Tales of War and Conflict - The Rude Reply

I discovered this delicious true story by chance recently.  It is a brief aside in the turbulent history of the Ukraine which dates from 1676 and has probably been told many times because it is illustrated by a superb painting by artist Ilya Repin, which he finished in 1891.  Read the story and look at the painting, you’ll never forget either of them.

During the seventeenth century the Zaporozhian Cossacks (“Cossacks beyond the rapids”) lived in the area of the lower reaches of the Dnieper river beyond the said rapids, in the Ukraine.  They were a respected political entity in their own right with a parliamentary system of government of their own, and had developed an original judicial system – the Cossack Code, which worked because of the strong social relations that existed among the Cossacks as a race.  Since the 16th century they had been a military force to be reckoned with by virtue of the strength and bravery with which they challenged the authority of the various powers that swept over the region – the Polish Lithuanian Commonwealth, the Tsardom of Russia and the Ottoman Empire.

In the mid seventeenth century the Ottoman Empire was ruled by the Sultan Mehmet IV. 

Sultan Mehmet IV

(1642-1693)

Although the Zaporozhian Cossacks had recently defeated the Ottoman Turkish forces, Mehmet IV sent a peremptorily worded demand that they submit to Turkish rule anyway because he would defeat them in the end.  This is the text:

As the Sultan; son of Muhammad; brother of the Sun and Moon; grandson and viceroy of God; ruler of the kingdoms of Macedonia, Babylon, Jerusalem, Upper and Lower Egypt; emperor of emperors; sovereign of sovereigns; extraordinary knight, never defeated; steadfast guardian of the tomb of Jesus Christ; trustee chosen by God himself; the hope and comfort of Muslims; confounder and great defender of Christians—I command you, the Zaporozhian Cossacks, to submit to me voluntarily and without any resistance, and to desist from troubling me with your attacks.

-  Turkish Sultan Mehmed IV

And this is how the Zaporozhian Cossacks replied with a stream of insults and vulgarities, making fun of the Sultan’s titles - note, written in 1676:

Zaporozhian Cossacks to the Turkish Sultan!

Thou art a Turkish imp, the damned devil's brother and friend, and a secretary to Lucifer himself. What the devil kind of knight art thou that cannot slay a hedgehog with your naked ass? The devil shits, and your army eats. Thou son of a bitch wilt not ever make subjects of Christian sons; we have no fear of your army, by land and by sea we will battle with thee, fuck thy mother.

Thou art the Babylonian scullion, Macedonian wheelwright, brewer of Jerusalem, goat-fucker of Alexandria, swineherd of Greater and Lesser Egypt, Armenian pig, Podolian villain, catamite of Tartary, hangman of Kamyanets, and fool of all the world and underworld, a fool before our God, a grandson of the Serpent, and the crick in our dick. Pig's snout, mare's arse, slaughterhouse cur, unchristened brow, screw thine own mother!

So the Zaporozhians declare, you lowlife. Thou wilt not even be herding Christian pigs. Now we shall conclude, for we don't know the date and don't have a calendar; the moon's in the sky, the year in the book, the day's the same over here as it is over there; for this kiss our ass!

-  Koshovyi Otaman Ivan Sirko, with the whole Zaporozhian Host.

The Ukranian artist Ilya Repin (1844-1930)…

Self-portrait of Ilya Repin

…took ten years to paint a canvas celebrating this event – The Reply of the Zaporozhian Cossacks - which measures two metres in height and three and a half metres wide.  He saw it as a study in laughter and a tribute to the free spirit and republicanism of the Cossacks, and when it was finished in 1891 the Tsar Alexander III snapped it up, paying the princely sum of 35,000 roubles.  It is now exhibited in the state museum in St Petersburg.

Ilya Repin's "The Reply of the Zaporozhian Cossacks" - completed 1891.

PLEASE do click to enlarge and get the full effect. 

Every detail is a joy:

*the man seated left with his moustache tucked behind his ears;

*the scribe who looks intelligent and much amused by what he's being asked to do;

 *standing behind him with his hand on his chest and a glitter in his eye Ivan Sirko, who signed the letter;

*... and gorgeously attired in red, the large man whose loud belly laugh you can almost hear

The delightful tableau shows a group of Cossacks roaring with laughter and pleasure as they think up further vulgarities for the scribe to note in the reply to the Turkish Sultan.  During the artist’s time the Cossacks enjoyed popular admiration and sympathy, and the picture invites you to join in and laugh with them, as Russians surely must have done.

The Zaporozhian Cossacks eventually fell under Russian influence, were forcibly disbanded in the late eighteenth century and relocated to another corner of the empire.  But their most important legacy was to modern Ukraine, where their memory has driven the struggle for independence.

As for Ilya Repin, the artist, here are a few of the hundreds of gorgeous paintings he completed.  Of particular note is his clever handling of the eyes and expressions therein.  Again, please double click to enlarge - the larger they are the more incredible.
.

"Barge Haulers on the Volga"

The men seem to almost collapse forward in exhaustion under the burden of hauling a large boat upstream in heavy, hot weather.  The work is both a celebration of the men's dignity and fortitude, and a highly emotional condemnation of those who sanctioned such inhumane labour.  Although they are presented as stoical and accepting, the men are largely defeated; only one stands out: in the centre of both the row and canvas, a brightly coloured youth fights against his leather binds and takes on a heroic poise. (Wikipedia)

"Peasant with an evil eye"

"Religious Procession in Kursk Province"

Considered an archetype of the "Russian national style," as it displays various social classes and the tensions among them, set within the context of a traditional religious practice and united by a slow but relentless forward movement. (Wikipedia)

"Ivan the Terrible and his Son"

This canvas displayed a horrified Ivan embracing his dying son, whom he had just struck and mortally wounded in an uncontrolled fit of rage. The terrified face of Ivan is in marked contrast with that of his calm, almost Christlike son. (Wikipedia)

-oOo-

Photo Finish -

from Lonicera's digital archive

More pictures from the 'shoot' on Portishead Lake
last week...

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Out and about with my camera

I've been doing less writing at the computer and a bit more of getting out into the fresh air this week to practise with my new camera.  I took a couple of days off but slept in and missed the morning sunshine - so I'll have to wait for spring before I get more variety to photograph.  I look forward to using my new macro lens on pictures of plants and flowers...

I went to Dorchester to see my niece and her nearly three year old son Jimmy, my great nephew.  The three of us has lunch in a pub, and while waiting to be served I took some pictures of him at the table and in the little play area outside.

I tried my hand with the movie facility on my camera and filmed a brief video for the first time, and as you would expect from a camcorder virgin, I won't be rocking the movie world just yet - however I was so pleased to find that while the camera work was pathetic, the quality of the video was amazing.  This I had not expected, because I thought that cameras with video facilities come a very poor second to camcorders.  

Jimmy is very articulate and likes to chat, and I much look forward to the day when I'm competent enough to "interview" him because I think it'll make him a star.  Oh well, there's great auntie speaking.

He comes out with lovely phrases he's overheard from adults but sometimes isn't quite there with the meanings - example:

Jimmy:  (cough! cough! cough!)

His Mother:  Jimmy, you must cover your mouth with your hands when you cough.

Jimmy:  Yes Mummy.  Puts his hands over his ears:  cough! cough! cough!

Today John and I went to the lake at Portishead, and he tried to con the gulls, ducks and swans with stale bread as a gourmet meal (they did draw the line at green bread though - I could almost here them saying "Is you 'avin' a larf???" as they spat it back again.)  I took a lot of pictures in my attempt to get the birds catching the bread in flight, or skimming it off the surface of the water, and what a racket they made as they all congregated to lunge for the food.  I need more practice to get my eye in, but here are some of the ones I got.  In some cases they're sections of pictures which needed selective cropping - it's very difficult to get decent pictures of birds on the move.

At different times two children wandered by on the hands of their parents and grandparents, and John gave them some bread to throw to the birds, and showed them how to do it.  It was clearly the first time for both the children, and the look of wonder on their faces was something to behold...

(You can see the bird's legs under water in this one)

I tried cropping out the bird on the right, but decided in the end that compositionally it probably looked more balanced.  This is the only one in this group which shows the bird with a piece of John's bread in its beak.  Click to enlarge.

How on earth do they keep so pristine?

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Photo Finish -

from Lonicera's non-digital archives

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Updates

There’s been a lot of sickness doing the rounds in my world – yes, I work in a hospital, but it seems to be around everywhere.  I looked after my partner John while he struggled with a nasty version of the usual cold, cough and temperature, which he passed to me in due course (I’ve no idea if it was flu’ but it certainly felt like it) and unusually for me I had to take a week off work, too miserable even to do any writing. 

I was glad to lose myself in Dumas’ Count of Montecristo – what a magnificent storyteller he was – and when I’d had enough of the sublime I resorted to the ridiculous card games on my computer.  My box of tissues became the most important item in my life, and John my lifeline.  Our loud sneezes and coughing fits amused the cats not at all.

When I returned to work I saw the silver lining:  the multi-storey car park was a shadow of its former self.  I imagine staff had been struck down in droves by flu’ and nurses were probably encouraged to stay away so as not to infect patients.  For two weeks there have been so many car parking spaces that I have longed to just go from one to another and stay for a while in each, JUST BECAUSE I CAN...

In our office I learned that our Finnish colleague Hedda had been very ill and was in hospital with appendicitis.  We had barely got our act together to get her a card when we were told she had discharged herself, and 24 hours after her laparoscopic procedure she was back at work because ‘she hated to break her routine’. 

She was clearly fragile though, and after a few part-time days she disappeared again, and we learned she had been rushed back to hospital with peritonitis.  This time we didn’t delay in signing a card and getting her a woman’s magazine, but when a colleague went to see her and to deliver them, she had gone – once again she had discharged herself after 24 hours.  The following day she was back again at work… She’s very slim, delicate, blonde, a mother of young children… and obviously tough as old boots.

The Self-published Book

The book of my great aunt’s letters between 1912 and 1919 was successfully printed on top quality satin paper in hard back with 102 illustrations on over 220 pages.  The weekend before last John and I drove to Oxford to hand it over to my 94 year old cousin (my great aunt’s surviving daughter).  She’s a feisty lady who speaks her mind and is as sharp as a razor, but I needn’t have worried.  She was very pleased with it, and would be taking it with her to Argentina the following week whence she was headed on business.  She’ll read it while she’s there and tell me about all the typos when she returns in a couple of months’ time.  Here are some pictures I took of it before it left my hands.

I know, not the best I've ever taken.  But you get the idea.

Camera

Flu’ and very cold weather have discouraged me from going out and about very much using my lovely new camera, and also because I’ve been searching the accessories market for a chest pod to help me support it and not get camera shake – it’s quite heavy.  But I must, because I’ve been asked to take pictures at a friend’s wedding in April.   I’m already starting to shake.  This coming Thursday I shall be travelling to Dorchester to visit my niece and His Gorgeousness (my great nephew) and will be having another go, and also (gulp) trying the video facility.

Selina

Selina in 2011 (not taken by me, sadly)

Some of you kindly asked me to update you on the state of health of my friend Michèle’s younger daughter Selina who was in a terrible car accident in early October last year (In Argentina).  I’m told she is still in some kind of a coma, yet her eyes are open and she is moving her arms slowly. 

Though not speaking yet, she can hear on both sides, understand speech and reason for herself, and by the simple expedient of putting her thumb up or down can communicate her wishes to those around her.  She has shown initiative in grabbing the soap to wash herself, and has stroked her mother’s cheek.  She’s making slow but steady progress, and the specialists are pleased with her. 

This last weekend her faithful girlfriends visited her, giving Selina’s mother a break and a chance to catch up on her sleep, and took it in turns to fuss over her.  One moisturised her face while another gave her a manicure and pedicure which she obviously enjoyed.  She stroked their faces and reduced them to tears.  Love is never forgotten.

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Photo Finish -
from Lonicera's non-digital archive

Que Viva España!!

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Tales of War and Conflict - The Maths Master

Manfred Frankel appeared at Ted’s school one day during the freezing early days of 1942. Mr Carmichael, the headmaster of St Matthews Taunton introduced the tall, thin man in his forties with a slight stoop and wispy dark hair to the boys at assembly as their new maths master.

“Mr Frankel comes to us highly recommended from the University of Freiburg” he announced. “We are very fortunate indeed to have him. He will be taking the upper fourth, fifth and sixth starting tomorrow and I’m sure we would all like to extend to him a very warm welcome.”

Mr Frankel smiled timidly at the sea of faces and it was only their fear of the headmaster’s strong views on discipline that kept them all quiet until they had been dismissed. Outside the hall there were loud eruptions from the older boys.

“What’s a Kraut doing here? One of them shot my brother down”.

“Are we going to have maths in German?”

“I bet he’s a spy”…. And so on.

At fourteen Ted’s world and those of his contemporaries was confined to boarding school, but there had been enough upheaval in their young lives to make them sense that this was an unusual situation both for the school and for the new master. For this was not their school.

Fourteen months’ earlier he had found himself part of a group of 100 boys which had been evacuated from Hurstfield College in Lamberhurst, Kent, when France had fallen and the Battle of Britain was at its height. Ted’s parents in Gravesend supported the decision to send the children away for safety to the West Country, and St Matthews had enough space to welcome them as boarders. It had represented a difficult period of adjustment for them all, far from their homes, unable to visit or be visited by their families.

The degree of smugness felt by the evacuees over the St Matthews boys because they knew all about Messerschmitts and Junkers and were fond of discussing it in front of them in loud voices, was balanced by the fact that secretly they feared to hear those very sounds again. But it was always Hurstfield versus the local boys, the 'war wise' versus the country bumpkins.

However the fact was that they all felt unsettled, and now here was the enemy in their midst, or so it seemed to them at first.

The lessons had an uneasy start, and Mr Frankel’s gentle and quiet disposition did little to inspire respect in the early days. The rowdier elements found a way to test the master’s mettle by making loud remarks in the back row in fake German accents and imitating the sound of planes flying low. This Mr Frankel ignored, until he was asked one day how one said trigonometry in German.

“I don’t wish to even remember that I speak German”, he said quietly in his halting English, “or that I have ever lived anywhere but in Taunton”.

He went to all the inter-school rugby matches on a Saturday, whatever the weather, and would stand on the touchline by himself, muffled up, watching the boys running and tackling as he tried to pick up the finer points of the game. He was always on hand after hours to struggling pupils for further explanations on the complicated aspects of his subject, or to those aspiring to scholarships, and whatever the circumstance he was never heard to raise his voice.

Mr Carmichael and the other masters noticed that he would smile occasionally, but no one ever heard him laugh. Above all, in his mild way he declined to answer any questions about himself, and there was something about him that made pupil and master alike stop short of asking him about his past life.

It wasn’t merely his quiet air of mystery that brought even the most recalcitrant elements into line; it was the fact that he was a brilliant mathematician with a gift for communicating facts at all levels. As his English improved, a potentially dry aspect was brought to life by his ability to apply it to everyday life. Not for him the automatic recourse to the grinding of geometrical shapes in chalk on the blackboard; he preferred to produce a rugby or cricket ball to make his point; with his vivid imagination he could transport the boys to a hot climate with warm breezes and had them gazing at an imaginary turquoise swimming pool with a waterfall casting so many gallons a second into its crystal depths. What if the pool had just been cleaned and emptied - how long would it take to fill it up again and avoid it overflowing...?

He was not a handsome figure of a man in the conventional sense – no sporting hero he - but his gentle dignity and charisma gradually transmitted itself to the boys and he commanded a quiet respect and real affection. His air of sadness intrigued them, but it was not until 1944 that they were to learn more about their favourite master.

On the sultry morning of Tuesday 6th June 1944 Ted’s class had Maths straight after breakfast. At 9 o’clock sharp Mr Frankel burst into the classroom with flushed cheeks, beaming from ear to ear – in itself a rare occurrence which made everybody sit up at their desks.

Joyfully pounding the air with his fists he cried “Have you heard ze news? Ze Allies have landed in Normandy!” It was a wonderful moment and cheering broke out in the classroom and was taken up by the others as the news spread. There were no lessons that afternoon.

After supper when the older boys were allowed to stay up a little later than usual they were sitting round Mr Frankel on a bench in the playground, and one of them said “So what happens now Mr Frankel? Is the war over?”

“Not yet, no. We must be patient for a little longer. But soon it will come and you will be able to go home” he replied, and then his elation seemed to ebb away when Ted said “What will you do after the war Mr Frankel?”

“I will stay here Ted. I have no home except this school, no country, no family.” He hesitated, and as if the momentous news of the day deserved a bit more from him, he continued.

“I am a Jew you see” - he pronounced it Chew – “I taught in a school near Berlin until they told me to go, and then I took whatever job I could to support my wife and two daughters. But it was difficult, and once you wore the yellow star nobody would employ you. I was willing to do anything, and at any time of day, but it wasn’t enough.

"One morning I came home from my night shift cleaning at a hospital and there were guards in our little flat, and my wife was very frightened. They took us away and eventually put us on a train. It was terrible, and after many days we arrived at a prison camp.” He faltered. “I cannot talk about it, but my family died there and I was able to escape to England because one of my professors at the University of Freiburg was British and knew Mr Carmichael many years ago. I won’t ever go back.”

They all stared at him, not knowing what to say. Most of them had suffered personal loss in their families in one way or another during the war, and Ted himself had lost a brother-in-law he hero-worshipped when the young pilot's plane had come down minutes from its base due to an engine malfunction; his two brothers were in ships on the Atlantic somewhere. But to a degree these boys were protected from the outside world and had never before been confronted by evidence of such a deep personal tragedy, and were much subdued by it.

As he had promised, just under a year later VE Day came, Ted passed his final exams and secured his place at Cambridge. The day arrived when the evacuees packed up their things for the train journey back to Kent, and Ted sought out Mr Frankel to say goodbye and to tell him how much he owed his scholarship to him. A modest man, Manfred Frankel brushed aside his praise, and wished him Godspeed.

Ted wrote to him twice more, once when he got home to tell him how much he had admired him as a master and how grateful he was for all he had been taught, and once again at the end of his first year at Cambridge, when his maths papers scored 96%. Mr Frankel replied warmly congratulating him, and telling Ted he had always known he would do well.

In the first few months Ted frequently found himself thinking back to the story the master had told them in D Day back in 1944, for now that the full facts were becoming known about the situation endured by the Jews in Germany, he began to understand more deeply what Mr Frankel had said, and more importantly, what he had not said.

Manfred Frankel stayed on at Taunton school for many years, at first alone yet not alone, for he was surrounded by people and boys who appreciated him. Late in life he married the school’s nurse, and knew happiness once again.

In 1990 when St Matthews Taunton celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of the evacuation, they invited all the former evacuees they could find to a grand gala party at the school. Now in his sixties, Ted was a little dismayed not to recognise many of his former companions despite the evidence of their name badges, but all was forgotten several drinks later they settled down to discuss “whatever happened to so-and-so”. It was inevitable that Manfred Frankel’s name should come up at some point, and Ted reminded them of the way he had told them the story of the fate of his wife and two children on D Day.

“Not two children old chap”, said one of them, “he had three. Two daughters and a son.”

“He definitely never mentioned a son” replied Ted, “how do you know?”

“Old Carmichael. I went back to visit a few times, then on one visit I learned that Frankel had died and the old boy had retired, so I invited myself over to his house for a cup of tea and we had a long chat. Apparently Frankel’s daughters were about ten and twelve or so, and they had a much younger son of five – apple of his eye, Carmichael said. When his wife and daughters were gassed he had been able to grab the little boy in time and keep him hidden from the Gestapo while he made urgent plans to escape.

“It was a desperate situation, because the child was too young to be anything but a burden, and on the day they made a run for it with Frankel carrying him the child was unwell and crying, which slowed them down. They were spotted by guards at the last minute and they opened fire against them. Unfortunately the child acted as a shield for his father and was killed instantly. He fell from his arms and Frankel knew he had to make a dreadful decision. There was nothing further he could do for his son, and if he stayed to mourn over his body he too would be dead.

"So he left him and carried on running – and somehow he got away. Terrible business, too awful for him to be able to talk about it for many years, and he only ever told Carmichael shortly before he died. He always felt he had abandoned his little boy.”

The old boys were silent and shocked, as they had been that day back in 1944 when they had heard the first half of the story.

Ted is now in his eighties and has never forgotten Manfred Frankel. He tells me he regrets not having returned to the school to visit him or kept in touch; he knew how much it would have meant to the master to maintain contact with his former pupils.  “There will always be racism and prejudice everywhere, and we’re all guilty of neglecting our friends at some point in our lives," he said, and sighed, adding  "tell the story, perhaps someone else can learn from it.”

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Photo Finish -

from Lonicera's non-digital archive

Exmoor

Kite Festival, Bristol

The Queen's Bath, The Royal Baths, Bath (!)

At a Latin-American concert in Surrey

(The Anglo-Argentine society's annual 'asado')

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The Mousetrap – my version

From ghoulies and ghosties

and long-leggedy beasties

and things that go bump in the night

may the Good Lord deliver us.

-  Old saying.

I’ve always adored cats, particularly since when as a 10 year old I read “Jennie” by Paul Gallico, the story of a little boy who while unconscious after an accident believes himself transformed into a cat and is taught to think like one to survive by Jennie, a wise female alley cat. (A wonderful story, I can’t recommend it highly enough)

 
I eventually got a grey tabby female when I was 17 and was heartbroken when she died as a result of complications after giving birth to too many kittens and probably because of my neglect born of ignorance.

I was only brave enough to consider it again 30 years later when I moved from a flat into a house with a garden, and in 2001 was overjoyed to get two 12-week old male kittens, Rusty and Banjo. This time I was in a country which encourages pet owners to learn about their pets and understand their needs, and I did all my homework. Neutering, chipping, vaccinating, worming, systematic flea programmes – all boxes regularly ticked.

Banjo

But I never properly understood that when you take in pets there’s a catalogue of other living creatures with which you will be forced into contact and you simply can’t be squeamish. Except that I am, and John inevitably has to deal with unpleasant situations while I run away screaming like a prissy Victorian schoolgirl.

Rusty

The boys – as I refer to them – have been known to 'bring friends home to play', in the shape of rodents or winged creatures of different dimensions, since the house backs onto a field. They may seem dead as they are roughly transported through two cat flaps held between the jaws of whichever triumphant feline has been lucky enough to catch them, but once in the warm and deposited on the carpet in front of a singularly unimpressed screaming female human, the victims' senses recover and their survival instincts return.

The rodents scuttle away as fast as their little legs will carry them, and should they be lucky enough to dodge the cat that bounds delightedly after them as the game is unexpectedly resumed, refuge is sought under a sofa, armchair or the fridge. The latter is the ultimate bunker, as it’s far too complicated to move said kitchen object, and there it stays long beyond the date it’s gone to meet its maker, until the smell forces us to prise it out somehow. Should the game be initiated without the knowledge of humans, then any hiding place is discovered by the same method – eventually.

With birds the scenario becomes more obviously dramatic, since anything less than a chicken in size has been forced through the catflaps at some point or another. Birds flap frantically around at ceiling level looking for a way out, with both cats using anything whatsoever – a piece of furniture, a plant, a vase, a picture with a substantial frame - as a means to reach the correct height to catch them, and the screams from the prissy female human are just an irritating distraction. If it is already too late for the poor avian and the humans come home to find it has perished, they can be assured that most of the corridor, the study and the sitting room will be strewn with feathers as one follows with horror the agonising trail of the struggle. Can these really be my sweet purring cuddly boys?

It’s cosy and heart-warming to see them curl up on the bed, all four residents of the house jostling for position on the same surface, trying to get a decent night’s sleep. Aaah. Then comes the unexplained little itch on the ribcage, followed by another on the arm, a third round the ankle somewhere. Too cold for mosquitoes, must be fleas.

FLEAS??  I thought the vet said that pet fleas don’t bite humans? Don’t tell anyone at work they’re fleabites. Yes but that means we’ve got fleas in the bed. And the female human threatens to scream in horror again.

I laugh as I tell friends over drinks about these extras I’ve had to learn to cope with. “They’re eleven years old now” I say “thank goodness there are no more surprises”. Mmm

“When did you last worm them?” asked John recently.

“Oh I don’t know can’t be more than a few months – I’ll get some worming stuff from the vet next week”.

But it wasn’t a few months, it was a year since I had wormed them, and I still shudder to remember it. It was inattention rather than neglect, and the worms thrived. I was having a very rare hypo one night, and at 2 a.m. found myself staggering to the bathroom to take a swig of honey because I had overdosed on insulin by mistake, and as I sat there half asleep with my head hanging, waiting for the glucose to kick in and make me feel better, I noticed that my ginger cat was unwell and was trying to tell me so.

I realised as if in a dream that he was about to be sick, but I still hadn’t enough energy to do what I would normally have done: pick him up and deposit him firmly in the bathtub.

Squeamish poorly female human therefore was forced to witness his unwellness, followed by what was to me, seeing it for the first time in my life, a scene from the film “Alien”. The unspeakable result was alive, with worms wriggling everywhere, to his obvious relief and considerable curiosity.

John was asleep, so it wouldn’t have been fair to do my dying fly routine. Weakly I stared at it all in disgust and sheer horror until the glucose did its bit and I was able to move, when I covered it with a bucket. After checking that little ginger was now clearly better, I went to bed with nightmares.

And yes, John cleaned it up for me the following morning… For my part, I went straight to the vet and purchased the necessary anti-worming stuff and diarised for next time.

The real drama came with larger creatures. A couple of years ago I went into the kitchen in time to see a very large mouse running across the sink, with Rusty monitoring its progress with great interest but no initiative. (“I caught it for you but you’re too late, it’s escaped. Oh well”). True to form I screamed the house down, but the subsequent visit by the rodent operatives found nothing.

And then a few weeks ago we gradually became aware that there were tiny black “things” all over the kitchen, and the drawer where I kept the carrier bags had shredded plastic remains in it. We have learned from past experience that rather than a rodent without a satnav, this is more likely to be a ‘playmate’ which got lucky and managed to disappear after being dragged through two catflaps. John bought a mousetrap, (which we judged to be the most humane method of dealing with the problem) and the vigil began.

A piece of cheese was temptingly placed in the trap, and the following morning it had been delicately removed with the spring still set. The following night another piece was placed further back, but he managed to rescue it from the jaws of death. On the third night we changed the cheese, but he wasn't fussy. Then we put the cheese in a tiny box shape so that he had to climb inside to get it – which like the trouper he was, he did, emerging unharmed. And so on it went, and by the end of a week we certainly had a victim, just the one: John’s thumb (nail still black). Where were the cats throughout all this? Blissfully unaware and uncaring, that’s where.

I was actually a bit sad when he was eventually caught – the tiniest field mouse you ever saw. But he only ventured out at night so there would have been no question of returning him to the field.  I was glad that the strong spring caught him squarely and he wouldn't have had time to know what was happening to him.

This constant confrontation with the local fauna is stressful, though I won’t deny it’s good for me to get used to these things. I tend to forget it all when I see the culprits curled up on my bed, purring and pleased to see me. I’m such a WUSS.

-oOo-

Photo Finish

from Lonicera's digital archive

First shots with my new camera

John

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Tales from Argentina - Tormo the Cranky Donkey

Until the age of thirteen I spent all my summer holidays on a farm in an idyllic setting, the hills of Córdoba, in Argentina.  It was run by relatives who sought to supplement their modest income by having paying guests.  The fees were ridiculously low, and it was customary to bring victuals with us from Buenos Aires to help with the meals – typically a side of beef or pork, a large container of honey or a truckle of cheese.

The location was remote; when you arrived at the nearest village, you enquired as to recent weather for the last part of the journey up to the farm, and whether the streams would be in full flood or the road muddy and impassable in anything less than a 4x4 vehicle. 

It was all part of the excitement of feeling you were almost there.  There were 14 streams to cross – or rather, there were some streams which you crossed several times.  Either they had sandy bottoms and you prayed you wouldn’t get stuck if the water was high, or they were stony but the road ascended steeply the other side, and you fretted in case your little car wouldn’t manage to cough and splutter its way onward. 

After an hour of painfully slow progress sloshing in and out of streams with everybody in the car counting them one by one, and noting whether the natural landmarks had changed – a tree burnt down, a large familiar rock submerged where last year it had risen, bare and dry out of the water –

we would finally glimpse our first view of the house and raise a cheer, late as it was and tired as we were.

After the polite and fond greetings had been exchanged with the uncles, aunts and cousins staying there, for the house was large and welcoming, I would race round the house saying hello to the dogs, then down to the stream and over the bridge,

where I would stop to throw a stick and watch it come out on the other side, then round the hill to the stables and corrals where the horses were.  After a brief chat with Don Aparicio, who was employed to look after the area and lived in a little house there, we lost no time in stroking the horses’ velvet noses, patting their backs and taking in their horsey smell once again.  It was pure bliss. 

In the distance over in the field I could see Old Tormo, the bad-tempered donkey, staring balefully, totally disinclined to come over to see what was going on, but there would be no time to seek him out (warily), because Aunt Marion didn’t take kindly to people arriving late for dinner.

The dining-room

Things would settle down in the next few days.  We would go off on rides in the hills, looking for waterfalls and natural pools in which to swim, hunting for fresh watercress in the stream shallows, and stones covered in glittering mica,

or eating the peaches that grew wild in the hillsides around the house. 

Sometimes we came across rattlesnakes and tarantulas, and pretended we were very brave – which we weren’t.  There were pumas in the area too, and we were constantly warned about the behaviour of a female with young.  I only ever saw a puma once in the distance on that farm in the years I spent there on holidays, but as children we lived with the real fear that we would come across one which would be convinced we were after her cubs.  It stopped me venturing very far away from the house on my own.

Back at the corrals we would unsaddle and put the heavy saddles and reins back tidily on the wooden horses and hooks on the walls in the saddle room because there were always adults around to tell us off is we didn’t.  Then we would take our horse to the stream and using rusty tins left there for the purpose, wash the animals and rub them down, finally taking them to the field where they could graze.  And there would be Old Tormo, standing stubbornly in a corner, unwilling or unable to come over and join in.

(internet pic)

I had read the Ladybird series of beautifully illustrated children’s books, and by far and away my favourite story was Ned the Lonely Donkey,

...about a donkey who spent the days by himself in a field with no friends.  Lonely and sad (and the illustrations reflected this superbly), he wandered from one animal and bird to another asking them how he could make friends. 

None of their suggestions worked until a friendly magpie led him to a beautiful house in a wood where he told him there was a boy called Timothy who lived there.  His parents were always away and he was usually to be seen all by himself looking glum. 

Eventually the two met and made friends, and both were happy.  Subsequently Ned would sometimes meet up with the magpie in the woods for a chat, and would tell him all about his adventures with Timothy and how happy they now were.  The end. 

The way the story is told is somewhat sad, not to mention the pictures; invariably I would weep with pity every time I re-read it.

So here was Old Tormo, a lonely donkey with no friends, just waiting for someone like me to be a Timothy and keep him company.  The borderlines between fantasy and reality would become blurred, and unable to resist his naturally sad face, year after year I would go quietly up to him, making reassuring noises and carrying a mouthful of straw.  “Come, Tormo” I’d whisper “I’ll be your friend”.  He would eye me suspiciously, and as soon as I got to within 5 metres of him he would toss his head and run off, braying crossly.

Then one year a much younger donkey appeared, and Old Tormo became more cantankerous than ever.  He wasn’t merely put out by the competition, he was absolutely furious.  He kept to the far end of the field, only venturing nearer the saddle room when he needed the water trough.  Any attempts to approach him were met by his rear hooves kicking high up in the air.  We were warned not to venture too close and to keep to the other side of the fence.

One afternoon when we were down at the corrals looking at the horses, one of my cousins called us over to watch a drama that was unfolding.  Old Tormo had happened on the water trough a couple of minutes before the younger donkey had ambled up and started drinking quietly at one end.   

As soon as Tormo became aware of his rival’s presence, he gave out a harsh squeal, leaned over and bit him on his rump.  It must have been a vicious bite, because the younger animal emitted a shrill scream and instinctively attempted to bite him back.  Don Aparicio had appeared by this time and shouted at them in order to distract and separate them, but made the mistake of leaving the gate to the field open in his haste to sort out the dispute. 

Tormo veered off towards the gate and raced through it, scattering us all.  From a safe distance I watched in amazement as he did what no one could possibly have expected him to do.  Instead of racing up the slope to get away from us, he galloped into the saddle room, his hooves clacking noisily on the stone floor.

He stood in the middle of the room, snorting heavily, his head turning this way and that.  Then with astonishing skill he proceeded to drag a saddle off the wooden horse with his strong teeth.  Argentine saddles consist of the basic frame made from raw hide, with a series of layers of blankets, sheepskin covers and the sweat pad beneath; all in all a hefty unit.  

(internet)

Old Tormo made quick work of one of them, dragged it into the centre of the room, stood on it, stamped on it repeatedly and urinated copiously upon it with his head pointing at the ceiling, braying raucously, deafeningly and triumphantly all the while.  We looked on with grudging admiration.  He had certainly made his point.

From that day onwards the younger donkey was moved to another field and Tormo was left in peace to enjoy what was left of his retirement as grumpily as he pleased. 

As for myself, I was never able to look upon my favourite Ladybird book in quite the same way again.

(internet)

-oOo-

Photo Finish -
from Lonicera's non-digital archive

In Valencia and Chiva, Spain

Valencia from the sea

And lastly, two pictures not taken by me

of people I care about:

Verónica Minieri, a good friend who visited England in 2010

(her adventures are recorded in this blog under

'Vero's Visit', link in left margin).

She is now happily expecting her second child.

...and my train-mad great nephew, 2 and a half,

being taken on a train ride and experiencing one of the

greatest thrills of his life so far:

presenting his ticket to the guard. 

Taken by his mother, my niece.

-oOo-