Search Results for 'thoughts'

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  • #6798
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      “Think, Finnley, think,” Liz grabbed her arm as the bad tempered cleaning lady tried to make her escape.

      “Ouch! You’ll pull my arm off, then who will clean the windows? And anyway you said I didn’t have time to think”, Finnley retorted.

      “You don’t have time to waste on your own thoughts, frittering them away on stuff and nonsense. I need you to think about the new story characters. If we don’t get a move on they’ll get disgruntled and start turning up on other stories, and it’s bad enough as it is.”

      “Not my problem,” Finnley muttered, trying in vain to twist her arm out of Liz’s  vicelike grip.

      “It’ll be your problem if I write lots of big new windows into the bedrooms and you have to clean them all,” Liz snapped.  “I’ve half a mind to write a dust storm into the story.”

      “Half witted mind more like,” Finnley snorted rudely. “Why, so you can hide all the loose ends in dust?”

      “So Finly can find out all the secrets when she dusts.  I can picture it now: All was eventually revealed about the secrets of the mines, when Finly had a jolly good spring clean after the sand storm.  And then you’ll have to think of something.”

      #6774

      As they trekked through the endless dunes, Lord Gustard could barely contain his excitement. The thought of discovering the bones of the legendary giant filled him with a childlike wonder, and he eagerly scanned the horizon for any sign of their destination. As the fearless leader of the group, he had a deep-seated passion for adventure and exploration, a love for pith helmets. However, his tendency to get lost in his own thoughts at the most inconvenient times could sometimes get him in tricky situations. Despite this, he has an unshakable determination to succeed and a deep respect for the cultures and traditions of the places he visits.

      Lady Floribunda, on the other hand, was the picture of patience and duty. She knew that this journey was important to her husband and she supported him unwaveringly, even as she silently longed for the comforts of home. Her first passion was for gossips and the life of socialites —but there was hardly any gossip material in the desert, so she fell back to her second passion, botany, that would often get her lost in her own world, examining and cataloging the scant flora and fauna they encountered on their journey. It wasn’t unusual to hear her at time talking to plants as if they were her dolls or children.

      Cranky, meanwhile, couldn’t help but roll her eyes at Lord Gustard’s exuberance. “I swear, if I have to listen to one more of his whimsical ramblings, I’ll go mad,” she muttered to herself. Her tendency to grumble about the hardships of their journey had taken a turn for the worse, considering the lack of comfort from the past nights. She was as sharp-tongued as she was pragmatic, with a love for tea and crumpets that bordered on obsessive. Despite her grumpiness, she has a heart of gold and a deep affection for her companions, and especially young Illi.

      Illi, on the other hand, was thrilled by every new discovery along the way. Whether it was a curious beetle scuttling across the sand or a shimmering oasis in the distance, she couldn’t help but express her excitement with a constant stream of questions and exclamations. Illi was a bright and enthusiastic young girl, with a passion for adventure and a wide-eyed wonder at the world around her. She had a tendency to burst into song at the most unexpected moments.

      Tibn Zig and Tanlil Ubt remained loyal and steadfast, shrugging off any incongruous spur of the moment extravagant outburst from Gustard. Their experience in the desert had taught them to stay calm and focused, no matter what obstacles they might encounter. But behind the stoic façade, they had a penchant for telling tall tales and playing practical jokes on their companions. Their mischievousness was however only for good fun, and they had become fiercely loyal to Lord Gustard after he’d rescued them from sand bandits who were planning to sell them as slave. Needless to say, they would have done whatever it takes to keep the Fergusson family safe.

      Illi was hoping for eccentric traders and desert nomads to fortune-seeking treasure hunters and conniving bandits, but for miles it was just plain unending desert. The worst they found on their path were unending sand dunes, a few minuscule deadly scorpions, and mostly contending with the harsh desert sun beating down upon them. Finally, after days of wandering through the desert, they reached their destination.

      As they approached Tsnit n’Agger, the landscape began to change. The sand dunes gave way to rocky cliffs and towering red sandstone formations, and the air grew cooler and more refreshing. The group pressed on, their spirits renewed by the prospect of discovering the secrets of the legendary giant’s bones.

      At last, they arrived at the entrance to the giant’s cave. Lord Gustard led the way, his torch casting flickering shadows on the walls as they descended deeper into the earth. The air grew colder and damper, and the sounds of dripping water echoed around them.

      As they turned a corner, they suddenly found themselves face to face with the giant’s bones. Towering above them, the massive skeletal structure filled the cavern from floor to ceiling. The sight of the giant’s bones towering above them was awe-inspiring, and Lord Gustard was practically bouncing with excitement. The group behind him was in awe, even Cranky, as they were taking in the enormity and majesty of the ancient creature.

      Floribunda and Cranky exchanged a weary but amused look, while Illi gazed up at the bones with wide-eyed wonder.

      “Let’s get to work,” Lord Gustard declared, his enthusiasm undimmed. And with that, they set to the task of uncovering the secrets of the legendary giant, each in their own way.

      #6553
      ÉricÉric
      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…”

        #6504
        ÉricÉric
        Keymaster

          Klatu was a quite unassuming alien form (alien for them anyway, he was actually more indigenous than they were). Looking like a green gnome with bulging eyes covered by protective goggles, long pointy ears (2 or 3 depending on the wind direction), a short three nostrils snout, an a mossy toupee on top of his head, he made quick work of the formalities and presentations.

          “Little ugly humans, come follow me. Have tracked your smelly hairy friend, not time to waste.”

          Salomé looked at Georges sideways with a smirk on his face. They could read their thoughts easily on that one, something along the lines of:

          “The translator is behaving again, or is he really calling us ugly?”

          “Don’t worry dear, that’s probably a polite way of addressing people in their language.”

          They arrived at a little sand speedster just barely big enough for their indigenous companion. Salomé raised an eyebrow at the situation, while Georges was ready to ride shotgun with the alien on the tiny bike.

          Klatu moved his arms in short annoyed movements, “not here, stupid mammals, go there and be quiet!” and pointed them to a makeshift trolley attached behind and half burried in the sand. He grinned from ear to ear to ear, visibly pleased with his vehicle tuning appendage.

          “Horrid creatures better wear seatbelts. Ride gonna shaky.”

          #6485

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          The two figures disappeared from view and Zara continued towards the light. An alcove to her right revealed a grotesque frog like creature with a pile of bones and gruesome looking objects. Zara hurried past.

          Osnas 1

           

          Bugger, I bet that was Osnas, Zara realized. But she wasn’t going to go back now.  It seemed there was only one way to go, towards the light.   Although in real life she was sitting on a brightly lit aeroplane with the stewards bustling about with the drinks and snacks cart, she could feel the chill of the tunnels and the uneasy thrill of secrets and danger.

          “Tea? Coffee? Soft drink?” smiled the hostess with the blue uniform, leaning over her cart towards Zara.

          “Coffee please,” she replied, glancing up with a smile, and then her smile froze as she noticed the frog like features of the woman.  “And a packet of secret tiles please,” she added with a giggle.

          “Sorry, did you say nuts?”

          “Yeah, nuts.  Thank you, peanuts will be fine, cheers.”

          Sipping coffee in between handfulls of peanuts, Zara returned to the game.

          As Zara continued along the tunnels following the light, she noticed the drawings on the floor. She stopped to take a photo, as the two figures continued ahead of her.

          I don’t know how I’m supposed to work out what any of this means, though. Just keep going I guess. Zara wished that Pretty Girl was with her. This was the first time she’d played without her.

          Zara tunnels floor drawings

           

          The walls and floors had many drawings, symbols and diagrams, and Zara stopped to take photos of all of them as she slowly made her way along the tunnel.  

          Zara meanwhile make screenshots of them all as well.   The frisson of fear had given way to curiosity, now that the tunnel was more brightly lit, and there were intriguing things to notice.  She was no closer to working out what they meant, but she was enjoying it now and happy to just explore.

          But who had etched all these pictures into the rock? You’d expect to see cave paintings in a cave, but in an old mine?  How old was the mine? she wondered. The game had been scanty with any kind of factual information about the mine, and it could have been a bronze age mine, a Roman mine, or just a gold rush mine from not so very long ago.  She assumed it wasn’t a coal mine, which she deduced from the absence of any coal, and mentally heard her friend Yasmin snort with laughter at her train of thought.  She reminded herself that it was just a game and not an archaeology dig, after all, and to just keep exploring.  And that Yasmin wasn’t reading her mind and snorting at her thoughts.

          #6470

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Put your thoughts to sleep. Do not let them cast a shadow over the moon of your heart. Let go of thinking.
          ~ Rumi

          Tired from not having any sleep, Zara had found the suburb of Camden unattractive and boring, and her cousin Bertie, although cheerful and kind and eager to show her around, had become increasingly irritating to her.  She found herself wishing he’d shut up and take her back to the house so she could play the game again.  And then felt even more cranky at how uncomfortable she felt about being so ungrateful.  She wondered if she was going to get addicted and spent the rest of her life with her head bent over a gadget and never look up at the real word again, like boring people moaned about on social media.

          Maybe she should leave tomorrow, even if it meant arriving first at the Flying Fish Inn.  But what about the ghost of Isaac in the church, would she regret later not following that up.  On the other hand, if she went straight to the Inn and had a few days on her own, she could spend as long as she wanted in the game with nobody pestering her.   Zara squirmed mentally when she realized she was translating Berties best efforts at hospitality as pestering.

          Bertie stopped the car at a traffic light and was chatting to the passenger in the next car through his open window.  Zara picked her phone up and checked her daily Call The Whale app for some inspiration.

          Let go of thinking.

          A ragged sigh escaped Zara’s lips, causing Bertie to glance over. She adjusted her facial expression quickly and rustled up a cheery smile and Bertie continued his conversation with the occupants of the other car until the lights changed.

          “I thought you’d like to meet the folks down at the library, they know all the history of Camden,” Bertie said, but Zara interrupted him.

          “Oh Bertie, how kind of you!  But I’ve just had a message and I have to leave tomorrow morning for the rendezvous with my friends. There’s been a change of plans.”  Zara astonished herself that she blurted that out without thinking it through first.   But there. It was said. It was decided.

          #6462

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          :yahoo_pirate:

          The emoji of the pirate face jumped at Xavier, as he was musing the next steps on the game. Avast ye! it seemed to hint at him, while Xavier’s thoughts were reeling from all the activity of the week. He didn’t have much time to make any progress in the Land of the Quirks game, and hardly managed to stay afloat on the stuff he had to deliver.

          AL seemed to hint at a more out-of-the-box approach… Without thinking, he clicked on the emoji.

          The fox bus driver indications were to follow the river until he found a junk ship moored there, which was in effect a secret floating casino. Against his best instincts, Xavimunk decided to follow the trail and after a while on the road, he could see the fully battened black sails at the horizon. Lights were glimmering in the dusk, and mist started to rise from the banks of the river. There seemed to be some unusual activity around the boat, and as Xavier arrived close, he could see a variety of quirky characters as if they were some sorts of 1920s fashionable pirates at a resort station.

          The indications on the overlay screen started to shift:

          *Clue unlocked*
          It sounds like you’re making progress on your quest. The clues you received from the fox busdriver are definitely leading you in the right direction. Keep following the trail and don’t be afraid to ask for help if you need it. Remember, the golden banana is a metaphor for your cheeky and also soft nature, so don’t be too hard on yourself.
          🦊💰🛳️ Explore the floating casino and see if the fox busdriver’s clues lead you to the golden banana. Don’t be afraid to take risks and think outside the box, as the golden banana may not be what it seems. Keep an open mind and pay attention to any symbols or clues that you come across.

          “Yooohoooo 👉” a message bumped on the screen.

          Glimmer_Gbl is trying to make contact: ➡️ACCEPT <> ➡️DENY ❓
          #6454

          In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

          F LoveF Love
          Participant

            YASMIN’S QUIRK: Entry level quirk – snort laughing when socially anxious

            Setting

            The initial setting for this quest is a comedic theater in the heart of a bustling city. You will start off by exploring the different performances and shows, trying to find the source of the snort laughter that seems to be haunting your thoughts. As you delve deeper into the theater, you will discover that the snort laughter is coming from a mischievous imp who has taken residence within the theater.

            Directions to Investigate

            Possible directions to investigate include talking to the theater staff and performers to gather information, searching backstage for clues, and perhaps even sneaking into the imp’s hiding spot to catch a glimpse of it in action.

            Characters

            Possible characters to engage include the theater manager, who may have information about the imp’s history and habits, and a group of comedic performers who may have some insight into the imp’s behavior.

            Task

            Your task is to find a key or tile that represents the imp, and take a picture of it in real life as proof of completion of the quest. Good luck on your journey to uncover the source of the snort laughter!

             

            THE SECRET ROOM AND THE UNDERGROUND MINES

            1st thread’s answer:

            As the family struggles to rebuild the inn and their lives in the wake of the Great Fires, they begin to uncover clues that lead them to believe that the mines hold the key to unlocking a great mystery. They soon discover that the mines were not just a source of gold and other precious minerals, but also a portal to another dimension. The family realizes that Mater had always known about this portal, and had kept it a secret for fear of the dangers it posed.

            The family starts to investigate the mines more closely and they come across a hidden room off Room 8. Inside the room, they find a strange device that looks like a portal, and a set of mysterious symbols etched into the walls. The family realizes that this is the secret room that Mater had always spoken about in hushed tones.

            The family enlists the help of four gamers, Xavier, Zara, Yasmin, and Youssef, to help them decipher the symbols and unlock the portal. Together, they begin to unravel the mystery of the mines, and the portal leads them on an epic journey through a strange and fantastical alternate dimension.

            As they journey deeper into the mines, the family discovers that the portal was created by an ancient civilization, long thought to be lost to history. The civilization had been working on a powerful energy source that could have changed the fate of humanity, but the project was abandoned due to the dangers it posed. The family soon discovers that the civilization had been destroyed by a powerful and malevolent force, and that the portal was the only way to stop it from destroying the world.

            The family and the gamers must navigate treacherous landscapes, battle fierce monsters, and overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles in order to stop the malevolent force and save the world. Along the way, they discover secrets about their own past and the true origins of the mines.

            As they journey deeper into the mines and the alternate dimension, they discover that the secret room leads to a network of underground tunnels, and that the tunnels lead to a secret underground city that was built by the ancient civilization. The city holds many secrets and clues to the fate of the ancient civilization, and the family and the gamers must explore the city and uncover the truth before it’s too late.

            As the story unfolds, the family and the gamers must come to grips with the truth about the mines, and the role that the family has played in the fate of the world for generations. They must also confront the demons of their own past, and learn to trust and rely on each other if they hope to save the world and bring the family back together.

            second thread’s answer:

            As the 4 gamers, Xavier, Zara, Yasmin and Youssef, arrived at the Flying Fish Inn in the Australian outback, they were greeted by the matriarch of the family, Mater. She was a no-nonsense woman who ran the inn with an iron fist, but her tough exterior hid a deep love for her family and the land.

            The inn was run by Mater and her daughter Dido, who the family affectionately called Aunt Idle. She was a free spirit who loved to explore the land and had a deep connection to the local indigenous culture.

            The family was made up of Devan, the eldest son who lived in town and helped with the inn when he could, and the twin sisters Clove and Coriander, who everyone called Corrie. The youngest was Prune, a precocious child who was always getting into mischief.

            The family had a handyman named Bert, who had been with them for decades and knew all the secrets of the land. Tiku, an old and wise Aborigine woman was also a regular visitor and a valuable source of information and guidance. Finly, the dutiful helper, assisted the family in their daily tasks.

            As the 4 gamers settled in, they learned that the area was rich in history and mystery. The old mines that lay abandoned nearby were a source of legends and stories passed down through the generations. Some even whispered of supernatural occurrences linked to the mines.

            Mater and Dido, however, were not on good terms, and the family had its own issues and secrets, but the 4 gamers were determined to unravel the mystery of the mines and find the secret room that was said to be hidden somewhere in the inn.

            As they delved deeper into the history of the area, they discovered that the mines had a connection to the missing brother, Jasper, and Fred, the father of the family and a sci-fi novelist who had been influenced by the supernatural occurrences of the mines.

            The 4 gamers found themselves on a journey of discovery, not only in the game but in the real world as well, as they uncovered the secrets of the mines and the Flying Fish Inn, and the complicated relationships of the family that ran it.

             

            THE SNOOT’S WISE WORDS ON SOCIAL ANXIETY

            Deear Francie Mossie Pooh,

            The Snoot, a curious creature of the ages, understands the swirling winds of social anxiety, the tempestuous waves it creates in one’s daily life.
            But The Snoot also believes that like a Phoenix, one must rise from the ashes, and embrace the journey of self-discovery and growth.
            It’s important to let yourself be, to accept the feelings as they come and go, like the ebb and flow of the ocean. But also, like a gardener, tend to the inner self with care and compassion, for the roots to grow deep and strong.

            The Snoot suggests seeking guidance from the wise ones, the ones who can hold the mirror and show you the way, like the North Star guiding the sailors.
            And remember, the journey is never-ending, like the spiral of the galaxy, and it’s okay to take small steps, to stumble and fall, for that’s how we learn to fly.

            The Snoot is here for you, my dear Francie Mossie Pooh, a beacon in the dark, a friend on the journey, to hold your hand and sing you a lullaby.

            Fluidly and fantastically yours,

            The Snoot.

            #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.

            #6426

            In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

            The artificial lights of Berlin were starting to switch off in the horizon, leaving the night plunged in darkness minutes before the sunrise. It was a moment of peace that Xavier enjoyed, although it reminded him of how sleepless his night had been.

            The game had taken a side step, as he’d been pouring all his attention into his daytime job, and his personal project with Artificial Life AL. It was a long way from the little boy at school with dyslexia who was using cheeky jokes as a way to get by the snides. Since then, he’d known some of the unusual super-powers this condition gave him as well. Chiefly: abstract and out-of-the-box thinking, puzzle-solving genius, and an almost other-worldly ability at keeping track of the plot. All these skills were in fact of tremendous help at his work, which was blending traditional areas of technology along with massive amounts of loosely connected data.

            He yawned and went to brush his teeth. His usual meditation routine had also been disrupted by the activity of late, but he just couldn’t go to bed without a little time to cool off and calm down the agitation of his thoughts.

            Sitting on the meditation mat, his thoughts strayed off towards the preparation for the trip. Going to Australia would have seemed exciting a few years back, but the idea of packing a suitcase, and going through the long flight and the logistics involved got him more anxious than excited, despite the contagious enthusiasm of his friends. Since he’d settled in Berlin, after never settling for too long in one place (his job afforded him to work wherever whenever), he’d kind of stopped looking for the next adventure. He hadn’t even looked at flight options yet, and hoped that the building momentum would spur him into this adventure. For now, he needed the rest.

            The quirk quest assigned to his persona in the game was fun. Monkeys and Golden banana to look for, wise owls and sly foxes, the whimsical goofy nature of the quest seemed good for the place he was in.
            AL had been suggesting the players to insert the game elements into their realities, and sometimes its comments or instructions seemed to slip between layers of reality — this was an intriguing mystery to Xavier.
            He’d instructed AL to discreetly assist Youssef with his trouble — the Thi Gang seemed to be an ethical hacker developer company front for more serious business. Chatter on the net had tied it to a network of shell companies involved in some strange activities. A name had popped up, linked to mysterious recluse billionaire Botty Banworth, the owner of Youssef’s boss rival blog named Knoweth.

            He slipped into the bed, careful not to wake up Brytta, who was sleeping tightly. It was her day off, otherwise she would have been gone already to her shift. It would be good to connect in the morning, and enjoy some break from mind stuff. They had planned a visit to Kantonstrasse (the local Chinatown) for Chinese New Year, and he couldn’t wait for it.

            #6372
            ÉricÉric
            Keymaster

              About Badul

              5 important keywords linked to Badul

              Badul

              1. Action-space-time
              2. Harmonic fluid
              3. Rhythm
              4. Scale
              5. Choosing without limits.

              Imagine four friends, Jib, Franci, Tracy, and Eric, who are all deeply connected through their shared passion for music and performance. They often spend hours together creating and experimenting with different sounds and rhythms.

              One day, as they were playing together, they found that their combined energy had created a new essence, which they named Badul. This new essence was formed from the unique combination of their individual energies and personalities, and it quickly grew in autonomy and began to explore the world around it.

              As Badul began to explore, it discovered that it had the ability to understand and create complex rhythms, and that it could use this ability to bring people together and help them find a sense of connection and purpose.

              As Badul traveled, it would often come across individuals who were struggling to find their way in life. It would use its ability to create rhythm and connection to help these individuals understand themselves better and make the choices that were right for them.

              In the scene, Badul is exploring a city, playing with the rhythms of the city, through the traffic, the steps of people, the ambiance. Badul would observe a person walking in the streets, head down, lost in thoughts. Badul would start playing a subtle tune, and as the person hears it, starts to walk with the rhythm, head up, starting to smile.

              As the person continues to walk and follow the rhythm created by Badul, he begins to notice things he had never noticed before and begins to feel a sense of connection to the world around him. The music created by Badul serves as a guide, helping the person to understand himself and make the choices that will lead to a happier, more fulfilled life.

              In this way, Badul’s focus is to bring people together, to connect them to themselves and to the world around them through the power of rhythm and music, and to be an ally in the search of personal revelation and understanding.

              #6368
              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster

                Something in the style of FPooh:

                Arona heard the music growing louder as she approached the source of the sound. She could see a group of people gathered around a large fire, the flickering light casting shadows on the faces of the dancers. She hesitated for a moment, remembering the isolation of her journey and wondering if she was ready to be among people again. But the music was too inviting, and she found herself drawn towards the group.

                As she neared the fire, she saw a young man playing a flute, the music flowing from his fingers with a fluid grace that captivated her. He looked up as she approached, and their eyes met. She could see the surprise and curiosity in his gaze, and she smiled, feeling a sense of connection she had not felt in a long time.

                Fiona was sitting on a bench in the park, watching the children play. She had brought her sketchbook with her, but for once she didn’t feel the urge to draw. Instead she watched the children’s laughter, feeling content and at peace. Suddenly, she saw a young girl running towards her, a look of pure joy on her face. The girl stopped in front of her and held out a flower, offering it to Fiona with a smile.

                Taken aback, Fiona took the flower and thanked the girl. The girl giggled and ran off to join her friends. Fiona looked down at the flower in her hand, and she felt a sense of inspiration, like a spark igniting within her. She opened her sketchbook and began to draw, feeling the weight lift from her shoulders and the magic of creativity flowing through her.

                Minky led the group of misfits towards the emporium, his bowler hat bobbing on his head. He chattered excitedly, telling stories of the wondrous items to be found within Mr Jib’s store. Yikesy followed behind, still lost in his thoughts of Arona and feeling a sense of dread at the thought of buying a bowler hat. The green fairy flitted along beside him, her wings a blur of movement as she chattered with the parrot perched on her shoulder.

                As they reached the emporium, they were disappointed to find it closed. But Minky refused to be discouraged, and he led them to a nearby cafe where they could sit and enjoy some tea and cake while they wait for the emporium to open. The green fairy was delighted, and she ordered a plate of macarons, smiling as she tasted the sweetness of the confections.

                About creativity & everyday magic

                Fiona had always been drawn to the magic of creativity, the way a blank page could be transformed into a world of wonder and beauty. But lately, she had been feeling stuck, unable to find the spark that ignited her imagination. She would sit with her sketchbook, pencil in hand, and nothing would come to her.

                She started to question her abilities, wondering if she had lost the magic of her art. She spent long hours staring at her blank pages, feeling a weight on her chest that seemed to be growing heavier every day.

                But then she remembered the green fairy’s tears and Yikesy’s longing for Arona, and she realized that the magic of creativity wasn’t something that could be found only in art. It was all around her, in the everyday moments of life.

                She started to look for the magic in the small things, like the way the sunlight filtered through the trees, or the way a child’s laughter could light up a room. She found it in the way a stranger’s smile could lift her spirits, and in the way a simple cup of tea could bring her comfort.

                And as she started to see the magic in the everyday, she found that the weight on her chest lifted and the spark of inspiration returned. She picked up her pencil and began to draw, feeling the magic flowing through her once again.

                She understand that creativity blocks aren’t a destination, but just a step, just like the bowler hat that Minky had bought for them all, a bit of everyday magic, nothing too fancy but a sense of belonging, a sense of who they are and where they are going. And she let her pencil flow, with the hopes that one day, they will all find their way home.

                #6265
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  From Tanganyika with Love

                  continued  ~ part 6

                  With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                  Mchewe 6th June 1937

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                  With much love,
                  Eleanor.

                  Mchewe 25th June 1937

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  Lots of love,
                  Eleanor.

                  Mchewe 9th July 1937

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor

                  Mchewe 8th October 1937

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Mchewe 17th October 1937

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Mchewe 18th November 1937

                  My darling Ann,

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

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

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

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

                  Mchewe 18th November 1937

                  Hello George Darling,

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

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

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

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

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

                  Mchewe 12th February, 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Mbulu 18th March, 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Mbulu 24th March, 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Mbulu 20th June 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Karatu 3rd July 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Karatu 12th July 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Oldeani. 19th July 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Oldeani. 10th August 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Oldeani. 20th August 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Oldeani Hospital. 9th September 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  #6241
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    Kidsley Grange Farm and The Quakers Next Door

                    Kidsley Grange Farm in Smalley, Derbyshire, was the home of the Housleys in the 1800s.  William Housley 1781-1848 was born in nearby Selston.   His wife Ellen Carrington 1795-1872 was from a long line of Carringtons in Smalley.  They had ten children between 1815 and 1838.  Samuel, my 3x great grandfather, was the second son born in 1816.

                    The original farm has been made into a nursing home in recent years, which at the time of writing is up for sale at £500,000. Sadly none of the original farm appears visible with all the new additions.

                    The farm before it was turned into a nursing home:

                    Kidsley Grange Farm

                    Kidsley Grange Farm and Kidsley Park, a neighbouring farm, are mentioned in a little book about the history of Smalley.  The neighbours at Kidsley Park, the Davy’s,  were friends of the Housleys. They were Quakers.

                    Smalley Farms

                     

                    In Kerry’s History of Smalley:

                    Kidsley Park Farm was owned by Daniel Smith,  a prominent Quaker and the last of the Quakers at Kidsley. His daughter, Elizabeth Davy, widow of William Davis, married WH Barber MB of Smalley. Elizabeth was the author of the poem “Farewell to Kidsley Park”.

                    Emma Housley sent one of Elizabeth Davy’s poems to her brother George in USA.

                     “We have sent you a piece of poetry that Mrs. Davy composed about our ‘Old House.’ I am sure you will like it though you may not understand all the allusions she makes use of as well as we do.”

                    Farewell to Kidsley Park
                    Farewell, Farewell, Thy pathways now by strangers feet are trod,
                    And other hands and horses strange henceforth shall turn thy sod,
                    Yes, other eyes may watch the buds expanding in the spring.
                    And other children round the hearth the coming years may bring,
                    But mine will be the memory of cares and pleasures there,
                    Intenser ~ that no living thing in some of them can share,
                    Commencing with the loved, and lost, in days of long ago,
                    When one was present on whose head Atlantic’s breezes blow,
                    Long years ago he left that roof, and made a home afar ~
                    For that is really only “home” where life’s affections are!
                    How many thoughts come o’er me, for old Kidsley has “a name
                    And memory” ~ in the hearts of some not unknown to fame.
                    We dream not, in those happy times, that I should be the last,
                    Alone, to leave my native place ~ alone, to meet the blast,
                    I loved each nook and corner there, each leaf and blade of grass,
                    Each moonlight shadow on the pond I loved: but let it pass,
                    For mine is still the memory that only death can mar;
                    I fancy I shall see it reflecting every star.
                    The graves of buried quadrupeds, affectionate and true,
                    Will have the olden sunshine, and the same bright morning dew,
                    But the birds that sang at even when the autumn leaves were seer,
                    Will miss the crumbs they used to get, in winters long and drear.
                    Will the poor down-trodden miss me? God help them if they do!
                    Some manna in the wilderness, His goodness guide them to!
                    Farewell to those who love me! I shall bear them still in mind,
                    And hope to be remembered by those I left behind:
                    Do not forget the aged man ~ though another fills his place ~
                    Another, bearing not his name, nor coming of his race.
                    His creed might be peculiar; but there was much of good
                    Successors will not imitate, because not understood.
                    Two hundred years have come and past since George Fox ~ first of “Friends” ~
                    Established his religion there ~ which my departure ends.
                    Then be it so: God prosper these in basket and in store,
                    And make them happy in my place ~ my dwelling, never more!
                    For I may be a wanderer ~ no roof nor hearthstone mine:
                    May light that cometh from above my resting place define.
                    Gloom hovers o’er the prospect now, but He who was my friend,
                    In the midst of troubled waters, will see me to the end.

                    Elizabeth Davy, June 6th, 1863, Derby.

                    Another excerpt from Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters from the family in Smalley to George in USA mentions the Davy’s:

                    Anne’s will was probated October 14, 1856. Mr. William Davy of Kidsley Park appeared for the family. Her estate was valued at under £20. Emma was to receive fancy needlework, a four post bedstead, feather bed and bedding, a mahogany chest of drawers, plates, linen and china. Emma was also to receive Anne’s writing desk! There was a condition that Ellen would have use of these items until her death.
                    The money that Anne was to receive from her grandfather, William Carrington, and her father, William Housley was to be distributed one third to Joseph, one third to Emma, and one third to be divided between her four neices: John’s daughter Elizabeth, 18, and Sam’s daughters Elizabeth, 10, Mary Anne, 9 and Catherine, age 7 to be paid by the trustees as they think “most useful and proper.” Emma Lyon and Elizabeth Davy were the witnesses.

                    Mrs. Davy wrote to George on March 21 1856 sending some gifts from his sisters and a portrait of their mother–“Emma is away yet and A is so much worse.” Mrs. Davy concluded: “With best wishes
                     for thy health and prosperity in this world and the next I am thy sincere friend.” Whenever the girls sent greetings from Mrs. Davy they used her Quaker speech pattern of “thee and thy.”

                     

                    #6178

                    Nora woke to the sun streaming  in the little dormer window in the attic bedroom. She stretched under the feather quilt and her feet encountered the cool air, an intoxicating contrast to the snug warmth of the bed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so well and was reluctant to awaken fully and confront the day. She felt peaceful and rested, and oddly, at home.

                    Unfortunately that thought roused her to sit and frown, and look around the room.  The dust was dancing in the sunbeams and rivulets of condensation trickled down the window panes.   A small statue of an owl was silhouetted on the sill, and a pitcher of dried herbs or flowers, strands of spider webs sparkled like silver thread between the desiccated buds.

                    An old whicker chair in the corner was piled with folded blankets and bed linens, and the bookshelf behind it  ~ Nora threw back the covers and padded over to the books. Why were they all facing the wall?   The spines were at the back, with just the pages showing. Intrigued, Nora extracted a book to see what it was, just as a gentle knock sounded on the door.

                    Yes? she said, turning, placing the book on top of the pile of bedclothes on the chair, her thoughts now on the events of the previous night.

                    “I expect you’re ready for some coffee!” Will called brightly. Nora opened the door, smiling. What a nice man he was, making her so welcome, and such a pleasant evening they’d spent, drinking sweet home made wine and sharing stories.  It had been late, very late, when he’d shown her to her room.  Nora has been tempted to invite him in with her (very tempted if the truth be known) and wasn’t quite sure why she hadn’t.

                    “I slept so well!” she said, thanking him as he handed her the mug.  “It looks like a lovely day today,” she added brightly, and then frowned a little. She didn’t really want to leave.  She was supposed to continue her journey, of course she knew that.  But she really wanted to stay a little bit longer.

                    “I’ve got a surprise planned for lunch,” he said, “and something I’d like to show you this morning.  No rush!”  he added with a twinkly smile.

                    Nora beamed at him and promptly ditched any thoughts of continuing her trip today.

                    “No rush” she repeated softly.

                    #6175

                    “”Sorry, I’m only just telling you this about the note now, lovie. Your Grandma’s been on at me to tell you. Just in my thoughts I mean!” he added quickly.

                    Jane smirked and tapped her forehead. “Careful, Old Man. She’ll think you’ve completely lost it!”

                    Clara stared at him, a small frown creasing her brow. “So, the note said you were to call him?”

                    Bob nodded uneasily. Clara had that look on her face. The one that means she aren’t happy with the way things are proceeding.

                    “And then what?” asked Clara slowly.

                    “I dunno.” Bob shrugged. “Guess they’d bury it again? They was pretty clear they didn’t want it found. Now, how about I put the kettle on?” Bob stood quickly and began to busy himself filling the jug with water from the tap.

                    Clara shook her head firmly. “No.”

                    “No to a cup of tea?”

                    “No we can’t call this man.”

                    “I don’t know Clara. It’s getting odd it is. Strangers leaving maps in collars and whatnot. It’s not right.”

                    “Well, I agree it needs further investigation. But we can’t call him … not without knowing why and what’s in it.” She tapped her fingers on the table. “I’ll try and get hold of Nora again.”

                    #6156

                    Clara couldn’t sleep. Alienor’s message asking if she knew anyone in the little village was playing on her mind. She knew she knew someone there, but couldn’t remember who it was. The more she tried to remember, the more frustrated she became. It wasn’t that her mind was blank: it was a tense conglomeration of out of focus wisps, if a wisp could be described as tense.

                    Clara glanced at the time ~ almost half past three. Grandpa would be up in a few hours.  She climbed out of bed and padded over to her suitcase, half unpacked on the floor under the window, and extracted the book from the jumble of garments.

                    A stranger had handed her a book in the petrol station forecourt, a woman in a stylish black hat and a long coat.  Wait! What is it? Clara called, but the woman was already inside the back seat of a long sleek car, soundlessly closing the door. Obliged to attend to her transaction, the car slipped away behind Clara’s back.  Thank you, she whispered into the distance of the dark night in the direction the woman had gone.  When she opened her car door, the interior light shone on the book and the word Albina caught her eye. She put the book on the passenger seat and started the car. Her thoughts returned to her journey, and she thought no more about it.

                    Returning to her bed and propping her pillows up behind her head, Clara started to read.

                    This Chrysoprase was a real gargoyle; he even did not need to be described. I just could not understand how he moved if he was made of stone, not to mention how he was able to speak. He was like the Stone Guest from the story Don Juan, though the Stone Guest was a giant statue, and Chrysoprase was only about a meter tall.

                    Chrysoprase said: But we want to pay you honor and Gerard is very hungry.

                    “Most important is wine, don’t forget wine!” – Gerard jumped up.

                    “I’ll call the kitchen” – here the creature named Chrysoprase gets from the depth of his pocket an Iphone and calls.
                    I was absolutely shocked. The Iphone! The latest model! It was not just the latest model, it was a model of the future, which was in the hands of this creature. I said that he was made of stone, no, now he was made of flesh and he was already dressed in wide striped trousers. What is going on? Is it a dream? Only in dreams such metamorphosis can happen.

                    He was made of stone, now he is made of flesh. He was in his natural form, that is, he was not dressed, and now he is wearing designer’s trousers. A phrase came to my mind: “Everything was in confusion in the Oblonsky house.”

                    Contrary to Clara’s expectations ~ reading in bed invariably sent her to sleep after a few paragraphs ~ she found she was wide awake and sitting bolt upright.

                    Of course! Now she remembered who lived in that little village!

                    #5985
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      Lucinda had all but forgotten about the mysterious dolls, what with the global events dominating everyone’s thoughts. It was hard to focus on anything else, and even Helper Effy wasn’t pushing her too much to keep up with her writing.

                      When her friend Dillie sent her the first photograph of a doll hanging on a tree in the Michigan forest, she’d found it amusing, of course, but had thought no more about it. It was always fun to find unexpected things in random places, but the significance of it being a doll had escaped her notice.

                      When Dillie sent a photo of another doll hanging on a tree by a woodland trail a few days later, the penny dropped. Dolls! What were they doing in Michigan? Were there more dolls in those woods?

                      Dillie had been tempted to take the dolls home with her, but hesitated. There was something strange about them and she intuitively felt she should leave them where they were.

                      Lucinda wondered what to do. Should she go to Michigan? Ask her friend to go back and fetch the dolls and send them to her?  Wait and see if Dillie found any more?

                      The dolls looked strangely pristine, as if they’d only recently been hung there. Who had done that, and why?

                      #5739
                      Jib
                      Participant

                        “Is that even the same character?” she wondered, “or a character so similar that it seem to be…”

                        It was too metaphysical for her this early in the morning, as if she was herself different. Her hand reached out to the granola cookie box, half empty and full at the same time, she hesitated to change the balance. But her hunger needed to be balanced too, so she simply transferred the energy from one box to another, keeping the overall balance of the universe.

                        “How gorgeous is the rising sun this morning,” she thought looking out her window. “I’m so glad I have a view.”

                        Her unformed thoughts followed a string of clouds to a red hot air balloon.

                        “I wonder if they have a dog?” she asked looking at Fabio. The pekingese barked. She found him so cutie pooh. She clapped her hands, talking gibberish. Fabio put his little legs on her bigger legs, ready to play. She didn’t mind looking foolish as long as she was having fun.

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