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  • #7293

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    thank you very much. Very good!

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

    sweet dreams

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

    #7231
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      River Finds

      photo: Lara Maiklen, London mudlark.

       

      “a tiny window into the 18th century: a cast-off shoe, a lost halfpenny, broken pipes and smashed plates and tea bowls….”

      The Whale:
      As the muddy banks of the Thames river receded, a treasure trove of small, lost items were revealed. Among them, a cast-off shoe, a lost halfpenny, broken pipes, and smashed plates and tea bowls. It was as if a tiny window into the 18th century had been opened, offering a glimpse into the lives of those long gone. As archaeologists carefully examined each item, they pieced together a story of a bustling riverfront community, where goods were transported and traded, and daily life was filled with both hardships and small joys. The lost halfpenny spoke of a hard day’s work, the broken pipes of moments of relaxation, and the smashed plates and tea bowls of hurried meals and perhaps even some arguments. Although these items may have been considered insignificant in their time, they now offer a precious insight into a bygone era, reminding us of the rich history that lies just beneath the muddy surface of the Thames river.

      #6787
      EricEric
      Keymaster

        Some connecting ideas for this thread so far — doesn’t make yet complete sense, but we’ll see… :

        As it turns out, Aaron and Tibu are the same person. After Aaron attached his watch to the Wall of Watches, he suddenly found himself transported to a different time and place. Disoriented and confused, he stumbled upon a time-traveling device and accidentally activated it, sending him hurtling through time and space.

        As Tibu, Aaron found himself in a strange new world, unable to remember anything about his past life as Aaron. He struggled to adapt to his new surroundings, living on the streets and relying on the kindness of strangers to survive.

        One day, while wandering the streets of a small Spanish town, Tibu stumbled upon a lost little girl named Lily. Recognizing the fear and confusion in her eyes, Tibu felt an instant connection to her. He promised to help her find her way home and they set off together, embarking on a journey to discover Lily’s true identity.

        As they traveled together, Lily began to open up to Tibu, sharing her dreams and fears with him. Tibu, in turn, began to share his own story with her, remembering parts about his life as Aaron and finally the accident that had left him in a coma.

        It was only through his travels with Lily that Tibu began to piece together the fragments of his past and come to terms with his true identity. And it was through his connection with Lily that he found the strength and courage to confront the truth about his past and move forward with his life.

        As for how Aaron ended up in a coma, it was revealed that he had been involved in a car accident while on his way to an important meeting. The accident left him in a coma, and it was only through his journey as Tibu that he was finally able to wake up and remember his past life as Aaron.

        #6635

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

        Xavier looked as discreetly as he could, and immediately after ducked behind Yasmin’s frail frame.

        “Oh, no…” he whined softly “it looks like Glimmer… you know the strange colourful game stalker.”

        Yasmin raised a perfectly trimmed eyebrow, looking still tired from her trip.

        “YOOHOOO!”

        “Oh no, as I feared…” Xavier said between his teeth, “I think she’s spotted us. What is she doing here, of all places?”

        He turned to Glimmer with a broad smile. “Hello dear! Fancy meeting you here! Are we still in the game?”

        Glimmer tittered, waving her perfumed feathered boa around, and slapping Yasmin in the face with it. “You’re so funny!” she turned to Yasmin “Oh hello, sweet pea, he IS funny, isn’t it!”

        She clumsily drew a high stool next to the table, knocking off a few knees in the process, and sat precariously on the edge of it.

        “Look, I found the Big Banana you know.”

        Yasmin couldn’t help but snort laugh a little. Zara drew an ear closer, while still listening distractedly to Youssef expounding on the P mode of his camera.

        “What?” it took Xavier a mere second to reconnect with his own discovery of the concrete sculpture… “You mean…?”

        “Yes, the Big Banana, there’s one here in this town you know.” She drew closer, pushing the empty pints of beer, one of which Youssef managed to catch before it fell. “… but there’s a more interesting thing happening in the game now. Haven’t you checked your messages?”

        Xavier looked at his message. It said 🔮[GROUP QUEST OPENED] click on the *Orb*

        He clicked, while all the others where perched over his shoulder, looking at his avatar on the screen.

        Suddenly all of them were transported in a new place that looked exactly like the Flying Fish Inn, while some instructions where scrolling on the screen of the game.

        #6419

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

        “I’d advise you not to take the parrot, Zara,” Harry the vet said, “There are restrictions on bringing dogs and other animals into state parks, and you can bet some jobsworth official will insist she stays in a cage at the very least.”

        “Yeah, you’re right, I guess I’ll leave her here. I want to call in and see my cousin in Camden on the way to the airport in Sydney anyway.   He has dozens of cats, I’d hate for anything to happen to Pretty Girl,” Zara replied.

        “Is that the distant cousin you met when you were doing your family tree?” Harry asked, glancing up from the stitches he was removing from a wounded wombat.  “There, he’s good to go.  Give him a couple more days, then he can be released back where he came from.”

        Zara smiled at Harry as she picked up the animal. “Yes!  We haven’t met in person yet, and he’s going to show me the church my ancestor built. He says people have been spotting ghosts there lately, and there are rumours that it’s the ghost of the old convict Isaac who built it.  If I can’t find photos of the ancestors, maybe I can get photos of their ghosts instead,” Zara said with a laugh.

        “Good luck with that,” Harry replied raising an eyebrow. He liked Zara, she was quirkier than the others.

        Zara hadn’t found it easy to research her mothers family from Bangalore in India, but her fathers English family had been easy enough.  Although Zara had been born in England and emigrated to Australia in her late 20s, many of her ancestors siblings had emigrated over several generations, and Zara had managed to trace several down and made contact with a few of them.   Isaac Stokes wasn’t a direct ancestor, he was the brother of her fourth great grandfather but his story had intrigued her.  Sentenced to transportation for stealing tools for his work as a stonemason seemed to have worked in his favour.  He built beautiful stone buildings in a tiny new town in the 1800s in the charming style of his home town in England.

        Zara planned to stay in Camden for a couple of days before meeting the others at the Flying Fish Inn, anticipating a pleasant visit before the crazy adventure started.

         

        ~~~

         

        Zara stepped down from the bus, squinting in the bright sunlight and looking around for her newfound cousin  Bertie.   A lanky middle aged man in dungarees and a red baseball cap came forward with his hand extended.

        “Welcome to Camden, Zara I presume! Great to meet you!” he said shaking her hand and taking her rucksack.  Zara was taken aback to see the family resemblance to her grandfather.  So many scattered generations and yet there was still a thread of familiarity.  “I bet you’re hungry, let’s go and get some tucker at Belle’s Cafe, and then I bet you want to see the church first, hey?  Whoa, where’d that dang parrot come from?” Bertie said, ducking quickly as the bird swooped right in between them.

        “Oh no, it’s Pretty Girl!” exclaimed Zara. “She wasn’t supposed to come with me, I didn’t bring her! How on earth did you fly all this way to get here the same time as me?” she asked the parrot.

        “Pretty Girl has her ways, don’t forget to feed the parrot,” the bird replied with a squalk that resembled a mirthful guffaw.

        “That’s one strange parrot you got here, girl!” Bertie said in astonishment.

        “Well, seeing as you’re here now, Pretty Girl, you better come with us,” Zara said.

        “Obviously,” replied Pretty Girl.  It was hard to say for sure, but Zara was sure she detected an avian eye roll.

         

        ~~~

         

        They sat outside under a sunshade to eat rather than cause any upset inside the cafe.  Zara fancied an omelette but Pretty Girl objected, so she ordered hash browns instead and a fruit salad for the parrot.  Bertie was a good sport about the strange talking bird after his initial surprise.

        Bertie told her a bit about the ghost sightings, which had only started quite recently.  They started when I started researching him, Zara thought to herself, almost as if he was reaching out. Her imagination was running riot already.

         

        ghost of Isaac Stokes

         

        Bertie showed Zara around the church, a small building made of sandstone, but no ghost appeared in the bright heat of the afternoon.  He took her on a little tour of Camden, once a tiny outpost but now a suburb of the city, pointing out all the original buildings, in particular the ones that Isaac had built.  The church was walking distance of Bertie’s house and Zara decided to slip out and stroll over there after everyone had gone to bed.

        Bertie had kindly allowed Pretty Girl to stay in the guest bedroom with her, safe from the cats, and Zara intended that the parrot stay in the room, but Pretty Girl was having none of it and insisted on joining her.

        “Alright then, but no talking!  I  don’t want you scaring any ghost away so just keep a low profile!”

        The moon was nearly full and it was a pleasant walk to the church.   Pretty Girl fluttered from tree to tree along the sidewalk quietly.  Enchanting aromas of exotic scented flowers wafted into her nostrils and Zara felt warmly relaxed and optimistic.

        Zara was disappointed to find that the church was locked for the night, and realized with a sigh that she should have expected this to be the case.  She wandered around the outside, trying to peer in the windows but there was nothing to be seen as the glass reflected the street lights.   These things are not done in a hurry, she reminded herself, be patient.

        Sitting under a tree on the grassy lawn attempting to open her mind to receiving ghostly communications (she wasn’t quite sure how to do that on purpose, any ghosts she’d seen previously had always been accidental and unexpected)  Pretty Girl landed on her shoulder rather clumsily, pressing something hard and chill against her cheek.

        “I told you to keep a low profile!” Zara hissed, as the parrot dropped the key into her lap.  “Oh! is this the key to the church door?”

        It was hard to see in the dim light but Zara was sure the parrot nodded, and was that another avian eye roll?

        Zara walked slowly over the grass to the church door, tingling with anticipation.   Pretty Girl hopped along the ground behind her.  She turned the key in the lock and slowly pushed open the heavy door and walked inside and  up the central aisle, looking around.  And then she saw him.

        Zara gasped. For a breif moment as the spectral wisps cleared, he looked almost solid.  And she could see his tattoos.

        “Oh my god,” she whispered, “It is really you. I recognize those tattoos from the description in the criminal registers. Some of them anyway, it seems you have a few more tats since you were transported.”

        “Aye, I did that, wench. I were allays fond o’ me tats, does tha like ’em?”

        He actually spoke to me!  This was beyond Zara’s wildest hopes. Quick, ask him some questions!

        “If you don’t mind me asking, Isaac, why did you lie about who your father was on your marriage register?  I almost thought it wasn’t you, you know, that I had the wrong Isaac Stokes.”

        A deafening rumbling laugh filled the building with echoes and the apparition dispersed in a labyrinthine swirl of tattood wisps.

        “A story for another day,” whispered Zara,  “Time to go back to Berties. Come on Pretty Girl. And put that key back where you found it.”

         

        Ghost of Isaac Stokes

        #6352
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          The Birmingham Bootmaker

          Samuel Jones 1816-1875

           

          Samuel Jones the elder was born in Belfast circa 1779.  He is one of just two direct ancestors found thus far born in Ireland.  Samuel married Jane Elizabeth Brooker (born in St Giles, London) on the 25th January 1807 at St George, Hanover Square in London.  Their first child Mary was born in 1808 in London, and then the family moved to Birmingham. Mary was my 3x great grandmother.

          But this chapter is about her brother Samuel Jones.  I noticed that on a number of other trees on the Ancestry site, Samuel Jones was a convict transported to Australia, but this didn’t tally with the records I’d found for Samuel in Birmingham.  In fact another Samuel Jones born at the same time in the same place was transported, but his occupation was a baker.  Our Samuel Jones was a bootmaker like his father.

          Samuel was born on 28th January 1816 in Birmingham and baptised at St Phillips on the 19th August of that year, the fourth child and first son of Samuel the elder and Jane’s eleven children.

          On the 1839 electoral register a Samuel Jones owned a property on Colmore Row, Birmingham.

          Samuel Jones, bootmaker of 15, Colmore Row is listed in the 1849 Birmingham post office directory, and in the 1855 White’s Directory.

          On the 1851 census, Samuel was an unmarried bootmaker employing sixteen men at 15, Colmore Row.  A 9 year old nephew Henry Harris was living with him, and his mother Ruth Harris, as well as a female servant.  Samuel’s sister Ruth was born in 1818 and married Henry Harris in 1840. Henry died in 1848.

          Samuel was a 45 year old bootmaker at 15 Colmore Row on the 1861 census, living with Maria Walcot, a 26 year old domestic servant.

          In October 1863 Samuel married Maria Walcot at St Philips in Birmingham.  They don’t appear to have had any children as none appear on the 1871 census, where Samuel and Maria are living at the same address, with another female servant and two male lodgers by the name of Messant from Ipswich.

          Marriage of Samuel Jones and Maria Walcot:

          1863 Samuel Jones

           

          In 1864 Samuel’s father died.  Samuel the son is mentioned in the probate records as one of the executors: “Samuel Jones of Colmore Row Birmingham in the county of Warwick boot and shoe manufacturer the son”.

          1864 Samuel Jones

           

          Indeed it could hardly be clearer that this Samuel Jones was not the convict transported to Australia in 1834!

           

          In 1867 Samuel Jones, bootmaker, was mentioned in the Birmingham Daily Gazette with regard to an unfortunate incident involving his American lodger, Cory McFarland.  The verdict was accidental death.

          Birmingham Daily Gazette – Friday 05 April 1867:

          Cory McFarland 1

           

          I asked a Birmingham history group for an old photo of Colmore Row. This photo is circa 1870 and number 15 is furthest from the camera.  The businesses on the street at the time were as follows:

          7 homeopathic chemist George John Morris. 8 surgeon dentist Frederick Sims. 9 Saul & Walter Samuel, Australian merchants. Surgeons occupied 10, pawnbroker John Aaron at 11 & 12. 15 boot & shoemaker. 17 auctioneer…

          Colmore Row 1870

           

          from Bird’s Eye View of Birmingham, 1886:

          Birmingham 1886

          #6350
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            Transportation

            Isaac Stokes 1804-1877

             

            Isaac was born in Churchill, Oxfordshire in 1804, and was the youngest brother of my 4X great grandfather Thomas Stokes. The Stokes family were stone masons for generations in Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire, and Isaac’s occupation was a mason’s labourer in 1834 when he was sentenced at the Lent Assizes in Oxford to fourteen years transportation for stealing tools.

            Churchill where the Stokes stonemasons came from: on 31 July 1684 a fire destroyed 20 houses and many other buildings, and killed four people. The village was rebuilt higher up the hill, with stone houses instead of the old timber-framed and thatched cottages. The fire was apparently caused by a baker who, to avoid chimney tax, had knocked through the wall from her oven to her neighbour’s chimney.

            Isaac stole a pick axe, the value of 2 shillings and the property of Thomas Joyner of Churchill; a kibbeaux and a trowel value 3 shillings the property of Thomas Symms; a hammer and axe value 5 shillings, property of John Keen of Sarsden.

            (The word kibbeaux seems to only exists in relation to Isaac Stokes sentence and whoever was the first to write it was perhaps being creative with the spelling of a kibbo, a miners or a metal bucket. This spelling is repeated in the criminal reports and the newspaper articles about Isaac, but nowhere else).

            In March 1834 the Removal of Convicts was announced in the Oxford University and City Herald: Isaac Stokes and several other prisoners were removed from the Oxford county gaol to the Justitia hulk at Woolwich “persuant to their sentences of transportation at our Lent Assizes”.

            via digitalpanopticon:

            Hulks were decommissioned (and often unseaworthy) ships that were moored in rivers and estuaries and refitted to become floating prisons. The outbreak of war in America in 1775 meant that it was no longer possible to transport British convicts there. Transportation as a form of punishment had started in the late seventeenth century, and following the Transportation Act of 1718, some 44,000 British convicts were sent to the American colonies. The end of this punishment presented a major problem for the authorities in London, since in the decade before 1775, two-thirds of convicts at the Old Bailey received a sentence of transportation – on average 283 convicts a year. As a result, London’s prisons quickly filled to overflowing with convicted prisoners who were sentenced to transportation but had no place to go.

            To increase London’s prison capacity, in 1776 Parliament passed the “Hulks Act” (16 Geo III, c.43). Although overseen by local justices of the peace, the hulks were to be directly managed and maintained by private contractors. The first contract to run a hulk was awarded to Duncan Campbell, a former transportation contractor. In August 1776, the Justicia, a former transportation ship moored in the River Thames, became the first prison hulk. This ship soon became full and Campbell quickly introduced a number of other hulks in London; by 1778 the fleet of hulks on the Thames held 510 prisoners.
            Demand was so great that new hulks were introduced across the country. There were hulks located at Deptford, Chatham, Woolwich, Gosport, Plymouth, Portsmouth, Sheerness and Cork.

            The Justitia via rmg collections:

            Justitia

            Convicts perform hard labour at the Woolwich Warren. The hulk on the river is the ‘Justitia’. Prisoners were kept on board such ships for months awaiting deportation to Australia. The ‘Justitia’ was a 260 ton prison hulk that had been originally moored in the Thames when the American War of Independence put a stop to the transportation of criminals to the former colonies. The ‘Justitia’ belonged to the shipowner Duncan Campbell, who was the Government contractor who organized the prison-hulk system at that time. Campbell was subsequently involved in the shipping of convicts to the penal colony at Botany Bay (in fact Port Jackson, later Sydney, just to the north) in New South Wales, the ‘first fleet’ going out in 1788.

             

            While searching for records for Isaac Stokes I discovered that another Isaac Stokes was transported to New South Wales in 1835 as well. The other one was a butcher born in 1809, sentenced in London for seven years, and he sailed on the Mary Ann. Our Isaac Stokes sailed on the Lady Nugent, arriving in NSW in April 1835, having set sail from England in December 1834.

            Lady Nugent was built at Bombay in 1813. She made four voyages under contract to the British East India Company (EIC). She then made two voyages transporting convicts to Australia, one to New South Wales and one to Van Diemen’s Land (Tasmania). (via Wikipedia)

            via freesettlerorfelon website:

            On 20 November 1834, 100 male convicts were transferred to the Lady Nugent from the Justitia Hulk and 60 from the Ganymede Hulk at Woolwich, all in apparent good health. The Lady Nugent departed Sheerness on 4 December 1834.

            SURGEON OLIVER SPROULE

            Oliver Sproule kept a Medical Journal from 7 November 1834 to 27 April 1835. He recorded in his journal the weather conditions they experienced in the first two weeks:

            ‘In the course of the first week or ten days at sea, there were eight or nine on the sick list with catarrhal affections and one with dropsy which I attribute to the cold and wet we experienced during that period beating down channel. Indeed the foremost berths in the prison at this time were so wet from leaking in that part of the ship, that I was obliged to issue dry beds and bedding to a great many of the prisoners to preserve their health, but after crossing the Bay of Biscay the weather became fine and we got the damp beds and blankets dried, the leaks partially stopped and the prison well aired and ventilated which, I am happy to say soon manifested a favourable change in the health and appearance of the men.

            Besides the cases given in the journal I had a great many others to treat, some of them similar to those mentioned but the greater part consisted of boils, scalds, and contusions which would not only be too tedious to enter but I fear would be irksome to the reader. There were four births on board during the passage which did well, therefore I did not consider it necessary to give a detailed account of them in my journal the more especially as they were all favourable cases.

            Regularity and cleanliness in the prison, free ventilation and as far as possible dry decks turning all the prisoners up in fine weather as we were lucky enough to have two musicians amongst the convicts, dancing was tolerated every afternoon, strict attention to personal cleanliness and also to the cooking of their victuals with regular hours for their meals, were the only prophylactic means used on this occasion, which I found to answer my expectations to the utmost extent in as much as there was not a single case of contagious or infectious nature during the whole passage with the exception of a few cases of psora which soon yielded to the usual treatment. A few cases of scurvy however appeared on board at rather an early period which I can attribute to nothing else but the wet and hardships the prisoners endured during the first three or four weeks of the passage. I was prompt in my treatment of these cases and they got well, but before we arrived at Sydney I had about thirty others to treat.’

            The Lady Nugent arrived in Port Jackson on 9 April 1835 with 284 male prisoners. Two men had died at sea. The prisoners were landed on 27th April 1835 and marched to Hyde Park Barracks prior to being assigned. Ten were under the age of 14 years.

            The Lady Nugent:

            Lady Nugent

             

            Isaac’s distinguishing marks are noted on various criminal registers and record books:

            “Height in feet & inches: 5 4; Complexion: Ruddy; Hair: Light brown; Eyes: Hazel; Marks or Scars: Yes [including] DEVIL on lower left arm, TSIS back of left hand, WS lower right arm, MHDW back of right hand.”

            Another includes more detail about Isaac’s tattoos:

            “Two slight scars right side of mouth, 2 moles above right breast, figure of the devil and DEVIL and raised mole, lower left arm; anchor, seven dots half moon, TSIS and cross, back of left hand; a mallet, door post, A, mans bust, sun, WS, lower right arm; woman, MHDW and shut knife, back of right hand.”

             

            Lady Nugent record book

             

            From How tattoos became fashionable in Victorian England (2019 article in TheConversation by Robert Shoemaker and Zoe Alkar):

            “Historical tattooing was not restricted to sailors, soldiers and convicts, but was a growing and accepted phenomenon in Victorian England. Tattoos provide an important window into the lives of those who typically left no written records of their own. As a form of “history from below”, they give us a fleeting but intriguing understanding of the identities and emotions of ordinary people in the past.
            As a practice for which typically the only record is the body itself, few systematic records survive before the advent of photography. One exception to this is the written descriptions of tattoos (and even the occasional sketch) that were kept of institutionalised people forced to submit to the recording of information about their bodies as a means of identifying them. This particularly applies to three groups – criminal convicts, soldiers and sailors. Of these, the convict records are the most voluminous and systematic.
            Such records were first kept in large numbers for those who were transported to Australia from 1788 (since Australia was then an open prison) as the authorities needed some means of keeping track of them.”

            On the 1837 census Isaac was working for the government at Illiwarra, New South Wales. This record states that he arrived on the Lady Nugent in 1835. There are three other indent records for an Isaac Stokes in the following years, but the transcriptions don’t provide enough information to determine which Isaac Stokes it was. In April 1837 there was an abscondment, and an arrest/apprehension in May of that year, and in 1843 there was a record of convict indulgences.

            From the Australian government website regarding “convict indulgences”:

            “By the mid-1830s only six per cent of convicts were locked up. The vast majority worked for the government or free settlers and, with good behaviour, could earn a ticket of leave, conditional pardon or and even an absolute pardon. While under such orders convicts could earn their own living.”

             

            In 1856 in Camden, NSW, Isaac Stokes married Catherine Daly. With no further information on this record it would be impossible to know for sure if this was the right Isaac Stokes. This couple had six children, all in the Camden area, but none of the records provided enough information. No occupation or place or date of birth recorded for Isaac Stokes.

            I wrote to the National Library of Australia about the marriage record, and their reply was a surprise! Issac and Catherine were married on 30 September 1856, at the house of the Rev. Charles William Rigg, a Methodist minister, and it was recorded that Isaac was born in Edinburgh in 1821, to parents James Stokes and Sarah Ellis!  The age at the time of the marriage doesn’t match Isaac’s age at death in 1877, and clearly the place of birth and parents didn’t match either. Only his fathers occupation of stone mason was correct.  I wrote back to the helpful people at the library and they replied that the register was in a very poor condition and that only two and a half entries had survived at all, and that Isaac and Catherines marriage was recorded over two pages.

            I searched for an Isaac Stokes born in 1821 in Edinburgh on the Scotland government website (and on all the other genealogy records sites) and didn’t find it. In fact Stokes was a very uncommon name in Scotland at the time. I also searched Australian immigration and other records for another Isaac Stokes born in Scotland or born in 1821, and found nothing.  I was unable to find a single record to corroborate this mysterious other Isaac Stokes.

            As the age at death in 1877 was correct, I assume that either Isaac was lying, or that some mistake was made either on the register at the home of the Methodist minster, or a subsequent mistranscription or muddle on the remnants of the surviving register.  Therefore I remain convinced that the Camden stonemason Isaac Stokes was indeed our Isaac from Oxfordshire.

             

            I found a history society newsletter article that mentioned Isaac Stokes, stone mason, had built the Glenmore church, near Camden, in 1859.

            Glenmore Church

             

            From the Wollondilly museum April 2020 newsletter:

            Glenmore Church Stokes

             

            From the Camden History website:

            “The stone set over the porch of Glenmore Church gives the date of 1860. The church was begun in 1859 on land given by Joseph Moore. James Rogers of Picton was given the contract to build and local builder, Mr. Stokes, carried out the work. Elizabeth Moore, wife of Edward, laid the foundation stone. The first service was held on 19th March 1860. The cemetery alongside the church contains the headstones and memorials of the areas early pioneers.”

             

            Isaac died on the 3rd September 1877. The inquest report puts his place of death as Bagdelly, near to Camden, and another death register has put Cambelltown, also very close to Camden.  His age was recorded as 71 and the inquest report states his cause of death was “rupture of one of the large pulmonary vessels of the lung”.  His wife Catherine died in childbirth in 1870 at the age of 43.

             

            Isaac and Catherine’s children:

            William Stokes 1857-1928

            Catherine Stokes 1859-1846

            Sarah Josephine Stokes 1861-1931

            Ellen Stokes 1863-1932

            Rosanna Stokes 1865-1919

            Louisa Stokes 1868-1844.

             

            It’s possible that Catherine Daly was a transported convict from Ireland.

             

            Some time later I unexpectedly received a follow up email from The Oaks Heritage Centre in Australia.

            “The Gaudry papers which we have in our archive record him (Isaac Stokes) as having built: the church, the school and the teachers residence.  Isaac is recorded in the General return of convicts: 1837 and in Grevilles Post Office directory 1872 as a mason in Glenmore.”

            Isaac Stokes directory

            #6344
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              The Tetbury Riots

               

              While researching the Tetbury riots  (I had found some Browning names in the newspaper archives in association with the uprisings) I came across an article called Elizabeth Parker, the Swing Riots, and the Tetbury parish clerk” by Jill Evans.

              I noted the name of the parish clerk, Daniel Cole, because I know someone else of that name. The incident in the article was 1830.

              I found the 1826 marriage in the Tetbury parish registers (where Daniel was the parish clerk) of my 4x great grandmothers sister Hesther Lock. One of the witnesses was her brother Charles, and the other was Daniel Cole, the parish clerk.

              Marriage of Lewin Chandler and Hesther Lock in 1826:

              Daniel Cole witness

               

              from the article:

              “The Swing Riots were disturbances which took place in 1830 and 1831, mostly in the southern counties of England. Agricultural labourers, who were already suffering due to low wages and a lack of work after several years of bad harvests, rose up when their employers introduced threshing machines into their workplaces. The riots got their name from the threatening letters which were sent to farmers and other employers, which were signed “Captain Swing.”

              The riots spread into Gloucestershire in November 1830, with the Tetbury area seeing the worst of the disturbances. Amongst the many people arrested afterwards was one woman, Elizabeth Parker. She has sometimes been cited as one of only two females who were transported for taking part in the Swing Riots. In fact, she was sentenced to be transported for this crime, but never sailed, as she was pardoned a few months after being convicted. However, less than a year after being released from Gloucester Gaol, she was back, awaiting trial for another offence. The circumstances in both of the cases she was tried for reveal an intriguing relationship with one Daniel Cole, parish clerk and assistant poor law officer in Tetbury….

              ….Elizabeth Parker was committed to Gloucester Gaol on 4 December 1830. In the Gaol Registers, she was described as being 23 and a “labourer”. She was in fact a prostitute, and she was unusual for the time in that she could read and write. She was charged on the oaths of Daniel Cole and others with having been among a mob which destroyed a threshing machine belonging to Jacob Hayward, at his farm in Beverstone, on 26 November.

              …..Elizabeth Parker was granted royal clemency in July 1831 and was released from prison. She returned to Tetbury and presumably continued in her usual occupation, but on 27 March 1832, she was committed to Gloucester Gaol again. This time, she was charged with stealing 2 five pound notes, 5 sovereigns and 5 half sovereigns, from the person of Daniel Cole.

              Elizabeth was tried at the Lent Assizes which began on 28 March, 1832. The details of her trial were reported in the Morning Post. Daniel Cole was in the “Boat Inn” (meaning the Boot Inn, I think) in Tetbury, when Elizabeth Parker came in. Cole “accompanied her down the yard”, where he stayed with her for about half an hour. The next morning, he realised that all his money was gone. One of his five pound notes was identified by him in a shop, where Parker had bought some items.

              Under cross-examination, Cole said he was the assistant overseer of the poor and collector of public taxes of the parish of Tetbury. He was married with one child. He went in to the inn at about 9 pm, and stayed about 2 hours, drinking in the parlour, with the landlord, Elizabeth Parker, and two others. He was not drunk, but he was “rather fresh.” He gave the prisoner no money. He saw Elizabeth Parker next morning at the Prince and Princess public house. He didn’t drink with her or give her any money. He did give her a shilling after she was committed. He never said that he would not have prosecuted her “if it was not for her own tongue”. (Presumably meaning he couldn’t trust her to keep her mouth shut.)”

              Contemporary illustration of the Swing riots:

              Swing Riots

               

              Captain Swing was the imaginary leader agricultural labourers who set fire to barns and haystacks in the southern and eastern counties of England from 1830. Although the riots were ruthlessly put down (19 hanged, 644 imprisoned and 481 transported), the rural agitation led the new Whig government to establish a Royal Commission on the Poor Laws and its report provided the basis for the 1834 New Poor Law enacted after the Great Reform Bills of 1833.

              An original portrait of Captain Swing hand coloured lithograph circa 1830:

              Captain Swing

              #6280

              I started reading a book. In fact I started reading it three weeks ago, and have read the first page of the preface every night and fallen asleep. But my neck aches from doing too much gardening so I went back to bed to read this morning. I still fell asleep six times but at least I finished the preface. It’s the story of the family , initiated by the family collection of netsuke (whatever that is. Tiny Japanese carvings) But this is what stopped me reading and made me think (and then fall asleep each time I re read it)

              “And I’m not entitled to nostalgia about all that lost wealth and glamour from a century ago. And I am not interested in thin. I want to know what the relationship has been between this wooden object that I am rolling between my fingers – hard and tricky and Japanese – and where it has been. I want to be able to reach to the handle of the door and turn it and feel it open. I want to walk into each room where this object has lived, to feel the volume of the space, to know what pictures were on the walls, how the light fell from the windows. And I want to know whose hands it has been in, and what they felt about it and thought about it – if they thought about it. I want to know what it has witnessed.” ― Edmund de Waal, The Hare With Amber Eyes: A Family’s Century of Art and Loss

              And I felt almost bereft that none of the records tell me which way the light fell in through the windows.

              I know who lived in the house in which years, but I don’t know who sat in the sun streaming through the window and which painting upon the wall they looked at and what the material was that covered the chair they sat on.

              Were his clothes confortable (or hers, likely not), did he have an old favourite pair of trousers that his mother hated?

              There is one house in particular that I keep coming back to. Like I got on the Housley train at Smalley and I can’t get off. Kidsley Grange Farm, they turned it into a nursing home and built extensions, and now it’s for sale for five hundred thousand pounds. But is the ghost still under the back stairs? Is there still a stain somewhere when a carafe of port was dropped?

              Did Anns writing desk survive? Does someone have that, polished, with a vase of spring tulips on it? (on a mat of course so it doesn’t make a ring, despite that there are layers of beeswaxed rings already)

              Does the desk remember the letters, the weight of a forearm or elbow, perhaps a smeared teardrop, or a comsumptive cough stain?

              Is there perhaps a folded bit of paper or card that propped an uneven leg that fell through the floorboards that might tear into little squares if you found it and opened it, and would it be a rough draft of a letter never sent, or just a receipt for five head of cattle the summer before?

              Did he hate the curtain material, or not even think of it? Did he love the house, or want to get away to see something new ~ or both?

              Did he have a favourite cup, a favourite food, did he hate liver or cabbage?

              Did he like his image when the photograph came from the studio or did he think it made his nose look big or his hair too thin, or did he wish he’d worn his other waistcoat?

              Did he love his wife so much he couldn’t bear to see her dying, was it neglect or was it the unbearableness of it all that made him go away and drink?

              Did the sun slanting in through the dormer window of his tiny attic room where he lodged remind him of ~ well no perhaps he was never in the room in daylight hours at all. Work all day and pub all night, keeping busy working hard and drinking hard and perhaps laughing hard, and maybe he only thought of it all on Sunday mornings.

              So many deaths, one after another, his father, his wife, his brother, his sister, and another and another, all the coughing, all the debility. Perhaps he never understood why he lived and they did not, what kind of justice was there in that?

              Did he take a souvenir or two with him, a handkerchief or a shawl perhaps, tucked away at the bottom of a battered leather bag that had his 3 shirts and 2 waistcoats in and a spare cap,something embroidered perhaps.

              The quote in that book started me off with the light coming in the window and the need to know the simplest things, something nobody ever wrote in a letter, maybe never even mentioned to anyone.

              Light coming in windows. I remeber when I was a teenager I had a day off sick and spent the whole day laying on the couch in a big window with the winter sun on my face all day, and I read Bonjour Tristesse in one sitting, and I’ll never forget that afternoon.  I don’t remember much about that book, but I remember being transported. But at the same time as being present in that sunny window.

              “Stories and objects share something, a patina…Perhaps patina is a process of rubbing back so that the essential is revealed…But it also seems additive, in the way that a piece of oak furniture gains over years and years of polishing.”

              “How objects are handed on is all about story-telling. I am giving you this because I love you. Or because it was given to me. Because I bought it somewhere special. Because you will care for it. Because it will complicate your life. Because it will make someone else envious. There is no easy story in legacy. What is remembered and what is forgotten? There can be a chain of forgetting, the rubbing away of previous ownership as much as the slow accretion of stories. What is being passed on to me with all these small Japanese objects?”

              “There are things in this world that the children hear, but whose sounds oscillate below an adult’s sense of pitch.”

              What did the children hear?

              #6267
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                From Tanganyika with Love

                continued part 8

                With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                Morogoro 20th January 1941

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Morogoro 30th July 1941

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Morogoro 26th August 1941

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Morogoro 25th December 1941

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Morogoro Hospital 30th September 1943

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Morogoro 26th January 1944

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Lyamungu 20th March 1944

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Lyamungu 15th May 1944

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Lyamungu 18th July 1944

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Lyamungu 16th August 1944

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

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

                Dearest Mummy,

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

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

                Very much love,
                Eleanor.

                Safari in Masailand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                Lyamungu 10th November. 1944

                Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                Much love,
                Eleanor.

                 

                #3469

                Fanella was riding her new zebra friend in a big dry meadow. Something she had never seen before. There were other animals with them and it was delightful. The flight of the cranes transported her up to the clouds while the crocodiles would clap in unison in the marshes.
                The zebra had told her his name. Rene he was, and glad he’d met her before it was too late. He also said something that she didn’t quite understand. “Other friends are coming, you don’t have to worry.” Why worry when she was with Rene ? Other friends ? Lisa was coming back for her with Sanso ? “We’ll meet soon”, said Rene. Now she was having hallucinations. He was a tall man, half an ebony skin, half white and black zebra stripes. But he was already fading away.
                The return back to reality was harsh. She gagged and disgorged sea water on the beach. It felt as if she had been torn inside out.

                “There, there. Welcome back young Miss. You’re safe, now”, said a man. He was wearing a smile but she felt it was just a facade.
                “Are you okay ?” she asked. Even in the midst of drowning, her maternal instinct was stronger. Surprised showed up on the man’s face.
                “What do you mean ?”
                “You’re all yellow.”
                The man laughed. “I’m quite normal, young lady. Quite normal.” He put his jacket on her shoulders to help keep her warmth as social rules demanded. It was relatively dry, whereas he was drenched. He must have took it off before rescuing her from the sea.

                “We should have left her to the barracudas”, said another man. He wore a blue turban, casting a shadow on an already hard face. It was marked by a circular fresh scar around his nose, made by countless small sharp teeth. The flesh seemed to pulsate painfully. She shuddered when she saw his hook-leg, the hook half burried in the sand. She didn’t want to imagine what he could do with it.

                “Don’t pay attention to Berberus”, said the first man, “We have no business in hurting young beautiful ladies.”
                Something in his smile told her that it wasn’t always true. She forced herself a gracious face, as she had learned to do with the noble men back then in Versailles.
                “Thank you for rescuing me, Sir.” She pulled on the edges of the jacket as if she needed warmth. “My name is Fanetta”, she added, lowering her eyes.

                #2964
                EricEric
                Keymaster

                  Interestingly, it seemed you had to be shrunk to be able to properly use the portable portal map, but once you were transported to your destination, there was no use of gum-bears or jelly babies to get back to your original size.
                  “How clever this is!” Pearl was the first to notice.

                  There was another marvelous property of the Universe that Mari Fe didn’t count on, or maybe only vaguely so, but which did come in handy, once more: the Universe responded to the energy of her intention rather than to her words.
                  When they appeared at their destination, in the dead of night, it was not summer— but still winter. Which actually doesn’t really mean anything, because summer doesn’t even exist in some place, of course, and when it does, it doesn’t even occur at the same time in all places.
                  Actually, the Universe, or Pedro, as some like to call them, was aware that what Mari Fe meant when she said (repeatedly) “I want to arrive in summer” was in truth “I want to be warm.”
                  And curiously, winter in that place, as in Russia, had been exceptionally warm, as her colleague Katarina had noticed.

                  #2838

                  In reply to: Tales of Tw’Elves

                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    The old man screeched to a halt, his car fishtailing wildly. His bad tempered frown at the slow moving traffic morphed in an instant into slack jawed eye popping amazement. The road had literally disappeared into an enormous hole. Good Lord! he shouted. Although he wasn’t a religious man he considered himself to be a gentleman, and didn’t swear in front of his wife. What the dickens is that? he asked her, but she was speechless with shock. The sports car they had been following, and the unmarked bus in front of it that had been holding the traffic up were nowhere to be seen.

                    ~~

                    Connie Leadbetter was nervous. It was her first date with Chad Pickins and the first time she’d been in his flashy sports car. They were on their way to a festival in Hot Springs to celebrate the magic of nature, oddly enough. Connie’s nervousness had manifested itself as a digestive system upset, and to her horror, she farted and followed through on the soft pink leather seat of Chad’s car. Mortified, she passionately wished that the ground would open and swallow her up.

                    ~~

                    The Tw’Elves, who weren’t allowed to talk on the bus, were busy discussing their situation telepathically. The previous week they had been arrested by Homeland Security as a threat to the nation, and were being transported to a detention camp in North Dakota. This eventuality wasn’t really part of their plan, but as so often happens, it slotted in nicely, albeit unexpectedly, with the Perforation Plans. Sink Holes had been appearing for some time in the middle of the north American continent, neatly following a north south line, stretching from Hudson Bay to the Gulf of Mexico, so the Tw’Elves mentally punched another hole in the perforation line to fascilitate their exit from the doomed bodies they were wearing at the time. Thus, the separation of the two halves of the continent came one hole closer to fruition.

                    ~~

                    The Energy Leprechaun gave himself a cake for another splendid synchronicity, seamlessly connecting Connie’s wish with the intention of the Tw’Elves.

                    #2645

                    In reply to: Strings of Nines

                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      Sanso had been hanging around for far too long, trying to make sense of all the funny ideas that people have, and trying to get to grips with all their adventures and escapades, their convoluted ponderings, and all the friends and associates that were continually weaving themselves through the many threads. He’d all but forgotten that he was a wanderer by nature, used to travelling alone. Somehow he’d become stuck in their ways, despite not ever really fitting in completely, and he wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened. Perhaps it had been the broccoli. With a defiant devil may care spirit, he’d eaten the broccoli
                      from the jar marked “You Fool”, when all the others had chosen the broccoli in the jar labeled “Thank You”. Well, he’d chosen it, there was no blaming anyone else for it, after all. But the effects had all but worn off, and he was starting to get the old familiar itch to travel again, to explore.

                      “You can go in any direction you want” he heard himself say as he mentally transported himself back to a scene in his Story. “You’ll always be at the centre of everything.”

                      How very strange that he’d forgotten that. That brocolli was powerful stuff.

                      “You interpret the signs however you want to…” the voice of Sanso In Another Scene continued, “and then you act on it. And I’ll tell you this as well, it’s about time you stopped rehashing Old Scenes and started exploring some new ones. Just go, go now! Put one foot in front of the other, and just go ~ go back into the cave.”

                      Sanso was on the verge of protesting that he didn’t have a plan, and then remembered how much he liked surprises.

                      For the briefest moment, Sanso wondered if he should leave a note for anyone, or get the laundry in before he set off, or pack a suitcase or something, but decided to start off as he meant to carry on ~ alone, impulsive and free to wander the world of his own making.

                      ~~~

                      There was a large black cow blocking the entrance to the cave. The cow was dead and bloated, although it hadn’t started to smell yet. Sanso wondered whether it was a sign, and decided that it was. It would be rather pointless to create a large dead cow blocking the cave entrance if it had no significance to the story, he deduced, although he hadn’t yet worked out an appropriate meaning for the sign.

                      Weighing up his options, Sanso realized there were several choices he could make. He could delete the previous paragraph, and simply walk into the cave. He could wait until the cow decomposed, and then simply climb over the bones. He could wander around until he found another cave entrance, or simply teleport himself into the cave behind the cow.

                      However, the only option that he could think of that would include the Meaning of the Dead Cow Blocking The Cave Entrance would be to stay with the cow until the meaning had been found. If he ignored the cow, he might be Missing An Important Meaning. Notwithstanding, the meaning may turn up later, whether he forgot about it or not.

                      Sanso decided to sit and meditate on the Meaning of the Cow before proceeding. He could change his mind at any moment if he got bored.

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