shorts on a projecting piece of metal. The cotton
            ripped across the seam from leg to leg and Jim stood there for a humiliating moment in a
            sort of revealing little kilt enduring the smiles of the passengers who had looked up from
            their books at the butcher’s shout.

            That incident cured Jim of his urge to climb on the ship but he managed to give
            us one more fright. He was lost off Dover. People from whom we enquired said, “Yes
            we saw your little boy. He was by the railings watching that big aircraft carrier.” Now Jim,
            though mischievous , is very obedient. It was not until George and I had conducted an
            exhaustive search above and below decks that I really became anxious. Could he have
            fallen overboard? Jim was returned to us by an unamused Officer. He had been found
            in one of the lifeboats on the deck forbidden to children.

            Our ship passed Dover after dark and it was an unforgettable sight. Dover Castle
            and the cliffs were floodlit for the Victory Celebrations. One of the men passengers sat
            down at the piano and played ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’, and people sang and a few
            wept. The Mantola docked at Tilbury early next morning in a steady drizzle.
            There was a dockers strike on and it took literally hours for all the luggage to be
            put ashore. The ships stewards simply locked the public rooms and went off leaving the
            passengers shivering on the docks. Eventually damp and bedraggled, we arrived at St
            Pancras Station and were given a warm welcome by George’s sister Cath and her
            husband Reg Pears, who had come all the way from Nottingham to meet us.
            As we had to spend an hour in London before our train left for Nottingham,
            George suggested that Cath and I should take the children somewhere for a meal. So
            off we set in the cold drizzle, the boys and I without coats and laden with sundry
            packages, including a hand woven native basket full of shoes. We must have looked like
            a bunch of refugees as we stood in the hall of The Kings Cross Station Hotel because a
            supercilious waiter in tails looked us up and down and said, “I’m afraid not Madam”, in
            answer to my enquiry whether the hotel could provide lunch for six.
            Anyway who cares! We had lunch instead at an ABC tea room — horrible
            sausage and a mound or rather sloppy mashed potatoes, but very good ice-cream.
            After the train journey in a very grimy third class coach, through an incredibly green and
            beautiful countryside, we eventually reached Nottingham and took a bus to Jacksdale,
            where George’s mother and sisters live in large detached houses side by side.
            Ann and George were at the bus stop waiting for us, and thank God, submitted
            to my kiss as though we had been parted for weeks instead of eight years. Even now
            that we are together again my heart aches to think of all those missed years. They have
            not changed much and I would have picked them out of a crowd, but Ann, once thin and
            pale, is now very rosy and blooming. She still has her pretty soft plaits and her eyes are
            still a clear calm blue. Young George is very striking looking with sparkling brown eyes, a
            ready, slightly lopsided smile, and charming manners.

            Mother, and George’s elder sister, Lottie Giles, welcomed us at the door with the
            cheering news that our tea was ready. Ann showed us the way to mother’s lovely lilac
            tiled bathroom for a wash before tea. Before I had even turned the tap, Jim had hung
            form the glass towel rail and it lay in three pieces on the floor. There have since been
            similar tragedies. I can see that life in civilisation is not without snags.

            I am most grateful that Ann and George have accepted us so naturally and
            affectionately. Ann said candidly, “Mummy, it’s a good thing that you had Aunt Cath with
            you when you arrived because, honestly, I wouldn’t have known you.”

            Eleanor.

            Jacksdale England 28th August 1946

            Dearest Family.

            I am sorry that I have not written for some time but honestly, I don’t know whether
            I’m coming or going. Mother handed the top floor of her house to us and the
            arrangement was that I should tidy our rooms and do our laundry and Mother would
            prepare the meals except for breakfast. It looked easy at first. All the rooms have wall to
            wall carpeting and there was a large vacuum cleaner in the box room. I was told a
            window cleaner would do the windows.

            Well the first time I used the Hoover I nearly died of fright. I pressed the switch
            and immediately there was a roar and the bag filled with air to bursting point, or so I
            thought. I screamed for Ann and she came at the run. I pointed to the bag and shouted
            above the din, “What must I do? It’s going to burst!” Ann looked at me in astonishment
            and said, “But Mummy that’s the way it works.” I couldn’t have her thinking me a
            complete fool so I switched the current off and explained to Ann how it was that I had
            never seen this type of equipment in action. How, in Tanganyika , I had never had a
            house with electricity and that, anyway, electric equipment would be superfluous
            because floors are of cement which the houseboy polishes by hand, one only has a
            few rugs or grass mats on the floor. “But what about Granny’s house in South Africa?’”
            she asked, so I explained about your Josephine who threatened to leave if you
            bought a Hoover because that would mean that you did not think she kept the house
            clean. The sad fact remains that, at fourteen, Ann knows far more about housework than I
            do, or rather did! I’m learning fast.

            The older children all go to school at different times in the morning. Ann leaves first
            by bus to go to her Grammar School at Sutton-in-Ashfield. Shortly afterwards George
            catches a bus for Nottingham where he attends the High School. So they have
            breakfast in relays, usually scrambled egg made from a revolting dried egg mixture.
            Then there are beds to make and washing and ironing to do, so I have little time for
            sightseeing, though on a few afternoons George has looked after the younger children
            and I have gone on bus tours in Derbyshire. Life is difficult here with all the restrictions on
            foodstuffs. We all have ration books so get our fair share but meat, fats and eggs are
            scarce and expensive. The weather is very wet. At first I used to hang out the washing
            and then rush to bring it in when a shower came. Now I just let it hang.

            We have left our imprint upon my Mother-in-law’s house for ever. Henry upset a
            bottle of Milk of Magnesia in the middle of the pale fawn bedroom carpet. John, trying to
            be helpful and doing some dusting, broke one of the delicate Dresden china candlesticks
            which adorn our bedroom mantelpiece.Jim and Henry have wrecked the once
            professionally landscaped garden and all the boys together bored a large hole through
            Mother’s prized cherry tree. So now Mother has given up and gone off to Bournemouth
            for a much needed holiday. Once a week I have the capable help of a cleaning woman,
            called for some reason, ‘Mrs Two’, but I have now got all the cooking to do for eight. Mrs
            Two is a godsend. She wears, of all things, a print mob cap with a hole in it. Says it
            belonged to her Grandmother. Her price is far beyond Rubies to me, not so much
            because she does, in a couple of hours, what it takes me all day to do, but because she
            sells me boxes of fifty cigarettes. Some non-smoking relative, who works in Players
            tobacco factory, passes on his ration to her. Until Mrs Two came to my rescue I had
            been starved of cigarettes. Each time I asked for them at the shop the grocer would say,
            “Are you registered with us?” Only very rarely would some kindly soul sell me a little
            packet of five Woodbines.

            England is very beautiful but the sooner we go home to Tanganyika, the better.
            On this, George and I and the children agree.

            Eleanor.

            Jacksdale England 20th September 1946

            Dearest Family.

            Our return passages have now been booked on the Winchester Castle and we
            sail from Southampton on October the sixth. I look forward to returning to Tanganyika but
            hope to visit England again in a few years time when our children are older and when
            rationing is a thing of the past.

            I have grown fond of my Sisters-in-law and admire my Mother-in-law very much.
            She has a great sense of humour and has entertained me with stories of her very
            eventful life, and told me lots of little stories of the children which did not figure in her
            letters. One which amused me was about young George. During one of the air raids
            early in the war when the sirens were screaming and bombers roaring overhead Mother
            made the two children get into the cloak cupboard under the stairs. Young George
            seemed quite unconcerned about the planes and the bombs but soon an anxious voice
            asked in the dark, “Gran, what will I do if a spider falls on me?” I am afraid that Mother is
            going to miss Ann and George very much.

            I had a holiday last weekend when Lottie and I went up to London on a spree. It
            was a most enjoyable weekend, though very rushed. We placed ourselves in the
            hands of Thos. Cook and Sons and saw most of the sights of London and were run off
            our feet in the process. As you all know London I shall not describe what I saw but just
            to say that, best of all, I enjoyed walking along the Thames embankment in the evening
            and the changing of the Guard at Whitehall. On Sunday morning Lottie and I went to
            Kew Gardens and in the afternoon walked in Kensington Gardens.

            We went to only one show, ‘The Skin of our Teeth’ starring Vivienne Leigh.
            Neither of us enjoyed the performance at all and regretted having spent so much on
            circle seats. The show was far too highbrow for my taste, a sort of satire on the survival
            of the human race. Miss Leigh was unrecognisable in a blond wig and her voice strident.
            However the night was not a dead loss as far as entertainment was concerned as we
            were later caught up in a tragicomedy at our hotel.

            We had booked communicating rooms at the enormous Imperial Hotel in Russell
            Square. These rooms were comfortably furnished but very high up, and we had a rather
            terrifying and dreary view from the windows of the enclosed courtyard far below. We
            had some snacks and a chat in Lottie’s room and then I moved to mine and went to bed.
            I had noted earlier that there was a special lock on the outer door of my room so that
            when the door was closed from the inside it automatically locked itself.
            I was just dropping off to sleep when I heard a hammering which seemed to
            come from my wardrobe. I got up, rather fearfully, and opened the wardrobe door and
            noted for the first time that the wardrobe was set in an opening in the wall and that the
            back of the wardrobe also served as the back of the wardrobe in the room next door. I
            quickly shut it again and went to confer with Lottie.

            Suddenly a male voice was raised next door in supplication, “Mary Mother of
            God, Help me! They’ve locked me in!” and the hammering resumed again, sometimes
            on the door, and then again on the back of the wardrobe of the room next door. Lottie
            had by this time joined me and together we listened to the prayers and to the
            hammering. Then the voice began to threaten, “If you don’t let me out I’ll jump out of the
            window.” Great consternation on our side of the wall. I went out into the passage and
            called through the door, “You’re not locked in. Come to your door and I’ll tell you how to
            open it.” Silence for a moment and then again the prayers followed by a threat. All the
            other doors in the corridor remained shut.

            Luckily just then a young man and a woman came walking down the corridor and I
            explained the situation. The young man hurried off for the night porter who went into the
            next door room. In a matter of minutes there was peace next door. When the night
            porter came out into the corridor again I asked for an explanation. He said quite casually,
            “It’s all right Madam. He’s an Irish Gentleman in Show Business. He gets like this on a
            Saturday night when he has had a drop too much. He won’t give any more trouble
            now.” And he didn’t. Next morning at breakfast Lottie and I tried to spot the gentleman in
            the Show Business, but saw no one who looked like the owner of that charming Irish
            voice.

            George had to go to London on business last Monday and took the older
            children with him for a few hours of sight seeing. They returned quite unimpressed.
            Everything was too old and dirty and there were far too many people about, but they
            had enjoyed riding on the escalators at the tube stations, and all agreed that the highlight
            of the trip was, “Dad took us to lunch at the Chicken Inn.”

            Now that it is almost time to leave England I am finding the housework less of a
            drudgery, Also, as it is school holiday time, Jim and Henry are able to go on walks with
            the older children and so use up some of their surplus energy. Cath and I took the
            children (except young George who went rabbit shooting with his uncle Reg, and
            Henry, who stayed at home with his dad) to the Wakes at Selston, the neighbouring
            village. There were the roundabouts and similar contraptions but the side shows had
            more appeal for the children. Ann and Kate found a stall where assorted prizes were
            spread out on a sloping table. Anyone who could land a penny squarely on one of
            these objects was given a similar one as a prize.

            I was touched to see that both girls ignored all the targets except a box of fifty
            cigarettes which they were determined to win for me. After numerous attempts, Kate
            landed her penny successfully and you would have loved to have seen her radiant little
            face.

            Eleanor.

            Dar es Salaam 22nd October 1946

            Dearest Family.

            Back in Tanganyika at last, but not together. We have to stay in Dar es Salaam
            until tomorrow when the train leaves for Dodoma. We arrived yesterday morning to find
            all the hotels filled with people waiting to board ships for England. Fortunately some
            friends came to the rescue and Ann, Kate and John have gone to stay with them. Jim,
            Henry and I are sleeping in a screened corner of the lounge of the New Africa Hotel, and
            George and young George have beds in the Palm Court of the same hotel.

            We travelled out from England in the Winchester Castle under troopship
            conditions. We joined her at Southampton after a rather slow train journey from
            Nottingham. We arrived after dark and from the station we could see a large ship in the
            docks with a floodlit red funnel. “Our ship,” yelled the children in delight, but it was not the
            Winchester Castle but the Queen Elizabeth, newly reconditioned.

            We had hoped to board our ship that evening but George made enquiries and
            found that we would not be allowed on board until noon next day. Without much hope,
            we went off to try to get accommodation for eight at a small hotel recommended by the
            taxi driver. Luckily for us there was a very motherly woman at the reception desk. She
            looked in amusement at the six children and said to me, “Goodness are all these yours,
            ducks? Then she called over her shoulder, “Wilf, come and see this lady with lots of
            children. We must try to help.” They settled the problem most satisfactorily by turning
            two rooms into a dormitory.

            In the morning we had time to inspect bomb damage in the dock area of
            Southampton. Most of the rubble had been cleared away but there are still numbers of
            damaged buildings awaiting demolition. A depressing sight. We saw the Queen Mary
            at anchor, still in her drab war time paint, but magnificent nevertheless.
            The Winchester Castle was crammed with passengers and many travelled in
            acute discomfort. We were luckier than most because the two girls, the three small boys
            and I had a stateroom to ourselves and though it was stripped of peacetime comforts,
            we had a private bathroom and toilet. The two Georges had bunks in a huge men-only
            dormitory somewhere in the bowls of the ship where they had to share communal troop
            ship facilities. The food was plentiful but unexciting and one had to queue for afternoon
            tea. During the day the decks were crowded and there was squatting room only. The
            many children on board got bored.

            Port Said provided a break and we were all entertained by the ‘Gully Gully’ man
            and his conjuring tricks, and though we had no money to spend at Simon Artz, we did at
            least have a chance to stretch our legs. Next day scores of passengers took ill with
            sever stomach upsets, whether from food poisoning, or as was rumoured, from bad
            water taken on at the Egyptian port, I don’t know. Only the two Georges in our family
            were affected and their attacks were comparatively mild.

            As we neared the Kenya port of Mombassa, the passengers for Dar es Salaam
            were told that they would have to disembark at Mombassa and continue their journey in
            a small coaster, the Al Said. The Winchester Castle is too big for the narrow channel
            which leads to Dar es Salaam harbour.

            From the wharf the Al Said looked beautiful. She was once the private yacht of
            the Sultan of Zanzibar and has lovely lines. Our admiration lasted only until we were
            shown our cabins. With one voice our children exclaimed, “Gosh they stink!” They did, of
            a mixture of rancid oil and sweat and stale urine. The beds were not yet made and the
            thin mattresses had ominous stains on them. John, ever fastidious, lifted his mattress and two enormous cockroaches scuttled for cover.

            We had a good homely lunch served by two smiling African stewards and
            afterwards we sat on deck and that was fine too, though behind ones enjoyment there
            was the thought of those stuffy and dirty cabins. That first night nearly everyone,
            including George and our older children, slept on deck. Women occupied deck chairs
            and men and children slept on the bare decks. Horrifying though the idea was, I decided
            that, as Jim had a bad cough, he, Henry and I would sleep in our cabin.

            When I announced my intention of sleeping in the cabin one of the passengers
            gave me some insecticide spray which I used lavishly, but without avail. The children
            slept but I sat up all night with the light on, determined to keep at least their pillows clear
            of the cockroaches which scurried about boldly regardless of the light. All the next day
            and night we avoided the cabins. The Al Said stopped for some hours at Zanzibar to
            offload her deck cargo of live cattle and packing cases from the hold. George and the
            elder children went ashore for a walk but I felt too lazy and there was plenty to watch
            from deck.

            That night I too occupied a deck chair and slept quite comfortably, and next
            morning we entered the palm fringed harbour of Dar es Salaam and were home.

            Eleanor.

            Mbeya 1st November 1946

            Dearest Family.

            Home at last! We are all most happily installed in a real family house about three
            miles out of Mbeya and near the school. This house belongs to an elderly German and
            has been taken over by the Custodian of Enemy Property and leased to the
            Government.

            The owner, whose name is Shenkel, was not interned but is allowed to occupy a
            smaller house on the Estate. I found him in the garden this morning lecturing the children
            on what they may do and may not do. I tried to make it quite clear to him that he was not
            our landlord, though he clearly thinks otherwise. After he had gone I had to take two
            aspirin and lie down to recover my composure! I had been warned that he has this effect
            on people.

            Mr Shenkel is a short and ugly man, his clothes are stained with food and he
            wears steel rimmed glasses tied round his head with a piece of dirty elastic because
            one earpiece is missing. He speaks with a thick German accent but his English is fluent
            and I believe he is a cultured and clever man. But he is maddening. The children were
            more amused than impressed by his exhortations and have happily Christened our
            home, ‘Old Shenks’.

            The house has very large grounds as the place is really a derelict farm. It suits us
            down to the ground. We had no sooner unpacked than George went off on safari after
            those maneating lions in the Njombe District. he accounted for one, and a further two
            jointly with a Game Scout, before we left for England. But none was shot during the five
            months we were away as George’s relief is quite inexperienced in such work. George
            thinks that there are still about a dozen maneaters at large. His theory is that a female
            maneater moved into the area in 1938 when maneating first started, and brought up her
            cubs to be maneaters, and those cubs in turn did the same. The three maneating lions
            that have been shot were all in very good condition and not old and maimed as
            maneaters usually are.

            George anticipates that it will be months before all these lions are accounted for
            because they are constantly on the move and cover a very large area. The lions have to
            be hunted on foot because they range over broken country covered by bush and fairly
            dense thicket.

            I did a bit of shooting myself yesterday and impressed our African servants and
            the children and myself. What a fluke! Our houseboy came to say that there was a snake
            in the garden, the biggest he had ever seen. He said it was too big to kill with a stick and
            would I shoot it. I had no gun but a heavy .450 Webley revolver and I took this and
            hurried out with the children at my heels.

            The snake turned out to be an unusually large puff adder which had just shed its
            skin. It looked beautiful in a repulsive way. So flanked by servants and children I took
            aim and shot, not hitting the head as I had planned, but breaking the snake’s back with
            the heavy bullet. The two native boys then rushed up with sticks and flattened the head.
            “Ma you’re a crack shot,” cried the kids in delighted surprise. I hope to rest on my laurels
            for a long, long while.

            Although there are only a few weeks of school term left the four older children will
            start school on Monday. Not only am I pleased with our new home here but also with
            the staff I have engaged. Our new houseboy, Reuben, (but renamed Robin by our
            children) is not only cheerful and willing but intelligent too, and Jumbe, the wood and
            garden boy, is a born clown and a source of great entertainment to the children.

            I feel sure that we are all going to be very happy here at ‘Old Shenks!.

            Eleanor.

            #6143

            The Beige House was eerily calm. Most of the staff had left after the super spread of the epidemic.

            Fanella and Finnley had managed to agree to a temporary truce and a fair share of tasks (and masks). After all, they didn’t have the luxury of unpaid leaves, and had to continue to work.

            “Ready for a change of crowd in the building, Fanny?” said Finnley in her unmistakable Kiwi accent, as a matter of breaking the silence in the grand hall. She was dusting the chandeliers, while Fanella was shampooing the carpets.

            “I don’t know Miss Fin’, it iz such a mess now. And I have to take care of ze baby, no time to be political.”

            “Oh, by the way, I received a message from the gang…”

            “Aprrril’ and Joone?”

            “Yep. Those two. The money has dried up, and they learnt the hard way that American are not loved much these days, big spreaders and all. So they decided to sail back to the good ol’ States. Looking for a job now, and hoping that autumn doesn’t mean everything will turn to orange disaster!”

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