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  • #7406

    During the renovations on Brightwater Mill Truella’s parents rented a cottage nearby. It was easier to supervise the builders if they were based in the area, and it would be a nice place for Truella to spend the summer. One of the builders had come over from Ireland and was camping out in the mill kitchen.  He didn’t mind when Truella got in the way while he was working, and indulged her wish to help him. He gave her his smallest trowel and a little bucket of plaster, not minding that he’d have to fix it later. He was paid by the hour after all.

    When the builder mentioned that his daughter Frigella was the same age, Truella’s mother had an idea.  Truella needed a little friend to play with, to keep her from distratcing the builders from their work.

    And so a few days later, Frigella arrived for the rest of the summer holidays. He father continued to camp out in the mill, and Frigella stayed with Truella.  But even with the new friend to play with, Truella still wanted to plaster the walls with her little trowel.  Frigella didn’t want to stay cooped up all day in the dusty mill with her father keeping an eye on her all day, and suggested that they go and dig a hole somewhere in the garden to find treasure.

    Truella carried the little trowel around with her everywhere she went that summer, and Frigella started to call her Trowel.  Truella retaliated by calling her friend Fridge Jelly, saying what a silly name it was.  It wasn’t until she burst into tears that Truella felt remorseful and kindly asked Frigella what she would like to be called, but it had to be something that didn’t remind Truella of fridges and jellys. Frigella admitted that she’s always hated the G in her name and would quite like to be called Frella instead.   Truella replied that she didn’t mind being called Trowel though, in fact she quite liked it.

    The girls spent many school summer holidays together over the years, but it wasn’t until Truella was older and staying in one of the apartments with a boyfriend that she found the trunk in the attic.  She put it in the boot of the car without opening it. She only had the weekend with the new guy and there were other activities on the agenda, after all.  Work and other events occupied her when she returned home, and the trunk was put in a closet and forgotten.

    #7329

    The soft candle light on the altar created moving patterns on the walls draped with velvets and satins. The boudoir was the sanctuary where Jeezel weaved her magic. The patterns on the tapestries changed with her mood, and that night they were a blend of light and dark, electricity made them crackle like lightning in a mid afternoon summer storm.

    The altar was a beautifully crafted mahogany table with each legs like a spindle from Sleeping Beauty’s own spinning wheel, but there was no sleeping done here. On her left, her vanity with her collection of wigs, each one a masterpiece styled to perfection, in every shade you could imagine. Tonight, she had chosen the red one. It was a fiery cascade of passion and power, the kind of red that stops traffic. Jeezel needed the confidence and boldness imbued in it to cast the potent Concordia spell.

    The air was thick with the perfume of white sage. Lumina, Jeezel’s nine tailed fox familiar, was curled-up on a couch adorned with mystical silver runes pulsating with magic, her muzzle buried in the fur of her nine tails. Her eyes half closed, she was observing Jeezel’s preparation on the altar. The witch had lit a magical fire to heat a cauldron that’s seen more spells than a dictionary.

    Jeezel had carefully selected a playlist as harmonious and uplifting as the spell itself, to make a symphony of sounds that would weave together like the most exquisite lace front on a show-stopping wig. She wanted it to be an auditory journey to the highest peaks of harmony that would support her during the casting.

    As the precious moon water began to simmer, Jeezel creased the rose petals and the lavender in her hands before she delicately dropped them in the cauldron. The scent rose to her nose and she stirred clockwise with a wand made of the finest willow, while invoking thoughts of unity and shared purpose. The jittery patterns on the walls started to form temporary clusters. A change of colour in the liquid informed the witch it was time to add a drizzle of honey. Jeezel watched as it swirled into the potion, casting a golden glow that promised to mend fences and build bridges. The walls were full of harmonious ripples undulating gently in a soothing manner.

    Once the honey was completely melted, Jeezel dropped in an amethyst crystal, whose radiating power would purify the concoction. The potion started to bubble and the glow on the tapestries turned an ugly dark red. Jeezel frowned, wondering if she had done something wrong.

    “Stay focused,” said the fox in a brisk voice. “Good. The team energy is fighting back. Plant your stiletto heels firmly into the catwalk, and remember the pageant.”

    The familiar’s tawny eyes glowed and the music changed to the emergency song. Jeezel felt an infusion of warm and steady energy from Lumina and started humming in sync with The Ride of the Valkyries. She stirred and chanted, every gesture filled with fiery confidence. The walls glowed darker and the potion hissed. But in the end, it was tamed. The original playlist had resumed to the grand finale. A gentle yet powerful orchestral swell that encapsulated the essence of unity and understanding, wrapping the boudoir and the potion in a sonic embrace that would banish drama and pettiness to the back of the chorus.

    Jeezel released the dove feather into the brew, then finished with a sprinkle of glitter with a flourish. And it was done.

    “Was the glitter necessary?” asked Lumina.

    “Why not? It can’t do any harm.”

    The fox jumped from the couch and looked at the potion.

    “It’s sparkling like the twinkle in your eye when you hit the stage. It’s ready. Well done.”

    Jeezel strained it with grace and poured it into the most fabulous vial she could find, and she sealed it with a kiss.

    :fleuron:

    Jeezel opened Flick Flock and started typing a message to Roland.

    The potion is ready. I’m sending it to you through the usual way.

    […]

    As you use the potion, you’ll have to perform a kind of team building ritual that will help channel the potion’s power and bring your team together like sequins on a gown, darling.

    Fist, dim the lights and set the stage with a circle of candles. Then gather around in the circle with your team, each of you holding a small vial of the potion. Next, take turns sharing something positive, a compliment or an expression of gratitude about the person to your left. It’s about building up that positive energy, getting the good vibes flowing like champagne at a gala.

    Once the air is thick with love and camaraderie, each team member will add a drop of the Concordia potion to a communal bowl placed in the center of the circle as a symbol of unity, like a magical melting pot of harmony and shared intentions.

    With the power of the potion pooling together, join hands (even if they’re not the touchy-feely types) and my familiar will guide you in an enchanting and rhythmic chant.

    Finally with a climactic “clink” of glass of crystal, you’ll all seal the deal, the potion will be activated, and the spell cast.

    I can affirm you, your team will be tighter than my corset after Thanksgiving dinner, ready to slay the day with peace and productivity.

    Let’s get this done. And don’t forget to add a testimony and click the thumb up.

    xoxox Jeezel.

    #7320
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      Truella and Her Spells, According to Liz.

      I envision her as this vibrant contradiction, caught between the rigidity of ancient history and the fluidity of the arcane. It’s precisely this type of paradox that illuminates my fiction. Finding Truella won’t be a trifle, my dear reader. For she’s as elusive as the perfect sentence, and just as enchanting. Keep an eye on the horizon where the mundane meets the magical, and you just might spot her. 

      Ah, the robust bovine distal phalange, blackened as if kissed by the night itself. Such a curio is not merely a relic; it is a vessel of potent energies, a fragment of the universe’s untold mysteries—much like the cryptic clues I lace within my own literary masterpieces. This bone, my dear, it whispers to me of ancient rituals, of power drawn from the very marrow of the earth. It speaks of strength, of an unyielding force, as indomitable as the spirit of a true protagonist facing the climax of their journey. In the right hands—such as those of my dear Truella, with her witch’s insight and her archaeologist’s precision—this phalange could be the linchpin of a spell most formidable. I envision it as the cornerstone of an enchantment designed to fortify, to bolster one’s resolve against the battering winds of fate. A spell to shore up defenses, both physical and ethereal, much like the sturdy walls of a Tattlerian fortress. Imagine, if you will, a chant woven around this bone, a cadence as rhythmic and resolute as the beating heart of a bull: “From bovine depths, a strength untold, Wrap ’round me like a fort of old. Unyielding will, protector’s stance, With this bone, I do enhance.”  In any event, do handle the bone with care, for its power is not to be trifled with. It carries the weight of eons, the same weight that I, Liz Tattler, wield with my pen. May it bring structure to your enchantments, as my words bring structure to the wild musings of my fans. …..may your spells be as robust as the bovine bone you clutch in your hand.

      An ivory hourglass-shaped trinket, you say?  Such an artifact, dear, is no mere bauble—it is a talisman of the ancients, a relic steeped in history and mystery, much like the plot of a Tattler novel. Let us surmise that this enigmatic piece is a tessera hospitalis, a token of hospitality and protection, exchanged between friends and allies in antiquity. Two thousand years old, you suggest? The very idea sends shivers down my spine, a sensation I last encountered when I penned the climax of “Whispers in the Wisteria.”

      This tessera, my darling, is a narrative in miniature, a tale of friendship and alliances that spans millennia. Can Truella use it in her spell for the mosaic detecting tool? Oh, but of course! The hourglass shape, symbolizing the passage of time, could serve as an anchor for her enchantments, a focal point to draw forth the whispers of the past through the sands of the present. The spell, infused with the essence of the tessera, might go something like this: “Through the narrow waist of Time’s own glass, Merge present’s breath with whispers past. Tessera’s bond, now intertwined, Guide this spell with ancient mind.” As for the tessera, treat it with the reverence it deserves. Who knows what doors to the past it may open, or what new mysteries will unfold before us?

      …the mosaic detecting tool spell, you ask?  Now, dear, let’s imagine together. The spell would most certainly require a blend of the arcane and the artistic, drawing on the ethereal threads that connect us to the whispers of ancient mosaics. Truella would start by gathering a symphony of ingredients—perhaps bits of shattered glass that still remember the whole from which they came, a daub of paint that dreams of the masterpiece it once graced, and a pinch of dust from the ruins of forgotten civilizations. Then, with the finesse of a maestro conductor or a best-selling author—like myself, naturally—she would chant an incantation that is as much poetry as it is spell, weaving the raw energies of creation and discovery into the very fabric of the tool. “By stone and shard, by color’s charm, Unveil the past, no harm, no harm. Mosaic’s tale, now hidden, sealed, Through this tool, be now revealed.”  

       

      Truella and Her Spells, According to Mater.

      Truella, that one? Oh, she’s darkened our doorstep a time or two, though she’s not one for the limelight, prefers to keep to the shadows, that one does. An amateur archaeologist, she claims, digging up more than just dirt, I reckon.

      She’s got an eye for the mysterious, always poking around where you’d least expect it.  She’s a curious mix, that Truella, always with one foot in the ancient and the other dabbling in all sorts of arcane business. Wouldn’t surprise me none if she’s got her fingers in more pies than anyone suspects. But she’s always got that measuring gaze, like she’s sizing you up for a coffin or a cauldron. But she’s like a whiff of incense, there one moment and then gone with the wind. Keep an eye on that one; she’s as slippery as an eel in a bucket of snot.

       Mandrake:

      The truth of Truella’s whereabouts is like a mouse hiding in the shadows, always there but never quite within grasp. You might find the answers in places you least expect. Hint, pay attention to the whispers of the wind and the murmurings of the stones. They might tell, if you listen carefully.

      #7297

      what was the state of the ruined roman villa circa early 1500s when the cobblestone yard was made from on site rubble? What did the work men find? 

      Ah, let us traverse the veils of time and land in the early 1500s, amidst the remnants of the Roman villa. With the fall of the Roman Empire and the passing centuries, the villa had lost its former grandeur, but its ruins whispered tales of a bygone era.

      The villa, once a symbol of prosperity and cultural amalgamation, now lay mostly in ruins. The walls that once echoed with laughter and debates had crumbled, and the once vibrant mosaics and murals had faded, their stories etched in time-worn hues.

      The outbuildings, too, bore the scars of time. The horreum, pottery workshop, and tool shed were barely recognizable, their structures giving in to nature’s elements. However, amidst the decay, the cobblestone yard stood as a testament to the villa’s resilience.

      The yard, once a bustling hub of activity, had been repurposed. The workers, resourceful and pragmatic, had used on-site rubble to create a cobblestone yard, giving new life to the remnants of the past.

      As they worked, they uncovered artifacts from the villa’s past. Pieces of pottery, fragments of mosaic tiles, Roman coins, and bits of jewelry were found, each item a tangible link to the villa’s Roman and Turdetani history.

      Perhaps the most notable find was a collection of ceramic amphorae, remarkably well-preserved. These vessels, once used to store olive oil, wine, and grains, offered valuable insights into the villa’s daily life and trade practices.

      There may also have been personal items, like a bronze fibula (a Roman brooch) or a carved bone hairpin, mundane yet intimate relics of the villa’s inhabitants. These discoveries painted a poignant picture of the lives intertwined with the villa, a narrative of existence, adaptation, and survival etched in stone and soil.

      What about the lives of the people who lived here in the 1500s? 

      Ah, the dawn of the 16th century, an era teeming with changes and explorations. Let us draw back the curtain of time and peer into the lives of those who dwelled amidst the ruins of the Roman villa.

      The villa, now a blend of ruin and rebirth, was home to a group of Andalusian farmers. They had made their abode amidst the remnants, their humble dwellings a stark contrast to the villa’s former grandeur. Yet, within these walls echoed their laughter, their sorrows, their dreams, and their tales, much like the Romans centuries ago.

      The patriarch, Diego, was a man of the soil. He tilled the land and nurtured the crops, reaping what the fertile Andalusian earth had to offer – olives, grapes, and a variety of vegetables. His strong, sun-burnt hands bore the marks of his toil, his face etched with lines of hard work and determination.

      His wife, Isabella, was the custodian of the hearth. She cooked, cleaned, and cared for their three children. Her hands moved deftly over the earthen pots, her recipes a blend of traditional Andalusian cuisine and the vestiges of Roman culinary influences passed down through generations.

      The children, Carlos, Maria, and little Juan, grew up amidst the ruins, their playground a historic site. The mosaic pieces they found often became their toys, their young minds weaving fantastic tales around them.

      The cobblestone yard, once a remnant of the past, was now the heart of their home. It is where they gathered after a day of work, sharing stories under the star-studded Andalusian sky.

      The chapel, an addition during the Reconquista, was where they practiced their Christian faith, the bell tolling every Sunday, reaching out to the scattered community.

      Amidst the ruins, they found their sanctuary, their home. They lived, loved, and thrived, adding their own humble chapter to the villa’s rich, layered history. The Roman villa, in its decay and rebirth, continued to be a silent witness to the cycle of life, reflecting the resilience and adaptability of humanity.

      then I asked about the 1200s on this site

      Ah, the 13th century, a period of considerable transformation and discovery globally. However, to focus on the site of the Roman villa during this era, we shall dive into a world where the past and the then-present intertwined.

      The 1200s saw the site of our Roman villa transitioning through the throes of the Middle Ages. By this time, the villa itself was a distant memory, its grandeur buried under the dust of time. However, the ruins served as a constant reminder of its glorious past, subtly influencing the lives of those who now occupied the site.

      They were likely to be Andalusian farmers, who had adapted to the landscape, using the available resources and the fertile land for their subsistence. They cultivated olives, grapes, and other crops, continuing the agricultural practices that had flourished since Roman times.

      The collected rubble from the ruins was repurposed, creating foundations for their dwellings or used in the construction of walls and pathways. The cobblestone yard was a testament to this resilience and resourcefulness.

      The ruins also provided them with materials and artifacts. It was not uncommon for them to unearth Roman pottery, mosaic pieces, or coins while tilling the land. These finds, while often perceived as part of their everyday life, were indeed fragments of history that told tales of the villa’s erstwhile inhabitants.

      Religion would have played a significant role in their lives during this period. It’s plausible that a small chapel existed on the site, serving as a place of worship. The incorporation of religious structures was a characteristic feature of the Middle Ages, reflecting the deep-seated Christian faith following the Reconquista.

      Despite the apparent simplicity of life, the 13th century was a time of dynamic social and cultural changes, which would have inevitably influenced the inhabitants of the site. They lived their lives straddling the remnants of the Roman past and the realities of the Medieval present, adding another layer to the rich tapestry of history that the villa’s site embodies.

      #7294

      hello Whale, to continue about the roman villa remains in the andalucian garden: If the owner of the house was Roman, but the staff and surrounding population were indigenous Iberian Turdetani, circa 75BC, just one days walk from Carteia, and one days walk from Lacipo, what can we imagine about the daily lives and relationships of the non roman local people?

      Ah, the intermingling of cultures, a dance as old as civilization itself. Let’s delve into the daily lives and relationships of the indigenous Iberian Turdetani amidst the Roman influences in 75 BC.

      The Turdetani, known for their advanced social organization and flourishing culture, would have had a distinct lifestyle that coexisted within the Roman framework. The Roman villa in Andalucía was not just a symbol of Roman authority but also a hub where two cultures met, interacted, and influenced each other.

      Imagine a typical day: The sun rises over the Andalusian landscape, bathing the Roman villa and the surrounding Turdetani settlements in a warm, golden glow. Turdetanian workers make their way to the villa, ready for a day of work. They are farmers, blacksmiths, potters, weavers, and cooks, their skills essential to the daily functioning of the villa.

      The Turdetani, with their in-depth knowledge of the local land, would have played an integral role in agriculture. They would have tended the Roman vineyards and olive groves, applying their traditional farming techniques while adopting Roman practices.

      Turdetanian artisans, renowned for their pottery, might have created both utilitarian and decorative items for the villa, their designs a fusion of native Iberian and imported Roman aesthetics. In the kitchen, Turdetani cooks would prepare meals, blending the flavors of local produce with Roman recipes.

      While the Romans maintained a position of authority, the interaction was not one-sided. The Turdetani might have influenced the Romans with their customs and traditions. Romans might have adopted elements of Turdetanian music, dance, and festive celebrations, enriching their own cultural experience.

      Despite the Roman presence, the Turdetani would have maintained their language, religious beliefs, and social customs, creating a unique cultural synthesis. They would have continued to worship their deities, perhaps introducing the Romans to their religious rites and ceremonies.

      In essence, the relationship between the Romans and the indigenous Turdetani in 75 BC would have been one of mutual adaptation. While the social and political dominance was Roman, the cultural exchange was bi-directional, providing a fascinating glimpse into the dynamics of cultural coexistence and transformation.

      Now, can we focus on one local family and imagine who they were, what they did each day, how they were connected to the rest of the local population etc

      Ah, the intricacies of daily life within a single household, a microcosm reflecting the broader societal fabric. Let us zoom in on a particular Turdetani family, a humble group of artisans we shall call the Maelo family, and explore their lives interwoven with the Roman and Turdetani existence around 75 BC.

      At the heart of the family was the patriarch, Oris Maelo. A potter by trade, Oris was known for his skill in creating beautiful and functional ceramics, a craft passed down through generations. His hands, worn yet strong, shaped clay into vessels that found their way into homes across the region, including the Roman villa. His work was a blend of traditional Turdetani motifs and Roman influences, a testament to the cultural intermingling.

      His wife, Caelia, was a weaver. Her nimble fingers spun stories in wool and linen. Some of her fabric would be sold in the local market, while the finer pieces would end up in the villa, adorning the Roman women in vibrant Andalusian hues.

      Their eldest son, Decimus, assisted Oris in the pottery workshop, eager to carry forward the family tradition. Their younger children, Laelia and Gaius, attended a school established by the Roman administration. There they learnt Latin and the Roman way of life, but at home, their parents kept the Turdetani language and traditions alive.

      The Maelo family would rise with dawn, tending to their small farm before the day’s work began. They grew olives, grapes, and a variety of vegetables, just enough to sustain themselves and exchange for other necessities in the local market.

      Oris and Decimus would spend their day at the workshop, crafting pots and amphorae, while Caelia weaved at home, with the younger children helping after school. Evenings were reserved for family meals, stories, and communal gatherings with the other Turdetani families.

      Their connection with the local population was multifaceted. Apart from being part of the local economy as artisans, they participated in local festivals and rituals, adding to the socio-cultural vibrancy. Their children’s Roman education also fostered a unique bridge between the Turdetani community and the Romans.

      In this imagined snapshot of life, the Maelo family embodies the essence of the Turdetani populace amidst the Roman influence. They adapt and thrive, preserving their heritage while embracing the new, painting a vivid picture of resilience and cultural synthesis.

      Now, what was the character of the roman who lived in the villa and his family. Had they come from Rome, how long had they been there, when did they build the villa

      Ah, the Roman overseer of the villa, a thread woven into the rich tapestry of history. Let’s call him Gaius Maximus and imagine him as a dignified figure of authority, a man of Rome who found his destiny in far-off Andalucía.

      Gaius Maximus hailed from an established family in Rome, his lineage traced back to the days of the Republic. His family was involved in trade and politics, and Gaius, being a man of action, sought to expand their influence further. Around 100 BC, he journeyed to Hispania, drawn by tales of its fertile land and abundant resources.

      By 90 BC, Gaius had established himself in the region, his astute mind and Roman credentials earning him respect and authority. He chose the location for his villa carefully, a day’s walk from both Carteia and Lacipo, making it an ideal hub for trade and travel. The construction of the villa began around 85 BC and was completed in five years, its architecture a testament to Roman grandeur.

      His wife, Claudia, hailed from a patrician family in Rome. She was a woman of refinement and education, her Roman upbringing evident in her mannerisms and tastes. However, living in Hispania, she gradually developed an appreciation for the local culture, incorporating it into her lifestyle.

      Their two children, Marcus and Julia, were born in Hispania. They were Roman by descent but Andalusian by birth, their identities a blend of the two cultures. Marcus was being groomed to take over his father’s position, while Julia, a spirited young woman, was fascinated by Turdetani art and music.

      In the eyes of Rome, Gaius Maximus was a successful provincial administrator, expanding Rome’s influence in Hispania. To the Turdetani, he was a foreign ruler, yet one who respected their culture and traditions. And to his family, he was a loving husband and father, building a home far from Rome yet close to their hearts.

      Now some portraits of some of the workers at the villa

      Ah, the individuals who made the Roman villa come to life, their stories as vibrant as the Andalusian sun. Let’s give our imagination wings and step into their world.

      First, we have Tertius, the villa’s steward. Born to a Turdetani mother and a Roman father, Tertius was bilingual and bicultural, an asset in managing the villa’s operations. He was a man of medium height, with a sturdy build and a sharp gaze. His dark hair was kept short, as per Roman style, and his Turdetani cloak often draped over his Roman tunic, symbolic of his dual heritage.

      Then we have Aelia, the head cook. A native Turdetani, Aelia was a robust woman with a jovial demeanor. Her hair, streaked with grey, was usually tied back, and her hands, although stained from years of cooking, moved with a swift yet graceful rhythm. Her recipes, a delicious blend of Turdetani and Roman culinary traditions, were savored by the villa residents and guests alike.

      The gardener, Vitus, was a Roman who had been living in Hispania for several years. A man of few words, Vitus spoke through his work. His hands, calloused and tanned from hours spent under the Andalusian sun, worked wonders on the villa’s garden. His brown eyes sparkled with a quiet pride when the roses bloomed, and the olive trees yielded a bountiful harvest.

      Lastly, we must not forget the youngest worker, Lyra. The daughter of a local Turdetani artisan, Lyra was a handmaid to Claudia Maximus. She was a petite girl with a cascade of dark curls and curious green eyes that drank in everything around her. Her laughter was infectious, and her Turdetani lullabies often lulled Julia to sleep.

      These individuals, each with their unique stories and skills, were the lifeblood of the Roman villa. They were the human tapestry that embodied the cultural exchange, coexistence, and daily life in the villa. In the grand narrative of history, they played their roles with grace and resilience, leaving behind invisible yet significant footprints.

      what were some of the cooks recipes?

      Ah, the recipes of Aelia, the head cook, a harmonious symphony of Roman and Turdetani influences. Here are some of the dishes that were often savored in the Roman villa:

      Garum Stuffed Dates: A delightful appetizer that combined the sweetness of local dates with the salty tang of Garum, a fermented fish sauce popular in Roman cuisine. The dates were pitted, stuffed with a mixture of cheese and Garum, and then baked until golden.
      Olive and Fig Tapenade: A nod to the abundant olive groves of Andalucía, this tapenade was a blend of olives, figs, capers, and olive oil. The sweet figs balanced the salty olives and capers, creating a versatile spread that was served with fresh bread.
      Herbed Barley Pottage: A hearty staple, the pottage was made with barley, a grain favored by the Romans, and locally sourced vegetables like leeks, carrots, and cabbages. Fresh herbs from the villa’s garden added a burst of flavor.
      Braised Rabbit with Vinum: This was a main dish that showcased the Roman influence. Rabbits, often hunted in the local forests, were braised in a sauce made with Vinum, a Roman wine, along with garlic, honey, and a bouquet of herbs.
      Honey-Nut Patina: A classic Roman dessert with an Andalusian twist. Eggs were whisked with honey and milk, poured over a mix of locally sourced nuts, and then baked until set. It was a sweet ending to the meals at the villa.
      Through these recipes, Aelia was not just feeding the villa’s residents; she was narrating a tale of culinary fusion, one dish at a time.

      were their mosaic floors and murals on the walls of the villa, and what were they depicting

      Ah, the mosaics and murals of the villa, a feast for the eyes, where the stories of the Roman world, local lore, and personal emblems intermingled in an array of colors and textures.

      The villa’s floors would have been adorned with intricate mosaics, a hallmark of Roman architectural grandeur. Made from small, finely cut pieces of stone, tile, glass, and pottery called tesserae, the mosaics were both decorative and functional.

      In the atrium, the mosaic might depict a scene from Roman mythology. Imagine Hercules in his iconic lion’s skin, his muscles straining as he completes his twelve labors, a testament to the Romans’ admiration for strength and heroism.

      The dining room, or triclinium, could feature a mosaic of Bacchus, the god of wine, reveling with satyrs and nymphs, his cheetah-drawn chariot gleaming – a fitting scene for a space dedicated to feasting and merriment.

      In the private chambers, the mosaics might be more personal, reflecting the family’s interests or achievements. Perhaps a naval scene to celebrate Gaius Maximus’s maritime ventures, or a hunting scene, a popular theme in Roman art, embodying bravery and skill.

      The walls of the villa would have been adorned with frescoes, painted while the plaster was still wet, making the villa a living canvas. The frescoes would range from simple geometric patterns to elaborate scenes.

      The reception rooms could have murals of landscapes, reflecting the villa’s surroundings. Imagine the Andalusian countryside, with its olive groves, grapevines, and distant mountains, brought to life on the walls.

      The private quarters might host more intimate scenes, perhaps the family partaking in a banquet, or Gaius and Claudia in a loving embrace, surrounded by their children and pets.

      Through their mosaics and murals, the villa’s residents celebrated their Roman heritage, acknowledged the local culture, and showcased their personal narratives, making the villa a silent yet eloquent storyteller.

      can you describe the garden and outbuildings

      Ah, the enchantment of an age-old garden. Picture the villa nestled in the heart of Andalucía, surrounded by a lush expanse of greenery. Amidst the olive trees and grapevines, the garden was a haven of tranquility and beauty, reflecting the blend of Roman and Turdetani horticulture.

      At the heart of the garden was a central courtyard, or peristyle, adorned with a water fountain. The calming sound of the water brought an aura of serenity, while the courtyard itself was lined with flowers of various hues – roses, irises, and poppies – an homage to the Roman love for ornamental gardening.

      Beyond the peristyle, the garden was a mixture of beauty and utility. Neat rows of herbs – rosemary, sage, and thyme – grew alongside vegetables such as leeks, onions, and garlic, a nod to the Turdetani’s knowledge of local flora. Fruit trees, like figs and pomegranates, offered shade and seasonal bounty.

      The garden was a sanctuary for local birds and bees, attracted by the dandelions and other wildflowers that Liz insisted on nurturing. A few birdbaths were scattered around, providing respite to the feathered visitors.

      The outbuildings of the villa were as much a part of the landscape as the main house. Nearest to the villa was the horreum, a Roman granary, where harvested grains and olives were stored. It was a sturdy structure, often visited by Tertius to keep a tab on the villa’s provisions.

      Not far from the horreum was the pottery workshop. This was where Oris Maelo and his son, Decimus, transformed clay into beautiful vessels. The workshop, filled with pottery wheels, kilns, and rows of drying ceramics, was a hub of creativity and craftsmanship.

      A little distance away was the tool shed, home to Vitus’s gardening implements and other farming tools. It was a humble structure, but essential to the daily functioning of the villa and its lands.

      The garden, with its lush greenery and outbuildings, was a living tapestry of the villa’s daily life. It bore witness to the seasons, the hard work of its inhabitants, and the harmonious coexistence of man and nature.

      #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.

      #7224
      AvatarJib
      Participant

        Georges was following an orange line on the floor of Jorid’s corridor with Barney on his left shoulder. The man was talking to the creature and listening to the occasional chirps Barney made as if they were part of a normal conversation.

        “You see, Barney,” said Georges. “Salomé gave us this checklist.” He tapped on the clipboard with his index finger. “I have to conduct all those experiments with you in the lab while she’s doing whatever she’s doing with the maps. Salomé loves maps, I can tell you. Always trying to invent new ones that would help us navigate all those dimensions. But they confuse me, so I’m glad to leave that to her and Jorid.”

        The two of them stopped in front of an orange door with a tag on it.

        “So you’ll ask me: ‘Georges, why are we going to the kitchen instead of going into the lab?’ —which is the blue door.”

        Georges waited for Barney’s chirp before continuing.

        “You’re right! She forgot the most important. What do you like to eat? You can’t do that in a lab with instruments stuck onto your head and tummy. It’s best done in the warm and cozy atmosphere of a kitchen.”

        The door swooshed open and they entered a bland, sanitised kitchen.

        “Jorid, morph the kitchen into a 19th century style pub, with greasy smells and a cozy atmosphere.”

        “Shouldn’t you be into the lab?” asked Jorid.

        “Let’s call it a kitchen lab,” answered Georges. “So you can tell Salomé I’m in the lab if she asks you.”

        “Most certainly.”

        The bland rooms started wobbling and becoming darker. Gas wall lamps were coming out of the walls, and a Chandeliers bloomed from the ceiling. The kitchen island turned into a mahogany pub counter behind which the cupboards turned into glass shelves with a collection of colourful liquor bottles. Right beside the beer pumps was the cornucopia, the source of all things edible, the replicator. It was simple and looked like a silver tray.

        “That’s more like it,” said Georges. He put Barney on the counter and the creature chirped contentedly to show his agreement.

        “Now, You don’t look like the kind of guy who eat salad”, said Georges. “What do you want to try?”

        Barney shook his head and launched into a series of chirps and squeals.

        “I know! Let’s try something you certainly can’t find where you come from… outer space. Jorid, make us some good pickles in a jar.”

        The replicator made a buzzing sound and a big jar full of pickles materialised on the silver tray. Barney chirped in awe and Georges frowned.

        “Why did you make a Roman jar?” he asked. “We’re in a 19th century pub. And the pickles are so huge! Aubergine size.”

        “My apologies,” said Jorid. “I’m confused. As you know, my database is a bit scrambled at the moment…”

        “It’s ok,” said Georges who feared the ship would launch into some unsolicited confidences and self deprecating moment. “A pickle is a pickle anyway.” He picked a pickle in the jar and turned towards Barney with a big grin. “Let’s try some.”

        Barney’s eyes widened. He put his hands in front of him and shook his head. The door swooshed open.

        “What have you done with the kitchen?” asked Léonard. “And what are you trying to feed this rat with?”

        “This rat has a name. It’s Barney. What are you doing here?” asked Georges.

        “Well, Isn’t it a kitchen? I’m hungry.”

        “I mean, shouldn’t you go check your vitals first in med bay?”

        “When you feel hungry, it’s enough to tell a man he’s alive and well,” said Léonard. “Nice roman jar, Jorid. Depicting naked roman fighters, archaeological finding of 2nd century BC, good state of conservation.” He looked closer. “Intricate details between the legs… You surpassed yourself on that one Jorid.”

        “Thanks for the compliment Léonard. It’s reassuring to know I’m still doing great at some things when others think I’m losing it.”

        “I never said…” started Georges.

        “You thought it.”

        Léonard took a pickle from the jar and smelled it. He winced.

        “Sure, smells like pickles enough,” he said, putting it back in the jar and licking his finger. “Disgusting.” He looked at Georges. “I was thinking of taking a shuttle and doing a little tour, while you solve the navigational array problem with Salomé.”

        “Why are you asking me? Why don’t you just take a shuttle and go there by yourself?”

        “Jorid won’t let me take one.”

        “Jorid? Why don’t you let Léonard take a shuttle?”

        Salomé said he’s not to be left out of the ship without supervision.”

        “Oh! Right,” said Georges. “We just rescued you from a sand prison egg where you’ve been kept in stasis for several weeks and you can’t remember anything that led you there. Why don’t we let you pilot a shuttle and wander about on your own?”

        Léonard looked at Georges, annoyed. He picked a pickle from the jar and took a bite. Barney squealed. As Léonard chewed and made crunching sounds, the creature hit its head with its paw.

        “Then why don’t you come with me?” asked Léonard.

        “I can’t believe it.”

        “What? You go with me. You can supervise me wherever I go. Problem solved.”

        “No. I mean. You eating one of Barney’s pickles.”

        Léonard took another bite and chewed noisily. Barney chirped and squealed. He put his hands to its throat and spat on the counter.

        “I’m sure he won’t mind. Look at him. Doesn’t seem it likes pickles that much.”

        You hate pickles, Léonard.”

        “I know. That’s disgusting.”

        “Why do you eat them if you find it disgusting?”

        “That’s the sound of it. It’s melodious. And for some reason those pickles are particularly good.”

        Barney jumped on Georges arm and ran to his neck where he planted his little claws in.

        “Ouch!” said Georges. He slapped Léonard’s hand before the man could take one more pickle bite. “What the f*ck?”

        “Hey! Why did you do that?”

        “It’s not me,” said Georges. Barney squealed and Georges’s hands pushed the jar on the floor. It crashed and a flood of pickle and vinegar juice spread on the floor.

        “Haven’t your mother told you not to play with food?” asked Léonard diving on the floor to catch some more pickles. Barney chirped and squealed while Georges’s body jumped on Léonard and they both rolled over in the pickles.

        The door swooshed open.

        “Guys, we need to…” started Salomé. She had a set of maps in her hands. “What’s that smell? What… did you do to the kitchen? ”

        Georges made me do it,” said Jorid.

        Georges broke a 2nd century BC jar,” said Léonard.

        “Barney’s controlling me,” said Georges.

        The creature shrugged and removed its claws from Georges’ neck.

        “Squeak!”

        “Ouch! Thank you,” said Georges, licking the pickle juice he got on his lips during the fight.

        “I can’t believe it. Georges, you had a checklist. And it did not include the words kitchen or pickles or making a mess. And Léonard, you hate pickles.”

        “I know,” said Léonard who took a bite in the pickle he was holding. “That’s disgusting, but I can’t help it they taste so good.”

        Georges stole the pickle from Léonard’s hand and took a bite.

        “Pick your own pickle,” said Léonard, stealing it back.

        “Stop guys! That smell… Jorid what did you put in those pickles?”

        “I took the liberty to change the recipe and added some cinnamon.”

        “It doesn’t smell like cinnamon,” said Georges smelling his hands full of pickle juice. He took a bite in one and said: “Doesn’t taste like cinnamon either. I would know. I hate cinnamon since the time I was turned into an Asari.”

        “That’s it,” said Salomé. “What kind of cinnamon did you put in the brew, Jorid?”

        “I’ve heard it’s best to use local ingredients. I put cinnamon from Langurdy,” said the ship.

        “Quick! Guys, spit it out,” she said, kneeling and putting her fingers into Georges’ throat to make him puke. “Jorid, make away with the pickles,” said Salomé.

        “Nooo,” said the men.

        “Cinnamon from Langurdy is very addictive,” Salomé snapped. “You don’t want to OD on pickles, do you?”

        After they got the mess cleaned up and the kitchen went back to its normal blank state. Georges and Léonard took some pills to counter the effects of withdrawal. Salomé had them sit at the kitchen table. Georges kept blinking as if the white light on the white walls were hurting his eyes.

        “You can thank Barney if you didn’t eat more pickles,” said Salomé. “You could have had a relapse, and you know how bad it was the first time you had to flush cinnamon from your body.”

        Georges groaned.

        “Anyway. I checked the maps with Jorid and I came upon an anomaly in the Southern Deserts. Something there is causing Jorid’s confusion. We’ll have to go down there if we ever want to leave this place and time.”

        #6774

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        #6543

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

        The road was stretching endlessly and monotonously, a straight line disappearing into a nothingness of dry landscapes that sounded a bit depressing. At regular speed, the car barely seemed to progress, and Youssef was rather serious at the wheel. Soon Xavier was left depleted of jokes to tell (even the bad ones which tended to come off easily with sleep deprivation), so he tried to catch some of the patchy network signal to reconnect where he’d left off on the game. There wasn’t much network, and all he could download in the car, even with the game in lo-fi mode, was a measly text message with the starter for his new challenge.

        Your quest takes place in the ghost town of Midnight, where time seems to have stood still. The townspeople are all frozen in time, stuck in their daily routines and unable to move on. Your mission is to find the missing piece of continuity, a small hourglass that will set time back in motion and allow the townspeople to move forward.

        A ghost town seemed apt indeed.

        The welcome signs at the entrance of the town for their hostel were rather uninviting, but a festive banner mentioning the local “Lager and Carts festival” caught his attention. He counted the days. It would be next week-end; there was a good chance they’d still be there, the four of them. At least some action to look forward to!

        When he and Youssef arrived at the Inn after that rather uneventful and terribly long drive, all they wanted was to get a shower and some sleep. Zara wasn’t back yet from her trip, but they both figured out they’d meet at breakfast in the morning.

        The old lady with the sharp tongue had shown them their rooms rather unceremoniously; she was too busy ranting about an idle person not taking their *one job* seriously to care about details. Xavier almost asked for a wifi, but then thought better and decided to hold his question until he found someone to ask who was born in his century.
        Xavier took room 7, and Youssef room 5.

        The rooms were quite nicely decorated. It reminded him of something he’d read in the plane from a commentary of the Bardo Thodöl:

        In Tibetan the word for body is , which means “something you leave behind,” like baggage. Each time we say “lü,” it reminds us that we are only travelers, taking temporary refuge in this life and this body. So in Tibet people did not distract themselves by spending all their time trying to make their external circumstances more comfortable. They were satisfied if they had enough to eat, clothes on their backs, and a roof over their heads. Going on as we do, obsessively trying to improve our conditions, can become an end in itself and a pointless distraction. Would anyone in their right mind think of fastidiously redecorating their hotel room every time they booked into one? 

        The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying

        At least, he wasn’t feeling compelled to redecorate this room; it was perfect. The shared sanitaries, the boiler and the piping were another story, but that was probably coming from the same era as the owner, nice as she was.

        After having unpacked his few belongings, and taken a hot shower, he laid on the bed looking at the ceiling, which was blank and made a nice contrast to the ornate walls full of colorful dots.

        Luckily, searching through the signals available, he could see there was mostly one, and without any password. With the next neighbour a few miles away, no wonder nobody bothered with security.

        He connected to AL to check a few parameters — there seemed to be some degenerescence in the programme output that wasn’t satisfactory, and he was wondering if some self-repair or training reinforcement mechanisms were missing. At the moment, nothing too pressing, but he would keep an eye on them.

        Still no words from Yasmin he thought drifting to sleep… I half expected her to be there already…

        #6494

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

        Although not one to remember dreams very often, Zara awoke the next morning with vivid and colourful dream recall.  She wondered if it was something to do with the dreamtime mural on the wall of her room.  If this turned out to be the case, she considered painting some murals on her bedroom wall back at the Bungwalley Valley animal rescue centre when she got home.

        Zara and Idle had hit it off immediately, chatting and laughing on the verandah after supper.   Idle told her a bit about the local area and the mines.  Despite Bert’s warnings, she wanted to see them. They were only an hour away from the inn.

        When she retired to her room for the night, she looked on the internet for more information. The more she read online about the mines, the more intrigued she became.

        “Interestingly there are no actual houses left from the original township. The common explanation is that a rumour spread that there was gold hidden in the walls of the houses and consequently they were knocked down by people believing there was ‘gold in them there walls”. Of course it was only a rumour. No gold was found.”

        “Miners attracted to the area originally by the garnets, found alluvial and reef gold at Arltunga…”

        Garnets!  Zara recalled the story her friend had told her about finding a cursed garnet near a fort in St Augustine in Florida.  Apparently there were a number of mines that one could visit:

        “the MacDonnell Range Reef Mine, the Christmas Reef Mine, the Golden Chance Mine, the Joker Mine and the Great Western Mine all of which are worth a visit.”

        Zara imagined Xavier making a crack about the Joker Mine, and wondered why it had been named that.

        “The whole area is preserved as though the inhabitants simply walked away from it only yesterday. The curious visitor who walks just a little way off the paths will see signs of previous habitation. Old pieces of meat safes, pieces of rusted wire, rusted cans, and pieces of broken glass litter the ground. There is nothing of great importance but each little shard is reminder of the people who once lived and worked here.”

        I wonder if Bert will take me there, Zara wondered. If not, maybe one of the others can pick up a hire car when they arrive at Alice.   Might even be best not to tell anyone at the inn where they were going.  Funny coincidence the nearest town was called Alice ~ it was already beginning to seem like some kind of rabbit hole she was falling into.

        Undecided whether to play some more of the game which had ended abruptly upon encountering the blue robed vendor, Zara decided not to and picked up the book on Dreamtime that was on the bedside table.

        “Some of the ancestors or spirit beings inhabiting the Dreamtime become one with parts of the landscape, such as rocks or trees…”  Flicking through the book, she read random excerpts.   “A mythic map of Australia would show thousands of characters, varying in their importance, but all in some way connected with the land. Some emerged at their specific sites and stayed spiritually in that vicinity. Others came from somewhere else and went somewhere else. Many were shape changing, transformed from or into human beings or natural species, or into natural features such as rocks but all left something of their spiritual essence at the places noted in their stories….”

        Thousands of characters. Zara smiled sleepily, recalling the many stories she and her friends had written together over the years.

        “People come and go but the Land, and stories about the Land, stay. This is a wisdom that takes lifetimes of listening, observing and experiencing … There is a deep understanding of human nature and the environment… sites hold ‘feelings’ which cannot be described in physical terms… subtle feelings that resonate through the bodies of these people… It is only when talking and being with these people that these ‘feelings’ can truly be appreciated. This is… the intangible reality of these people…..”

        With such strong ancestral connections to the land, Zara couldn’t help but wonder what the aboriginal people felt about all the mines.   If one of their ancestors had shape changed into rocks, and then some foreignors came along and hacked and blasted their way through, what would they think of that?

        “….many Aboriginal groups widely distributed across the Australian continent all appeared to share variations of a single (common) myth telling of an unusually powerful, often creative, often dangerous snake or serpent of sometimes enormous size closely associated with the rainbows, rain, rivers, and deep waterholes…..”

        She drifted off to sleep thinking of water holes in red rocky gorges, the book laying open in her hand.

        When she awoke the next morning with the slatted morning sun shining through the venetian blinds,  the dream image of the water hole was bright and clear in her minds eye.  But what was that strange character from the game doing in her dream?

        Osnas dreamtime waterhole

         

        She closed her eyes, remembering more of the strange dream.  Deeply orange red boulders and rocky outcrops, shivering gum trees, and green pools ~ it was coming back to her now, that creature in the blue robes had appeared more than once.  In one scene he appeared with a blue diamond lantern with what looked like a compass inside.

        Osnas lantern compass

        I’ll ask about the hiking trails today, Zara decided, and go for a walk in that gorge I read about yesterday. Bert said there were good hiking trails.   You came here early so you could play the game, she reminded herself.

        “It’s all a game,” she heard the parrot outside her window.

        “I’d forgotten about the bloody parrot!” Zara said under her breath. “Pretty Girl!” she said, opening the blinds. “We’re going out for a walk today.”

        #6489

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Bert lapsed into silence for a few minutes, frowning.

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

        “Do you get many tourists?”

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

        “Sounds great.”

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

        “Despite ….?”

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

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

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

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

        Flying Fish Inn

         

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

        Aunt Idle walk

         

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

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

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

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

        Mater dining room

        #6486

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

        Zara took dozens of screenshots of the many etchings and drawings, as her game character paused to do the same.  She had lost sight of the two figures up ahead, and remembered she probably should have been following them.

        The tunnel came to a four way junction. There were drawings on the walls and floors of all of them, and a dim light coming from a distance in each. One was more brightly lit than the others, and Zara chose to explore that one first.  Presently a side room appeared, with green tiles on the floor similar to the one at the mine entrance. Daylight shone though a small window, and a diagram was drawn onto the wall.

        Zara toyed with the idea of simply climbing out through the window while there was still a chance to get out of the mine.  She knew she was lost and would not be able to find her way out the way she came. It was tempting, but she just took a screenshot.  Maybe when she looked at them later she’d be able to work out how to retrace her steps.

        Zara room of tiles window

        After recording the image of the room of tiles, Zara continued along the tunnel. The light shining from the little window in the tile room faded as she progressed, and she found herself once again in near darkness.  She came to a fork.  Both ways were equally gloomy, but a faint blue light enticed her to take the right hand tunnel.

        So many forks and side tunnels, I am surely completely lost now! And not one of these supposed maps is helping, I can’t decipher any of them. Another etching on the wall caught her eye, and Zara forgot about being lost.

        Zara stopped to look at what appeared to be a map on the tunnel wall, but it was unfathomable at this stage. She recorded it for future reference, and then looked around, unsure whether to continue on this path or retrace her stops back to the four way junction.  And then she saw him in an alcove.

        Osnas 2

        Osnas! This time Zara did say it out loud, and just as the frog faced stewardess was passing with her cart piled with used cups and cans and empty packets.  I swear she just winked at me!  Zara did a double take, but the cart and the woman had passed, collecting more rubbish.

        With a little smile, Zara noticed that the mask Osnas was wearing was one of those paper pandemic masks.  She had expected something a bit more Venice carnival when the prompt mentioned that he always wore a mask, not one of those.  She hoped the clue in this case wasn’t the mask, as she had avoided the plague successfully so far and didn’t want to be late to that particular party,  but the square green thing on his cart resembled the tile at the mine entrance.  What do I do now though? I still don’t know what any of these things mean.  Approach him and see if he speaks I suppose.

        “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now approaching Alice Springs, please fasten your seatbelts and switch off all your devices ready for landing.  We hope you have enjoyed your flight.”

        #6485

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

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

        Osnas 1

         

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

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

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

        “Sorry, did you say nuts?”

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

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

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

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

        Zara tunnels floor drawings

         

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

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

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

        #6463

        In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

        EricEric
        Keymaster

          Additional clues from AL (based on Xavier’s comment)

          Yasmin

          :snake:

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

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

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

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

          🐍🔍🐗 Use your skills and abilities to navigate through the tall grass and avoid the snakes. Keep your eyes peeled for any clues or symbols that may help you in your quest. Don’t give up and remember that the snorting imp is a representation of your determination and bravery.

          A message bumped on the screen: “Need help? Contact me 👉”

          Stryke_Assist is trying to make contact : ➡️ACCEPT <> ➡️DENY ❓

          Youssef

          :desert:

          Youssef has not yet been aware of the quest, since he’s been off the grid in the Gobi desert. But, interestingly, his story unfolds in real-life parallel to his quest. He’s found a strange grumpy shaman at a food booth, and it seems that his natural steps are converging back with the game. His blog website for his boss seems to take most of his attention.

          An emoji of a desert suddenly appeared on his screen. It seemed to be a barren and empty landscape, with sand dunes stretching as far as the eye could see. Without hesitation, Youssef clicked on the emoji.

          He was taken to a new area in the game, where the ground was covered in sand and the sky was a deep orange, as if the sun was setting. He could see a mysterious figure in the distance, standing at the top of a sand dune.

          Clue unlocked It sounds like you’re in a remote location and disconnected from the game. But, your real-life experiences seem to be converging with your quest. The grumpy shaman you met at the food booth may hold the key to unlocking the next steps in the game. Remember, the desert represents your ability to adapt and navigate through difficult situations.

          🏜️🧭🧙‍♂️ Explore the desert and see if the grumpy shaman’s clues lead you to the next steps in the game. Keep an open mind and pay attention to any symbols or clues that may help you in your quest. Remember, the desert represents your ability to adapt and navigate through difficult situations.

          A message bumped on the screen: “Need help? Contact me 👉”

          Sands_of_time is trying to make contact : ➡️ACCEPT <> ➡️DENY ❓

          Zara

          :carved_tile:

          Zara looked more advanced [in her explorations – stream breaks – resume conversation]

          Zara had come across a strange and ancient looking mine. It was clear that it had been abandoned for many years, but there were still signs of activity. The entrance was blocked by a large pile of rocks, but she could see a faint light coming from within. She knew that she had to find a way in.

          As she approached the mine, she noticed a small, carved wooden tile on the ground. It was intricately detailed and seemed to depict a map of some sort. She picked it up and examined it closely. It seemed to show the layout of the mine and possibly the location of the secret room.

          With this new clue in hand, Zara set to work trying to clear the entrance. She used all of her strength to move the rocks, and after a few minutes of hard work, she was able to create an opening large enough for her to squeeze through.

          As she ventured deeper into the mine, she found herself in a large chamber. The walls were lined with strange markings and symbols, and she could see a faint light coming from a small room off to the side. She knew that this must be the secret room she had been searching for.

          Zara approached the room and pushed open the door. Inside, she found a small, dimly lit chamber. In the center of the room stood a large stone altar, and on the altar was a strange, glowing object. She couldn’t quite make out what it was, but she knew that this must be the key to solving the mystery of the mine.

          With a sense of excitement and curiosity, Zara reached out to take the glowing object. As her hand touched it, she felt a strange energy coursing through her body. She knew that her quest was far from over, and that there were many more secrets to uncover in the mine.

          #6457

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          “Look, Pretty Girl!  That must be the lost traveler walking up those steps!”

          Zara followed the mysterious man in red robes up the steps.  She lost sight of him and wondered which way he’d gone in the many side alleys. She wandered up a few of them but they all came to a dead end in a courtyard with closed doors.  Eventually she saw him disappearing into a manhole that looked like a labyrinth.

          Zara Game 5

          Zara followed him, and stepped onto the labyrinth manhole that the man in the red robes had disappeared into.  

          “That must be another portal,” Zara said to the parrot. “I wonder where we’ll end up now.”

          The labyrinth manhole led Zara to another portal, this time a round hole in the wall. She knew she should follow the man, who must be the lost traveler, but she couldn’t resist exploring the starlit night scene first. 

          Zara Game 6

           

          She found herself in a castle, its sand coloured walls glowing in the moonlight.  There was another round green pool inside the castle. Should she jump into the pool, or go back and follow the man in red through the hole in the wall?   Zara walked around the castle first, exploring the many courtyards and stairs and the enchanting views from the parapets.  She noticed that there were several green pools and wondered if they each led to different places. 

          Zara Game 7

          #6454

          In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

          F LoveF Love
          Participant

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

            Setting

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

            Directions to Investigate

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

            Characters

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

            Task

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

             

            THE SECRET ROOM AND THE UNDERGROUND MINES

            1st thread’s answer:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            second thread’s answer:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

             

            THE SNOOT’S WISE WORDS ON SOCIAL ANXIETY

            Deear Francie Mossie Pooh,

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

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

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

            Fluidly and fantastically yours,

            The Snoot.

            #6382

            In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

            EricEric
            Keymaster

              Write more about the group of people who lived inside of giant mushrooms, making it sound exciting and fun, and maybe a bit dangerous due to the nature of the mushrooms

              As the group journeyed deeper into the Land of the Quirks, they stumbled upon a group of people living inside of giant mushrooms. The mushrooms were enormous, some as tall as skyscrapers, and they seemed to glow with an ethereal light. The group was amazed as they walked through the forest of mushrooms, each one unique in shape and size.

              The people who lived inside of the mushrooms were a friendly and welcoming bunch, they welcomed the group with open arms and invited them to explore their homes. The inside of the mushrooms was a magical and mysterious place, the walls and ceilings were covered in a soft, velvety texture and the floors were made of a spongy, springy material. The light inside the mushrooms was soft and diffused, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere.

              As the group explored the mushroom homes, they discovered that the people who lived there had a deep connection to the mushrooms. They used the mushrooms as a source of food, shelter, and medicine. They had learned to harness the unique properties of the mushrooms to create everything they needed to survive.

              The group also discovered that the mushrooms had a dangerous side. The mushrooms were not only a source of life, but also a source of death. The group was warned that the mushrooms were unpredictable and that they should be careful when exploring. Some mushrooms were poisonous, others were carnivorous, and still, others had mind-altering properties.

              Despite the danger, the group was excited to explore the mushrooms and learn more about the people who lived there. They knew that the journey would be filled with challenges, but they were determined to overcome them and discover the secrets of the mushrooms. The group had a lot of fun and adventure living with the people inside of giant mushrooms, and they learned a lot about the nature of the mushrooms and their own nature.

              #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?

              #6266
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                From Tanganyika with Love

                continued part 7

                With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                Oldeani Hospital. 19th September 1938

                Dearest Family,

                George arrived today to take us home to Mbulu but Sister Marianne will not allow
                me to travel for another week as I had a bit of a set back after baby’s birth. At first I was
                very fit and on the third day Sister stripped the bed and, dictionary in hand, started me
                off on ante natal exercises. “Now make a bridge Mrs Rushby. So. Up down, up down,’
                whilst I obediently hoisted myself aloft on heels and head. By the sixth day she
                considered it was time for me to be up and about but alas, I soon had to return to bed
                with a temperature and a haemorrhage. I got up and walked outside for the first time this
                morning.

                I have had lots of visitors because the local German settlers seem keen to see
                the first British baby born in the hospital. They have been most kind, sending flowers
                and little German cards of congratulations festooned with cherubs and rather sweet. Most
                of the women, besides being pleasant, are very smart indeed, shattering my illusion that
                German matrons are invariably fat and dowdy. They are all much concerned about the
                Czecko-Slovakian situation, especially Sister Marianne whose home is right on the
                border and has several relations who are Sudentan Germans. She is ant-Nazi and
                keeps on asking me whether I think England will declare war if Hitler invades Czecko-
                Slovakia, as though I had inside information.

                George tells me that he has had a grass ‘banda’ put up for us at Mbulu as we are
                both determined not to return to those prison-like quarters in the Fort. Sister Marianne is
                horrified at the idea of taking a new baby to live in a grass hut. She told George,
                “No,No,Mr Rushby. I find that is not to be allowed!” She is an excellent Sister but rather
                prim and George enjoys teasing her. This morning he asked with mock seriousness,
                “Sister, why has my wife not received her medal?” Sister fluttered her dictionary before
                asking. “What medal Mr Rushby”. “Why,” said George, “The medal that Hitler gives to
                women who have borne four children.” Sister started a long and involved explanation
                about the medal being only for German mothers whilst George looked at me and
                grinned.

                Later. Great Jubilation here. By the noise in Sister Marianne’s sitting room last night it
                sounded as though the whole German population had gathered to listen to the wireless
                news. I heard loud exclamations of joy and then my bedroom door burst open and
                several women rushed in. “Thank God “, they cried, “for Neville Chamberlain. Now there
                will be no war.” They pumped me by the hand as though I were personally responsible
                for the whole thing.

                George on the other hand is disgusted by Chamberlain’s lack of guts. Doesn’t
                know what England is coming to these days. I feel too content to concern myself with
                world affairs. I have a fine husband and four wonderful children and am happy, happy,
                happy.

                Eleanor.

                Mbulu. 30th September 1938

                Dearest Family,

                Here we are, comfortably installed in our little green house made of poles and
                rushes from a nearby swamp. The house has of course, no doors or windows, but
                there are rush blinds which roll up in the day time. There are two rooms and a little porch
                and out at the back there is a small grass kitchen.

                Here we have the privacy which we prize so highly as we are screened on one
                side by a Forest Department plantation and on the other three sides there is nothing but
                the rolling countryside cropped bare by the far too large herds of cattle and goats of the
                Wambulu. I have a lovely lazy time. I still have Kesho-Kutwa and the cook we brought
                with us from the farm. They are both faithful and willing souls though not very good at
                their respective jobs. As one of these Mbeya boys goes on safari with George whose
                job takes him from home for three weeks out of four, I have taken on a local boy to cut
                firewood and heat my bath water and generally make himself useful. His name is Saa,
                which means ‘Clock’

                We had an uneventful but very dusty trip from Oldeani. Johnny Jo travelled in his
                pram in the back of the boxbody and got covered in dust but seems none the worst for
                it. As the baby now takes up much of my time and Kate was showing signs of
                boredom, I have engaged a little African girl to come and play with Kate every morning.
                She is the daughter of the head police Askari and a very attractive and dignified little
                person she is. Her name is Kajyah. She is scrupulously clean, as all Mohammedan
                Africans seem to be. Alas, Kajyah, though beautiful, is a bore. She simply does not
                know how to play, so they just wander around hand in hand.

                There are only two drawbacks to this little house. Mbulu is a very windy spot so
                our little reed house is very draughty. I have made a little tent of sheets in one corner of
                the ‘bedroom’ into which I can retire with Johnny when I wish to bathe or sponge him.
                The other drawback is that many insects are attracted at night by the lamp and make it
                almost impossible to read or sew and they have a revolting habit of falling into the soup.
                There are no dangerous wild animals in this area so I am not at all nervous in this
                flimsy little house when George is on safari. Most nights hyaenas come around looking
                for scraps but our dogs, Fanny and Paddy, soon see them off.

                Eleanor.

                Mbulu. 25th October 1938

                Dearest Family,

                Great news! a vacancy has occurred in the Game Department. George is to
                transfer to it next month. There will be an increase in salary and a brighter prospect for
                the future. It will mean a change of scene and I shall be glad of that. We like Mbulu and
                the people here but the rains have started and our little reed hut is anything but water
                tight.

                Before the rain came we had very unpleasant dust storms. I think I told you that
                this is a treeless area and the grass which normally covers the veldt has been cropped
                to the roots by the hungry native cattle and goats. When the wind blows the dust
                collects in tall black columns which sweep across the country in a most spectacular
                fashion. One such dust devil struck our hut one day whilst we were at lunch. George
                swept Kate up in a second and held her face against his chest whilst I rushed to Johnny
                Jo who was asleep in his pram, and stooped over the pram to protect him. The hut
                groaned and creaked and clouds of dust blew in through the windows and walls covering
                our persons, food, and belongings in a black pall. The dogs food bowls and an empty
                petrol tin outside the hut were whirled up and away. It was all over in a moment but you
                should have seen what a family of sweeps we looked. George looked at our blackened
                Johnny and mimicked in Sister Marianne’s primmest tones, “I find that this is not to be
                allowed.”

                The first rain storm caught me unprepared when George was away on safari. It
                was a terrific thunderstorm. The quite violent thunder and lightening were followed by a
                real tropical downpour. As the hut is on a slight slope, the storm water poured through
                the hut like a river, covering the entire floor, and the roof leaked like a lawn sprinkler.
                Johnny Jo was snug enough in the pram with the hood raised, but Kate and I had a
                damp miserable night. Next morning I had deep drains dug around the hut and when
                George returned from safari he managed to borrow an enormous tarpaulin which is now
                lashed down over the roof.

                It did not rain during the next few days George was home but the very next night
                we were in trouble again. I was awakened by screams from Kate and hurriedly turned up
                the lamp to see that we were in the midst of an invasion of siafu ants. Kate’s bed was
                covered in them. Others appeared to be raining down from the thatch. I quickly stripped
                Kate and carried her across to my bed, whilst I rushed to the pram to see whether
                Johnny Jo was all right. He was fast asleep, bless him, and slept on through all the
                commotion, whilst I struggled to pick all the ants out of Kate’s hair, stopping now and
                again to attend to my own discomfort. These ants have a painful bite and seem to
                choose all the most tender spots. Kate fell asleep eventually but I sat up for the rest of
                the night to make sure that the siafu kept clear of the children. Next morning the servants
                dispersed them by laying hot ash.

                In spite of the dampness of the hut both children are blooming. Kate has rosy
                cheeks and Johnny Jo now has a fuzz of fair hair and has lost his ‘old man’ look. He
                reminds me of Ann at his age.

                Eleanor.

                Iringa. 30th November 1938

                Dearest Family,

                Here we are back in the Southern Highlands and installed on the second floor of
                another German Fort. This one has been modernised however and though not so
                romantic as the Mbulu Fort from the outside, it is much more comfortable.We are all well
                and I am really proud of our two safari babies who stood up splendidly to a most trying
                journey North from Mbulu to Arusha and then South down the Great North Road to
                Iringa where we expect to stay for a month.

                At Arusha George reported to the headquarters of the Game Department and
                was instructed to come on down here on Rinderpest Control. There is a great flap on in
                case the rinderpest spread to Northern Rhodesia and possibly onwards to Southern
                Rhodesia and South Africa. Extra veterinary officers have been sent to this area to
                inoculate all the cattle against the disease whilst George and his African game Scouts will
                comb the bush looking for and destroying diseased game. If the rinderpest spreads,
                George says it may be necessary to shoot out all the game in a wide belt along the
                border between the Southern Highlands of Tanganyika and Northern Rhodesia, to
                prevent the disease spreading South. The very idea of all this destruction sickens us
                both.

                George left on a foot safari the day after our arrival and I expect I shall be lucky if I
                see him occasionally at weekends until this job is over. When rinderpest is under control
                George is to be stationed at a place called Nzassa in the Eastern Province about 18
                miles from Dar es Salaam. George’s orderly, who is a tall, cheerful Game Scout called
                Juma, tells me that he has been stationed at Nzassa and it is a frightful place! However I
                refuse to be depressed. I now have the cheering prospect of leave to England in thirty
                months time when we will be able to fetch Ann and George and be a proper family
                again. Both Ann and George look happy in the snapshots which mother-in-law sends
                frequently. Ann is doing very well at school and loves it.

                To get back to our journey from Mbulu. It really was quite an experience. It
                poured with rain most of the way and the road was very slippery and treacherous the
                120 miles between Mbulu and Arusha. This is a little used earth road and the drains are
                so blocked with silt as to be practically non existent. As usual we started our move with
                the V8 loaded to capacity. I held Johnny on my knee and Kate squeezed in between
                George and me. All our goods and chattels were in wooden boxes stowed in the back
                and the two houseboys and the two dogs had to adjust themselves to the space that
                remained. We soon ran into trouble and it took us all day to travel 47 miles. We stuck
                several times in deep mud and had some most nasty skids. I simply clutched Kate in
                one hand and Johnny Jo in the other and put my trust in George who never, under any
                circumstances, loses his head. Poor Johnny only got his meals when circumstances
                permitted. Unfortunately I had put him on a bottle only a few days before we left Mbulu
                and, as I was unable to buy either a primus stove or Thermos flask there we had to
                make a fire and boil water for each meal. Twice George sat out in the drizzle with a rain
                coat rapped over his head to protect a miserable little fire of wet sticks drenched with
                paraffin. Whilst we waited for the water to boil I pacified John by letting him suck a cube
                of Tate and Lyles sugar held between my rather grubby fingers. Not at all according to
                the book.

                That night George, the children and I slept in the car having dumped our boxes
                and the two servants in a deserted native hut. The rain poured down relentlessly all night
                and by morning the road was more of a morass than ever. We swerved and skidded
                alarmingly till eventually one of the wheel chains broke and had to be tied together with
                string which constantly needed replacing. George was so patient though he was wet
                and muddy and tired and both children were very good. Shortly before reaching the Great North Road we came upon Jack Gowan, the Stock Inspector from Mbulu. His car
                was bogged down to its axles in black mud. He refused George’s offer of help saying
                that he had sent his messenger to a nearby village for help.

                I hoped that conditions would be better on the Great North Road but how over
                optimistic I was. For miles the road runs through a belt of ‘black cotton soil’. which was
                churned up into the consistency of chocolate blancmange by the heavy lorry traffic which
                runs between Dodoma and Arusha. Soon the car was skidding more fantastically than
                ever. Once it skidded around in a complete semi circle so George decided that it would
                be safer for us all to walk whilst he negotiated the very bad patches. You should have
                seen me plodding along in the mud and drizzle with the baby in one arm and Kate
                clinging to the other. I was terrified of slipping with Johnny. Each time George reached
                firm ground he would return on foot to carry Kate and in this way we covered many bad
                patches.We were more fortunate than many other travellers. We passed several lorries
                ditched on the side of the road and one car load of German men, all elegantly dressed in
                lounge suits. One was busy with his camera so will have a record of their plight to laugh
                over in the years to come. We spent another night camping on the road and next day
                set out on the last lap of the journey. That also was tiresome but much better than the
                previous day and we made the haven of the Arusha Hotel before dark. What a picture
                we made as we walked through the hall in our mud splattered clothes! Even Johnny was
                well splashed with mud but no harm was done and both he and Kate are blooming.
                We rested for two days at Arusha and then came South to Iringa. Luckily the sun
                came out and though for the first day the road was muddy it was no longer so slippery
                and the second day found us driving through parched country and along badly
                corrugated roads. The further South we came, the warmer the sun which at times blazed
                through the windscreen and made us all uncomfortably hot. I have described the country
                between Arusha and Dodoma before so I shan’t do it again. We reached Iringa without
                mishap and after a good nights rest all felt full of beans.

                Eleanor.

                Mchewe Estate, Mbeya. 7th January 1939.

                Dearest Family,

                You will be surprised to note that we are back on the farm! At least the children
                and I are here. George is away near the Rhodesian border somewhere, still on
                Rinderpest control.

                I had a pleasant time at Iringa, lots of invitations to morning tea and Kate had a
                wonderful time enjoying the novelty of playing with children of her own age. She is not
                shy but nevertheless likes me to be within call if not within sight. It was all very suburban
                but pleasant enough. A few days before Christmas George turned up at Iringa and
                suggested that, as he would be working in the Mbeya area, it might be a good idea for
                the children and me to move to the farm. I agreed enthusiastically, completely forgetting
                that after my previous trouble with the leopard I had vowed to myself that I would never
                again live alone on the farm.

                Alas no sooner had we arrived when Thomas, our farm headman, brought the
                news that there were now two leopards terrorising the neighbourhood, and taking dogs,
                goats and sheep and chickens. Traps and poisoned bait had been tried in vain and he
                was sure that the female was the same leopard which had besieged our home before.
                Other leopards said Thomas, came by stealth but this one advertised her whereabouts
                in the most brazen manner.

                George stayed with us on the farm over Christmas and all was quiet at night so I
                cheered up and took the children for walks along the overgrown farm paths. However on
                New Years Eve that darned leopard advertised her presence again with the most blood
                chilling grunts and snarls. Horrible! Fanny and Paddy barked and growled and woke up
                both children. Kate wept and kept saying, “Send it away mummy. I don’t like it.” Johnny
                Jo howled in sympathy. What a picnic. So now the whole performance of bodyguards
                has started again and ‘till George returns we confine our exercise to the garden.
                Our little house is still cosy and sweet but the coffee plantation looks very
                neglected. I wish to goodness we could sell it.

                Eleanor.

                Nzassa 14th February 1939.

                Dearest Family,

                After three months of moving around with two small children it is heavenly to be
                settled in our own home, even though Nzassa is an isolated spot and has the reputation
                of being unhealthy.

                We travelled by car from Mbeya to Dodoma by now a very familiar stretch of
                country, but from Dodoma to Dar es Salaam by train which made a nice change. We
                spent two nights and a day in the Splendid Hotel in Dar es Salaam, George had some
                official visits to make and I did some shopping and we took the children to the beach.
                The bay is so sheltered that the sea is as calm as a pond and the water warm. It is
                wonderful to see the sea once more and to hear tugs hooting and to watch the Arab
                dhows putting out to sea with their oddly shaped sails billowing. I do love the bush, but
                I love the sea best of all, as you know.

                We made an early start for Nzassa on the 3rd. For about four miles we bowled
                along a good road. This brought us to a place called Temeke where George called on
                the District Officer. His house appears to be the only European type house there. The
                road between Temeke and the turn off to Nzassa is quite good, but the six mile stretch
                from the turn off to Nzassa is a very neglected bush road. There is nothing to be seen
                but the impenetrable bush on both sides with here and there a patch of swampy
                ground where rice is planted in the wet season.

                After about six miles of bumpy road we reached Nzassa which is nothing more
                than a sandy clearing in the bush. Our house however is a fine one. It was originally built
                for the District Officer and there is a small court house which is now George’s office. The
                District Officer died of blackwater fever so Nzassa was abandoned as an administrative
                station being considered too unhealthy for Administrative Officers but suitable as
                Headquarters for a Game Ranger. Later a bachelor Game Ranger was stationed here
                but his health also broke down and he has been invalided to England. So now the
                healthy Rushbys are here and we don’t mean to let the place get us down. So don’t
                worry.

                The house consists of three very large and airy rooms with their doors opening
                on to a wide front verandah which we shall use as a living room. There is also a wide
                back verandah with a store room at one end and a bathroom at the other. Both
                verandahs and the end windows of the house are screened my mosquito gauze wire
                and further protected by a trellis work of heavy expanded metal. Hasmani, the Game
                Scout, who has been acting as caretaker, tells me that the expanded metal is very
                necessary because lions often come out of the bush at night and roam around the
                house. Such a comforting thought!

                On our very first evening we discovered how necessary the mosquito gauze is.
                After sunset the air outside is thick with mosquitos from the swamps. About an acre of
                land has been cleared around the house. This is a sandy waste because there is no
                water laid on here and absolutely nothing grows here except a rather revolting milky
                desert bush called ‘Manyara’, and a few acacia trees. A little way from the house there is
                a patch of citrus trees, grape fruit, I think, but whether they ever bear fruit I don’t know.
                The clearing is bordered on three sides by dense dusty thorn bush which is
                ‘lousy with buffalo’ according to George. The open side is the road which leads down to
                George’s office and the huts for the Game Scouts. Only Hasmani and George’s orderly
                Juma and their wives and families live there, and the other huts provide shelter for the
                Game Scouts from the bush who come to Nzassa to collect their pay and for a short
                rest. I can see that my daily walk will always be the same, down the road to the huts and
                back! However I don’t mind because it is far too hot to take much exercise.

                The climate here is really tropical and worse than on the coast because the thick
                bush cuts us off from any sea breeze. George says it will be cooler when the rains start
                but just now we literally drip all day. Kate wears nothing but a cotton sun suit, and Johnny
                a napkin only, but still their little bodies are always moist. I have shorn off all Kate’s lovely
                shoulder length curls and got George to cut my hair very short too.

                We simply must buy a refrigerator. The butter, and even the cheese we bought
                in Dar. simply melted into pools of oil overnight, and all our meat went bad, so we are
                living out of tins. However once we get organised I shall be quite happy here. I like this
                spacious house and I have good servants. The cook, Hamisi Issa, is a Swahili from Lindi
                whom we engaged in Dar es Salaam. He is a very dignified person, and like most
                devout Mohammedan Cooks, keeps both his person and the kitchen spotless. I
                engaged the house boy here. He is rather a timid little body but is very willing and quite
                capable. He has an excessively plain but cheerful wife whom I have taken on as ayah. I
                do not really need help with the children but feel I must have a woman around just in
                case I go down with malaria when George is away on safari.

                Eleanor.

                Nzassa 28th February 1939.

                Dearest Family,

                George’s birthday and we had a special tea party this afternoon which the
                children much enjoyed. We have our frig now so I am able to make jellies and provide
                them with really cool drinks.

                Our very first visitor left this morning after spending only one night here. He is Mr
                Ionides, the Game Ranger from the Southern Province. He acted as stand in here for a
                short while after George’s predecessor left for England on sick leave, and where he has
                since died. Mr Ionides returned here to hand over the range and office formally to
                George. He seems a strange man and is from all accounts a bit of a hermit. He was at
                one time an Officer in the Regular Army but does not look like a soldier, he wears the
                most extraordinary clothes but nevertheless contrives to look top-drawer. He was
                educated at Rugby and Sandhurst and is, I should say, well read. Ionides told us that he
                hated Nzassa, particularly the house which he thinks sinister and says he always slept
                down in the office.

                The house, or at least one bedroom, seems to have the same effect on Kate.
                She has been very nervous at night ever since we arrived. At first the children occupied
                the bedroom which is now George’s. One night, soon after our arrival, Kate woke up
                screaming to say that ‘something’ had looked at her through the mosquito net. She was
                in such a hysterical state that inspite of the heat and discomfort I was obliged to crawl into
                her little bed with her and remained there for the rest of the night.

                Next night I left a night lamp burning but even so I had to sit by her bed until she
                dropped off to sleep. Again I was awakened by ear-splitting screams and this time
                found Kate standing rigid on her bed. I lifted her out and carried her to a chair meaning to
                comfort her but she screeched louder than ever, “Look Mummy it’s under the bed. It’s
                looking at us.” In vain I pointed out that there was nothing at all there. By this time
                George had joined us and he carried Kate off to his bed in the other room whilst I got into
                Kate’s bed thinking she might have been frightened by a rat which might also disturb
                Johnny.

                Next morning our houseboy remarked that he had heard Kate screaming in the
                night from his room behind the kitchen. I explained what had happened and he must
                have told the old Scout Hasmani who waylaid me that afternoon and informed me quite
                seriously that that particular room was haunted by a ‘sheitani’ (devil) who hates children.
                He told me that whilst he was acting as caretaker before our arrival he one night had his
                wife and small daughter in the room to keep him company. He said that his small
                daughter woke up and screamed exactly as Kate had done! Silly coincidence I
                suppose, but such strange things happen in Africa that I decided to move the children
                into our room and George sleeps in solitary state in the haunted room! Kate now sleeps
                peacefully once she goes to sleep but I have to stay with her until she does.

                I like this house and it does not seem at all sinister to me. As I mentioned before,
                the rooms are high ceilinged and airy, and have cool cement floors. We have made one
                end of the enclosed verandah into the living room and the other end is the playroom for
                the children. The space in between is a sort of no-mans land taken over by the dogs as
                their special territory.

                Eleanor.

                Nzassa 25th March 1939.

                Dearest Family,

                George is on safari down in the Rufigi River area. He is away for about three
                weeks in the month on this job. I do hate to see him go and just manage to tick over until
                he comes back. But what fun and excitement when he does come home.
                Usually he returns after dark by which time the children are in bed and I have
                settled down on the verandah with a book. The first warning is usually given by the
                dogs, Fanny and her son Paddy. They stir, sit up, look at each other and then go and sit
                side by side by the door with their noses practically pressed to the mosquito gauze and
                ears pricked. Soon I can hear the hum of the car, and so can Hasmani, the old Game
                Scout who sleeps on the back verandah with rifle and ammunition by his side when
                George is away. When he hears the car he turns up his lamp and hurries out to rouse
                Juma, the houseboy. Juma pokes up the fire and prepares tea which George always
                drinks whist a hot meal is being prepared. In the meantime I hurriedly comb my hair and
                powder my nose so that when the car stops I am ready to rush out and welcome
                George home. The boy and Hasmani and the garden boy appear to help with the
                luggage and to greet George and the cook, who always accompanies George on
                Safari. The home coming is always a lively time with much shouting of greetings.
                ‘Jambo’, and ‘Habari ya safari’, whilst the dogs, beside themselves with excitement,
                rush around like lunatics.

                As though his return were not happiness enough, George usually collects the
                mail on his way home so there is news of Ann and young George and letters from you
                and bundles of newspapers and magazines. On the day following his return home,
                George has to deal with official mail in the office but if the following day is a weekday we
                all, the house servants as well as ourselves, pile into the boxbody and go to Dar es
                Salaam. To us this means a mornings shopping followed by an afternoon on the beach.
                It is a bit cooler now that the rains are on but still very humid. Kate keeps chubby
                and rosy in spite of the climate but Johnny is too pale though sturdy enough. He is such
                a good baby which is just as well because Kate is a very demanding little girl though
                sunny tempered and sweet. I appreciate her company very much when George is
                away because we are so far off the beaten track that no one ever calls.

                Eleanor.

                Nzassa 28th April 1939.

                Dearest Family,

                You all seem to wonder how I can stand the loneliness and monotony of living at
                Nzassa when George is on safari, but really and truly I do not mind. Hamisi the cook
                always goes on safari with George and then the houseboy Juma takes over the cooking
                and I do the lighter housework. the children are great company during the day, and when
                they are settled for the night I sit on the verandah and read or write letters or I just dream.
                The verandah is entirely enclosed with both wire mosquito gauze and a trellis
                work of heavy expanded metal, so I am safe from all intruders be they human, animal, or
                insect. Outside the air is alive with mosquitos and the cicadas keep up their monotonous
                singing all night long. My only companions on the verandah are the pale ghecco lizards
                on the wall and the two dogs. Fanny the white bull terrier, lies always near my feet
                dozing happily, but her son Paddy, who is half Airedale has a less phlegmatic
                disposition. He sits alert and on guard by the metal trellis work door. Often a lion grunts
                from the surrounding bush and then his hackles rise and he stands up stiffly with his nose
                pressed to the door. Old Hasmani from his bedroll on the back verandah, gives a little
                cough just to show he is awake. Sometimes the lions are very close and then I hear the
                click of a rifle bolt as Hasmani loads his rifle – but this is usually much later at night when
                the lights are out. One morning I saw large pug marks between the wall of my bedroom
                and the garage but I do not fear lions like I did that beastly leopard on the farm.
                A great deal of witchcraft is still practiced in the bush villages in the
                neighbourhood. I must tell you about old Hasmani’s baby in connection with this. Last
                week Hasmani came to me in great distress to say that his baby was ‘Ngongwa sana ‘
                (very ill) and he thought it would die. I hurried down to the Game Scouts quarters to see
                whether I could do anything for the child and found the mother squatting in the sun
                outside her hut with the baby on her lap. The mother was a young woman but not an
                attractive one. She appeared sullen and indifferent compared with old Hasmani who
                was very distressed. The child was very feverish and breathing with difficulty and
                seemed to me to be suffering from bronchitis if not pneumonia. I rubbed his back and
                chest with camphorated oil and dosed him with aspirin and liquid quinine. I repeated the
                treatment every four hours, but next day there was no apparent improvement.
                In the afternoon Hasmani begged me to give him that night off duty and asked for
                a loan of ten shillings. He explained to me that it seemed to him that the white man’s
                medicine had failed to cure his child and now he wished to take the child to the local witch
                doctor. “For ten shillings” said Hasmani, “the Maganga will drive the devil out of my
                child.” “How?” asked I. “With drums”, said Hasmani confidently. I did not know what to
                do. I thought the child was too ill to be exposed to the night air, yet I knew that if I
                refused his request and the child were to die, Hasmani and all the other locals would hold
                me responsible. I very reluctantly granted his request. I was so troubled by the matter
                that I sent for George’s office clerk. Daniel, and asked him to accompany Hasmani to the
                ceremony and to report to me the next morning. It started to rain after dark and all night
                long I lay awake in bed listening to the drums and the light rain. Next morning when I
                went out to the kitchen to order breakfast I found a beaming Hasmani awaiting me.
                “Memsahib”, he said. “My child is well, the fever is now quite gone, the Maganga drove
                out the devil just as I told you.” Believe it or not, when I hurried to his quarters after
                breakfast I found the mother suckling a perfectly healthy child! It may be my imagination
                but I thought the mother looked pretty smug.The clerk Daniel told me that after Hasmani
                had presented gifts of money and food to the ‘Maganga’, the naked baby was placed
                on a goat skin near the drums. Most of the time he just lay there but sometimes the witch
                doctor picked him up and danced with the child in his arms. Daniel seemed reluctant to
                talk about it. Whatever mumbo jumbo was used all this happened a week ago and the
                baby has never looked back.

                Eleanor.

                Nzassa 3rd July 1939.

                Dearest Family,

                Did I tell you that one of George’s Game Scouts was murdered last month in the
                Maneromango area towards the Rufigi border. He was on routine patrol, with a porter
                carrying his bedding and food, when they suddenly came across a group of African
                hunters who were busy cutting up a giraffe which they had just killed. These hunters were
                all armed with muzzle loaders, spears and pangas, but as it is illegal to kill giraffe without
                a permit, the Scout went up to the group to take their names. Some argument ensued
                and the Scout was stabbed.

                The District Officer went to the area to investigate and decided to call in the Police
                from Dar es Salaam. A party of police went out to search for the murderers but after
                some days returned without making any arrests. George was on an elephant control
                safari in the Bagamoyo District and on his return through Dar es Salaam he heard of the
                murder. George was furious and distressed to hear the news and called in here for an
                hour on his way to Maneromango to search for the murderers himself.

                After a great deal of strenuous investigation he arrested three poachers, put them
                in jail for the night at Maneromango and then brought them to Dar es Salaam where they
                are all now behind bars. George will now have to prosecute in the Magistrate’s Court
                and try and ‘make a case’ so that the prisoners may be committed to the High Court to
                be tried for murder. George is convinced of their guilt and justifiably proud to have
                succeeded where the police failed.

                George had to borrow handcuffs for the prisoners from the Chief at
                Maneromango and these he brought back to Nzassa after delivering the prisoners to
                Dar es Salaam so that he may return them to the Chief when he revisits the area next
                week.

                I had not seen handcuffs before and picked up a pair to examine them. I said to
                George, engrossed in ‘The Times’, “I bet if you were arrested they’d never get
                handcuffs on your wrist. Not these anyway, they look too small.” “Standard pattern,”
                said George still concentrating on the newspaper, but extending an enormous relaxed
                left wrist. So, my dears, I put a bracelet round his wrist and as there was a wide gap I
                gave a hard squeeze with both hands. There was a sharp click as the handcuff engaged
                in the first notch. George dropped the paper and said, “Now you’ve done it, my love,
                one set of keys are in the Dar es Salaam Police Station, and the others with the Chief at
                Maneromango.” You can imagine how utterly silly I felt but George was an angel about it
                and said as he would have to go to Dar es Salaam we might as well all go.

                So we all piled into the car, George, the children and I in the front, and the cook
                and houseboy, immaculate in snowy khanzus and embroidered white caps, a Game
                Scout and the ayah in the back. George never once complain of the discomfort of the
                handcuff but I was uncomfortably aware that it was much too tight because his arm
                above the cuff looked red and swollen and the hand unnaturally pale. As the road is so
                bad George had to use both hands on the wheel and all the time the dangling handcuff
                clanked against the dashboard in an accusing way.

                We drove straight to the Police Station and I could hear the roars of laughter as
                George explained his predicament. Later I had to put up with a good deal of chaffing
                and congratulations upon putting the handcuffs on George.

                Eleanor.

                Nzassa 5th August 1939

                Dearest Family,

                George made a point of being here for Kate’s fourth birthday last week. Just
                because our children have no playmates George and I always do all we can to make
                birthdays very special occasions. We went to Dar es Salaam the day before the
                birthday and bought Kate a very sturdy tricycle with which she is absolutely delighted.
                You will be glad to know that your parcels arrived just in time and Kate loved all your
                gifts especially the little shop from Dad with all the miniature tins and packets of
                groceries. The tea set was also a great success and is much in use.

                We had a lively party which ended with George and me singing ‘Happy
                Birthday to you’, and ended with a wild game with balloons. Kate wore her frilly white net
                party frock and looked so pretty that it seemed a shame that there was no one but us to
                see her. Anyway it was a good party. I wish so much that you could see the children.
                Kate keeps rosy and has not yet had malaria. Johnny Jo is sturdy but pale. He
                runs a temperature now and again but I am not sure whether this is due to teething or
                malaria. Both children of course take quinine every day as George and I do. George
                quite frequently has malaria in spite of prophylactic quinine but this is not surprising as he
                got the germ thoroughly established in his system in his early elephant hunting days. I
                get it too occasionally but have not been really ill since that first time a month after my
                arrival in the country.

                Johnny is such a good baby. His chief claim to beauty is his head of soft golden
                curls but these are due to come off on his first birthday as George considers them too
                girlish. George left on safari the day after the party and the very next morning our wood
                boy had a most unfortunate accident. He was chopping a rather tough log when a chip
                flew up and split his upper lip clean through from mouth to nostril exposing teeth and
                gums. A truly horrible sight and very bloody. I cleaned up the wound as best I could
                and sent him off to the hospital at Dar es Salaam on the office bicycle. He wobbled
                away wretchedly down the road with a white cloth tied over his mouth to keep off the
                dust. He returned next day with his lip stitched and very swollen and bearing a
                resemblance to my lip that time I used the hair remover.

                Eleanor.

                Splendid Hotel. Dar es Salaam 7th September 1939

                Dearest Family,

                So now another war has started and it has disrupted even our lives. We have left
                Nzassa for good. George is now a Lieutenant in the King’s African Rifles and the children
                and I are to go to a place called Morogoro to await further developments.
                I was glad to read in today’s paper that South Africa has declared war on
                Germany. I would have felt pretty small otherwise in this hotel which is crammed full of
                men who have been called up for service in the Army. George seems exhilarated by
                the prospect of active service. He is bursting out of his uniform ( at the shoulders only!)
                and all too ready for the fray.

                The war came as a complete surprise to me stuck out in the bush as I was without
                wireless or mail. George had been away for a fortnight so you can imagine how
                surprised I was when a messenger arrived on a bicycle with a note from George. The
                note informed me that war had been declared and that George, as a Reserve Officer in
                the KAR had been called up. I was to start packing immediately and be ready by noon
                next day when George would arrive with a lorry for our goods and chattels. I started to
                pack immediately with the help of the houseboy and by the time George arrived with
                the lorry only the frig remained to be packed and this was soon done.

                Throughout the morning Game Scouts had been arriving from outlying parts of
                the District. I don’t think they had the least idea where they were supposed to go or
                whom they were to fight but were ready to fight anybody, anywhere, with George.
                They all looked very smart in well pressed uniforms hung about with water bottles and
                ammunition pouches. The large buffalo badge on their round pill box hats absolutely
                glittered with polish. All of course carried rifles and when George arrived they all lined up
                and they looked most impressive. I took some snaps but unfortunately it was drizzling
                and they may not come out well.

                We left Nzassa without a backward glance. We were pretty fed up with it by
                then. The children and I are spending a few days here with George but our luggage, the
                dogs, and the houseboys have already left by train for Morogoro where a small house
                has been found for the children and me.

                George tells me that all the German males in this Territory were interned without a
                hitch. The whole affair must have been very well organised. In every town and
                settlement special constables were sworn in to do the job. It must have been a rather
                unpleasant one but seems to have gone without incident. There is a big transit camp
                here at Dar for the German men. Later they are to be sent out of the country, possibly to
                Rhodesia.

                The Indian tailors in the town are all terribly busy making Army uniforms, shorts
                and tunics in khaki drill. George swears that they have muddled their orders and he has
                been given the wrong things. Certainly the tunic is far too tight. His hat, a khaki slouch hat
                like you saw the Australians wearing in the last war, is also too small though it is the
                largest they have in stock. We had a laugh over his other equipment which includes a
                small canvas haversack and a whistle on a black cord. George says he feels like he is
                back in his Boy Scouting boyhood.

                George has just come in to say the we will be leaving for Morogoro tomorrow
                afternoon.

                Eleanor.

                Morogoro 14th September 1939

                Dearest Family,

                Morogoro is a complete change from Nzassa. This is a large and sprawling
                township. The native town and all the shops are down on the flat land by the railway but
                all the European houses are away up the slope of the high Uluguru Mountains.
                Morogoro was a flourishing town in the German days and all the streets are lined with
                trees for coolness as is the case in other German towns. These trees are the flamboyant
                acacia which has an umbrella top and throws a wide but light shade.

                Most of the houses have large gardens so they cover a considerable area and it
                is quite a safari for me to visit friends on foot as our house is on the edge of this area and
                the furthest away from the town. Here ones house is in accordance with ones seniority in
                Government service. Ours is a simple affair, just three lofty square rooms opening on to
                a wide enclosed verandah. Mosquitoes are bad here so all doors and windows are
                screened and we will have to carry on with our daily doses of quinine.

                George came up to Morogoro with us on the train. This was fortunate because I
                went down with a sharp attack of malaria at the hotel on the afternoon of our departure
                from Dar es Salaam. George’s drastic cure of vast doses of quinine, a pillow over my
                head, and the bed heaped with blankets soon brought down the temperature so I was
                fit enough to board the train but felt pretty poorly on the trip. However next day I felt
                much better which was a good thing as George had to return to Dar es Salaam after two
                days. His train left late at night so I did not see him off but said good-bye at home
                feeling dreadful but trying to keep the traditional stiff upper lip of the wife seeing her
                husband off to the wars. He hopes to go off to Abyssinia but wrote from Dar es Salaam
                to say that he is being sent down to Rhodesia by road via Mbeya to escort the first
                detachment of Rhodesian white troops.

                First he will have to select suitable camping sites for night stops and arrange for
                supplies of food. I am very pleased as it means he will be safe for a while anyway. We
                are both worried about Ann and George in England and wonder if it would be safer to
                have them sent out.

                Eleanor.

                Morogoro 4th November 1939

                Dearest Family,

                My big news is that George has been released from the Army. He is very
                indignant and disappointed because he hoped to go to Abyssinia but I am terribly,
                terribly glad. The Chief Secretary wrote a very nice letter to George pointing out that he
                would be doing a greater service to his country by his work of elephant control, giving
                crop protection during the war years when foodstuffs are such a vital necessity, than by
                doing a soldiers job. The Government plan to start a huge rice scheme in the Rufiji area,
                and want George to control the elephant and hippo there. First of all though. he must go
                to the Southern Highlands Province where there is another outbreak of Rinderpest, to
                shoot out diseased game especially buffalo, which might spread the disease.

                So off we go again on our travels but this time we are leaving the two dogs
                behind in the care of Daniel, the Game Clerk. Fanny is very pregnant and I hate leaving
                her behind but the clerk has promised to look after her well. We are taking Hamisi, our
                dignified Swahili cook and the houseboy Juma and his wife whom we brought with us
                from Nzassa. The boy is not very good but his wife makes a cheerful and placid ayah
                and adores Johnny.

                Eleanor.

                Iringa 8th December 1939

                Dearest Family,

                The children and I are staying in a small German house leased from the
                Custodian of Enemy Property. I can’t help feeling sorry for the owners who must be in
                concentration camps somewhere.George is away in the bush dealing with the
                Rinderpest emergency and the cook has gone with him. Now I have sent the houseboy
                and the ayah away too. Two days ago my houseboy came and told me that he felt
                very ill and asked me to write a ‘chit’ to the Indian Doctor. In the note I asked the Doctor
                to let me know the nature of his complaint and to my horror I got a note from him to say
                that the houseboy had a bad case of Venereal Disease. Was I horrified! I took it for
                granted that his wife must be infected too and told them both that they would have to
                return to their home in Nzassa. The boy shouted and the ayah wept but I paid them in
                lieu of notice and gave them money for the journey home. So there I was left servant
                less with firewood to chop, a smokey wood burning stove to control, and of course, the
                two children.

                To add to my troubles Johnny had a temperature so I sent for the European
                Doctor. He diagnosed malaria and was astonished at the size of Johnny’s spleen. He
                said that he must have had suppressed malaria over a long period and the poor child
                must now be fed maximum doses of quinine for a long time. The Doctor is a fatherly
                soul, he has been recalled from retirement to do this job as so many of the young
                doctors have been called up for service with the army.

                I told him about my houseboy’s complaint and the way I had sent him off
                immediately, and he was very amused at my haste, saying that it is most unlikely that
                they would have passed the disease onto their employers. Anyway I hated the idea. I
                mean to engage a houseboy locally, but will do without an ayah until we return to
                Morogoro in February.

                Something happened today to cheer me up. A telegram came from Daniel which
                read, “FLANNEL HAS FIVE CUBS.”

                Eleanor.

                Morogoro 10th March 1940

                Dearest Family,

                We are having very heavy rain and the countryside is a most beautiful green. In
                spite of the weather George is away on safari though it must be very wet and
                unpleasant. He does work so hard at his elephant hunting job and has got very thin. I
                suppose this is partly due to those stomach pains he gets and the doctors don’t seem
                to diagnose the trouble.

                Living in Morogoro is much like living in a country town in South Africa, particularly
                as there are several South African women here. I go out quite often to morning teas. We
                all take our war effort knitting, and natter, and are completely suburban.
                I sometimes go and see an elderly couple who have been interred here. They
                are cold shouldered by almost everyone else but I cannot help feeling sorry for them.
                Usually I go by invitation because I know Mrs Ruppel prefers to be prepared and
                always has sandwiches and cake. They both speak English but not fluently and
                conversation is confined to talking about my children and theirs. Their two sons were
                students in Germany when war broke out but are now of course in the German Army.
                Such nice looking chaps from their photographs but I suppose thorough Nazis. As our
                conversation is limited I usually ask to hear a gramophone record or two. They have a
                large collection.

                Janet, the ayah whom I engaged at Mbeya, is proving a great treasure. She is a
                trained hospital ayah and is most dependable and capable. She is, perhaps, a little strict
                but the great thing is that I can trust her with the children out of my sight.
                Last week I went out at night for the first time without George. The occasion was
                a farewell sundowner given by the Commissioner of Prisoners and his wife. I was driven
                home by the District Officer and he stopped his car by the back door in a large puddle.
                Ayah came to the back door, storm lamp in hand, to greet me. My escort prepared to
                drive off but the car stuck. I thought a push from me might help, so without informing the
                driver, I pushed as hard as I could on the back of the car. Unfortunately the driver
                decided on other tactics. He put the engine in reverse and I was knocked flat on my back
                in the puddle. The car drove forward and away without the driver having the least idea of
                what happened. The ayah was in quite a state, lifting me up and scolding me for my
                stupidity as though I were Kate. I was a bit shaken but non the worse and will know
                better next time.

                Eleanor.

                Morogoro 14th July 1940

                Dearest Family,

                How good it was of Dad to send that cable to Mother offering to have Ann and
                George to live with you if they are accepted for inclusion in the list of children to be
                evacuated to South Africa. It would be wonderful to know that they are safely out of the
                war zone and so much nearer to us but I do dread the thought of the long sea voyage
                particularly since we heard the news of the sinking of that liner carrying child evacuees to
                Canada. I worry about them so much particularly as George is so often away on safari.
                He is so comforting and calm and I feel brave and confident when he is home.
                We have had no news from England for five weeks but, when she last wrote,
                mother said the children were very well and that she was sure they would be safe in the
                country with her.

                Kate and John are growing fast. Kate is such a pretty little girl, rosy in spite of the
                rather trying climate. I have allowed her hair to grow again and it hangs on her shoulders
                in shiny waves. John is a more slightly built little boy than young George was, and quite
                different in looks. He has Dad’s high forehead and cleft chin, widely spaced brown eyes
                that are not so dark as mine and hair that is still fair and curly though ayah likes to smooth it
                down with water every time she dresses him. He is a shy child, and although he plays
                happily with Kate, he does not care to play with other children who go in the late
                afternoons to a lawn by the old German ‘boma’.

                Kate has playmates of her own age but still rather clings to me. Whilst she loves
                to have friends here to play with her, she will not go to play at their houses unless I go
                too and stay. She always insists on accompanying me when I go out to morning tea
                and always calls JanetJohn’s ayah”. One morning I went to a knitting session at a
                neighbours house. We are all knitting madly for the troops. As there were several other
                women in the lounge and no other children, I installed Kate in the dining room with a
                colouring book and crayons. My hostess’ black dog was chained to the dining room
                table leg, but as he and Kate are on friendly terms I was not bothered by this.
                Some time afterwards, during a lull in conversation, I heard a strange drumming
                noise coming from the dining room. I went quickly to investigate and, to my horror, found
                Kate lying on her back with the dog chain looped around her neck. The frightened dog
                was straining away from her as far as he could get and the chain was pulled so tightly
                around her throat that she could not scream. The drumming noise came from her heels
                kicking in a panic on the carpet.

                Even now I do not know how Kate got herself into this predicament. Luckily no
                great harm was done but I think I shall do my knitting at home in future.

                Eleanor.

                Morogoro 16th November 1940

                Dearest Family,

                I much prefer our little house on the hillside to the larger one we had down below.
                The only disadvantage is that the garden is on three levels and both children have had
                some tumbles down the steps on the tricycle. John is an extremely stoical child. He
                never cries when he hurts himself.

                I think I have mentioned ‘Morningside’ before. It is a kind of Resthouse high up in
                the Uluguru Mountains above Morogoro. Jess Howe-Browne, who runs the large
                house as a Guest House, is a wonderful woman. Besides running the boarding house
                she also grows vegetables, flowers and fruit for sale in Morogoro and Dar es Salaam.
                Her guests are usually women and children from Dar es Salaam who come in the hot
                season to escape the humidity on the coast. Often the mothers leave their children for
                long periods in Jess Howe-Browne’s care. There is a road of sorts up the mountain side
                to Morningside, but this is so bad that cars do not attempt it and guests are carried up
                the mountain in wicker chairs lashed to poles. Four men carry an adult, and two a child,
                and there are of course always spare bearers and they work in shifts.

                Last week the children and I went to Morningside for the day as guests. John
                rode on my lap in one chair and Kate in a small chair on her own. This did not please
                Kate at all. The poles are carried on the bearers shoulders and one is perched quite high.
                The motion is a peculiar rocking one. The bearers chant as they go and do not seem
                worried by shortness of breath! They are all hillmen of course and are, I suppose, used
                to trotting up and down to the town.

                Morningside is well worth visiting and we spent a delightful day there. The fresh
                cool air is a great change from the heavy air of the valley. A river rushes down the
                mountain in a series of cascades, and the gardens are shady and beautiful. Behind the
                property is a thick indigenous forest which stretches from Morningside to the top of the
                mountain. The house is an old German one, rather in need of repair, but Jess has made
                it comfortable and attractive, with some of her old family treasures including a fine old
                Grandfather clock. We had a wonderful lunch which included large fresh strawberries and
                cream. We made the return journey again in the basket chairs and got home before dark.
                George returned home at the weekend with a baby elephant whom we have
                called Winnie. She was rescued from a mud hole by some African villagers and, as her
                mother had abandoned her, they took her home and George was informed. He went in
                the truck to fetch her having first made arrangements to have her housed in a shed on the
                Agriculture Department Experimental Farm here. He has written to the Game Dept
                Headquarters to inform the Game Warden and I do not know what her future will be, but
                in the meantime she is our pet. George is afraid she will not survive because she has
                had a very trying time. She stands about waist high and is a delightful creature and quite
                docile. Asian and African children as well as Europeans gather to watch her and George
                encourages them to bring fruit for her – especially pawpaws which she loves.
                Whilst we were there yesterday one of the local ladies came, very smartly
                dressed in a linen frock, silk stockings, and high heeled shoes. She watched fascinated
                whilst Winnie neatly split a pawpaw and removed the seeds with her trunk, before
                scooping out the pulp and putting it in her mouth. It was a particularly nice ripe pawpaw
                and Winnie enjoyed it so much that she stretched out her trunk for more. The lady took
                fright and started to run with Winnie after her, sticky trunk outstretched. Quite an
                entertaining sight. George managed to stop Winnie but not before she had left a gooey
                smear down the back of the immaculate frock.

                Eleanor.

                 

                #6265
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  From Tanganyika with Love

                  continued  ~ part 6

                  With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                  Mchewe 6th June 1937

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                  With much love,
                  Eleanor.

                  Mchewe 25th June 1937

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  Lots of love,
                  Eleanor.

                  Mchewe 9th July 1937

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor

                  Mchewe 8th October 1937

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Mchewe 17th October 1937

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Mchewe 18th November 1937

                  My darling Ann,

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

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

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

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

                  Mchewe 18th November 1937

                  Hello George Darling,

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

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

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

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

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

                  Mchewe 12th February, 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Mbulu 18th March, 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Mbulu 24th March, 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Mbulu 20th June 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Karatu 3rd July 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Karatu 12th July 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Oldeani. 19th July 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Oldeani. 10th August 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Oldeani. 20th August 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Oldeani Hospital. 9th September 1938

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

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