Back in the seventies the shopping chain Woolworth’s in my home town of Epsom used to have an open cheese counter. One Saturday my mother sent my sister and I with my dad shopping. A rare event in itself. He wanted maggots for bait for his fishing trip on the following Sunday and mum had asked for him to buy some cheese for a cauliflower cheese dish. Knowing that we would be going to Woolworth’s my sister and I had already cajoled dad for a bag of pick and mix sweets on the way out.

Dad purchased the maggots from the fishing shop that used to be at the bottom of the high street. And then we walked in to Woolworths. My sister and I both eying the pick and mix counter with high anticipation of a bag of specially selected sweets on the way out.

Once at the cheese counter my father handed the box of maggots to my sister Karen to hold. Karen with a squeal of disgust flipped the box towards me with the back of her hand saying “No, I don’t want them, you have them” as I put my hand up to deflect the oncoming box my hand hit the lid off and the box rose high into the air. Slowly the contents of maggots swirled like snow flakes down to their resting place on the slabs of uncovered cheese.

Our father meanwhile had sighed with resignation as he had watched the maggots flying through the air. Without a word he walked round the side of the counter, picked the box up that had landed with a clink on the floor and began to pick the maggots up from the buttercup coloured slabs of cheese. The assistant who had stood spellbound by the sight began to assist him, both remained silent as they completed the task.

Meanwhile several customers with their mouth’s open in bemusement stood watching the scene.

My father showed no flicker of embarrassment at all.

When it was apparent that there were no more grubs to be rescued, dad secured the lid on the box, walked back round to stand along side us two girls and then politely said to the assistant. “ Can I have a pound of the extra mature cheddar please?”

Both my sister and I wrinkled our nose’s up and grimaced repulsed at the fact he still bought the cheese that the offending maggots had been resting on, but we remained silent. At the same time knowing all hope of our pick and mix bag was disappearing rapidly.

As if it had been a perfectly normal turn of events the sales assistant cut the cheese and wrapped it in the paper and handed it across the counter to my Dad. With a polite thank you the three of us turned round and walked out of the shop. I glanced mournfully at the sweet counter as we passed. The sweets shone in pretty coloured wrappers like jewels, purple, orange, green , bright red, all dazzling hues protecting the chocolate and sweets hidden within.

That evening my mother cooked dad his favourite meal of cauliflower cheese which he ate with enthusiasm. My dad was half French , of course a few maggots would never put him off eating cheese. Now as an adult I am so glad it was a selection of English hard cheeses that were on display, the sight of a juicy runny camembert with maggots settling in would have been just too much. Neither my sister or I could even stomach the smell let alone taste it. And even today the sight and smell of cauliflower cheese has us both wrinkling our noses’ up and brings back to me the incongruous sight of maggots falling down like fat snowflakes on yellow cheese.

I have often been described as having no fear and in all honesty there are many times when that could be said as true. But there are equally as many times when my courage has escaped me and left me ashamed and unable to look someone in the face. This is one of those moments when bravery ran rapidly out the back door like a skulking cat!

I arrived in the capital of Java known as Yogyakarta at the end of Ramadan – a weekend of partying was ahead for the locals. But for me,well I was trying to survive the humidity that the city blanketed me in as soon as I arrived. I had booked into a Losman run by a local family and the owner immediately suggested that I get across to one of the islands in the chain known as Pulau Serebu also called the thousand islands. The winds from the sea would be cooling and it would be great place to snorkel and relax he assured me.

His daughter and a friend were going across and I could share the air conditioned car to take me down to the ferry. The two girls were then going to be taken across the Java seas in luxury, in a yacht called the Java Jewel.

I watched the two beautiful young girls clamber aboard the luxury yacht giggling with happiness and excitement. I in turn clambered onto my less then salubrious public ferry, but was already breathing a sigh of relief as I caught the first of the cooling breezes. The ferry followed in the wake of the yacht, it soon disappeared in to the horizon.

My journey across to the island I had booked to stay on was long and slow, the ferry stopped off like one of our London buses at every place somebody stuck their hand out for it, but eventually I arrived and booked into my beach hut. Dumped my luggage, stripped down to my bikini and hit the beach!

It was not long before the two girls found me and demanded swimming lessons. The Losman’s daughter was she told me 15 and her friend 16, both had a very good command of the English language. We spent the afternoon swimming in the crystal clear waters of the Java Sea, the seabed littered with sea cucumbers.

As the afternoon wore on I started to realise something was terribly wrong. The older girl told me she had been paid to come across with the group of men sat on the beach. Koreans, rich, fat and by the looks on their faces arrogant.

“It’s Ok, no problem. At first I hated it, but the money is good and now mother always demands jewelry when I return back to my village. I get taken to expensive hotels and eat in fancy restaurants. It’s easy money.”

The story however for the Losman’s daughter was clearly different. This was her first time.

“I don’t want to sleep with him. I like his son. See, the one sitting under the trees? There.” she pointed across to the solitary figure.

I returned my gaze back to this young girl and my heart sank. She was stunning, not just pretty but beautiful. Pale skin and jet black hair falling in tresses around her shoulders. Beautiful almond shaped eyes. And an innocence that I suddenly realised would by the end of this weekend be gone.

Did her father know what was about to happen? I decided that he couldn’t possibly know, he had been so attentive to her that morning, so fatherly. He really did think she was going on a weekend jaunt in a big yacht across the Java seas.

As the sun slowly set and evening descended I made my way back to my hut, showered and changed for my evening meal. I grabbed my book A Suitable Boy, assuming I would be eating alone and headed to the Al Fresco restaurant.

I was immediately ushered to the group from the Java Jewel. They had caught a monster of a fish earlier that morning on their jaunt across and wanted to share with me. By the looks of the number of empty bottles of beer and wine their end of Ramadan was going very well.

A large glass of wine was placed in my hand I gulped rapidly and then my eyes caught the face of the Losman’s daughter. She had a pained smile on her face and was holding a larger tumbler of what I could smell was whiskey. She was too young for that kind of drink, I thought. She came and sat next to me. We tried to have a normal conversation. About her education, (she was attending a local Catholic school) her hopes, her dreams but it was futile, her fate seemed set now.

One of the men explained that the best part of the fish was the part just at the back of the gills and this was offered to me.

The fish was I am sure exquisite but my taste buds seemed to have disappeared down into my stomach where they were brewing up a storm of sickness.

The Korean whom I assumed owned the Java Jewel continued to stare at me smiling with a way too polite expression on his face. I stayed for as long as it was considered acceptable, drinking too many glasses of wine and then I excused myself, retreating back to my hut on the beach.

As soon as I got into the hut I grabbed my own bottle of whiskey and gulped a large portion down.

Jesus what could I do? The man had paid for her. What could I do? Nothing. I was useless. I could go back and hurl obscenities at him but what would that do. Anger him? Make him feel he had to prove his manliness with this young girl? Make the whole thing worse than it already was?

I took another swig of the whiskey, flopped back on my clean white sheeted bed and stared up at the ceiling fan rotating round.

I slowly dozed, falling into an angry and impotent sleep. Vaguely I heard someone knocking on my bamboo hut door. As I awoke I realised it was the Losman’s daughter. I opened the door to a distraught girl. She stumbled in reeking of whiskey and something worse.

I closed the door. Tried to comfort her. I had almost calmed her from the hysteria when my hut door was kicked open and three Koreans stood in what was once the door way.

Drunk and angry they mumbled something in slurred and badly formed English.

I met the eyes of the biggest of the three. “Get out. You have no right to come barging in here, this is my hut. I have paid for this. I didn’t invite you.” I screeched.

With one powerful slap across my face that sent me sprawling across the floor ,the fat Korean grabbed the Losmans daughter and said, hrough whiskey breath, “ Yes and I have paid for this, and I will have my money’s worth.”

He dragged the girl wailing like an injured animal back in to the darkness, her howls hanging in the night like torture.

The remaining two men stared down at me, their fists clenched almost willing me to get up off the floor so they could hit me. I attempted to climb to my knees and I felt the first thwack, dizzy with pain I shook my head, a childhood trait, whenever I had a headache I would shake my head. I felt another smack and then the fear set in and then for once in my life I stayed down. But the anger remained. I waited for what felt like was minutes, but was in all probability a few seconds, one spat at me before turning round and walking out of the hut. Followed by his friend.

I stayed on the ground. I cried. I hit my fists on the matted floor and raged at my complete and utter uselessness. Finally my anger spent I got up and grabbed the bottle of whiskey, finished off the bottle and fell back on the bed in drunken stupor.

The following morning I prayed that I wouldn’t see any of the Java Jewel group at breakfast. I ate as much Nasi Goreng as my hangover could accommodate and packed my luggage to get the ferry back across to Yogyakarta.

My head was pounding, a mixture of a hangover and a bloody battering from the Koreans.

When I tramped down to the ferry stop I could see the large shape of the Java Jewel rocking gently in the sea.

The ferry was ready for boarding I climbed in. I was suddenly aware of someone waving and calling me. I looked up, it was the Losman’s daughter waving from the yacht.

I smiled and waved, glad that she was still alive. From where I sat I was just close enough to see her face, but couldn’t see if her lovely smile reached her eyes.

My last image of the Java Jewel was her hair waving in the breeze, black like the wings of a dark angel.

When I arrived back to the Java side there was no air conditioned car to drive me back to my accommodation. I got a taxi and whilst in the back of the car I started to wonder what the girl’s father would say. Would he blame me? Would he feel I had somehow let his lovely daughter down?

Fortunately it was his wife who greeted me, but my relief was short lived. I looked at her, round her neck a stunning display of black pearls. I barely managed to meet her smile. But I saw her gaze rest on the bruises that had now appeared on my face. Her demeanor was gracious, but it was wasted, the black pearls answered everything.

The Koreans words echoed back, “Yes and I have paid for this, and I will have my money’s worth.”

“I can’t stay, “I explained, “I need to get back into the city center. Can I just settle up? My taxi is waiting?”

“Of course.” In silence she wrote out my bill, I paid and I ran quickly back to the taxi and left.

I booked into a hotel called The Rainbow, air conditioned, well stocked mini bar, TV, shower, room service. I chose not to take up the offer of a personal masseuse.

So you see, no traveler’s tale of bravery, no rescuing of the maiden in distress. Just a bloody bruised face and a crashing hangover. And a sense that I had failed.

I hate black pearls. Fortunately I have never been given them as a gift. I hope to God I never will. For the price we pay for certain things is not worth the real cost.

When I was sixteen I studied the French Revolution for my A level in History. It was a period of history that fascinated me. As did all the great philosophers that penned their ideas as the revolution unfolded and many who lost their lives. I felt quite sorry for Robesperierre and his pocked marked face and his disastrous dalliances with the harlots of Paris. Another one was the Russian revolution. Social revolutions, I am a socialist at heart. And also I am part French. I had a French grandmother on my fathers side.

I respected my grandmother but did not love her. For she did not love me and I was not her favourite.

But today I stand up to be counted among all the French who will being showing their defiance of the atrocities that left 17 dead in France.

I respect the way my grandmother insisted on keeping her French accent after 56 years living in England. How she got excited when she met my French teacher at school and rattled away in French. How she drank English tea cold. How despite being born on a champagne vineyard she insisted on putting sugar in her champagne. How Saturday evenings at her house where spent eating a pint of winkles or a pomegranate depending on the season. How she loved English wrestling I can still remeber her shouting at the TV in her French accent “Hold im down Haystacks hold im down.”  and that her favourite character in Starsky and Hutch was Huggy Bear. How my sister and I were only allowed one small piece of Cadbury’s chocolate before going to bed.

I respect the long scar down her arm which she never spoke about , she lived through the German occupation we know how she got that scar. I even respect the fact she could never trust a German. I respect the way she made cars in the high street stop so she could cross the road where she felt she wanted to. I even respected how she carried her pet Chihuahua in her shopping bag way before Paris Hilton made it fashionable. I respect the way she coughed her guts up on cigarettes ,no one could tell her what to do. I respect the runny smelly camembert cheese that sat on a plate in the pantry. I respect the fact she was French.

I loved the garlic in our food, the wine on the table. The way she refused to discuss religion , how wise was she! I loved the emotion and the defiance. I love escargots . I love the way any book could be read in her house without a shock reaction. How she loved the Sun newspaper and how she didn’t think any thing strange about page three -was bemused at the outcry when the first girl bared her breasts. When she first arrived in sleepy Epsom ,she stripped off with total impunity for a group of artists to paint her.

I respect how she pissed people off with her honesty and know I will be doing the same for many years to come!

So when I saw the events unfolding in Paris, it struck a cord with me. France is the home of modern democracy. The home of European socialism. And the birthplace of my grandmother!

I know that the French have a philosophy of you come to our country you live by our rules and I respect that. And please learn our language if you want to live here. The NHS could learn something from that!

And the fanatics who ran amok will never understand that the French will not forgive or forget and will not give in . The English French relationship is proof of this . I also know that we will have our own day of darkness and I will stand defiant for my own democratic country.

If you don’t like it don’t read it. If you don’t like it don’t watch it. But don’t tell other people what they can think, say ,do or read!

The papers are now full of the militants rants. They fail to see the reason they are allowed to be in print is because they are in a democratic country. The one they want to destroy

Only cowards shoot unarmed people. 17 people died because a group of cowards didn’t like a cartoon!

To my Muslim friends I know this is not what your faith is about. I know this is not you, you are not this atrocity.

And today I stand up and say I am Spartacus – Je Suis Francais.

During my evening job last week, Thomas the supervisor who is from Poland, opened up a discussion about the subtle nuances of the English language. When is the word could usually used and what does it really mean. Whilst trying to explain the grammatical correct time and place for the usage of this word. I suddenly remembered an incident with my sister, which basically knocked my explanation on the head.

Just after my mum and dad died my sister moved to Hastings. I thought it was an odd place to move, I mean there is no work down that way. But in all honesty things were not good in the household, so a fresh start was probably the intention.

I used to go down regularly to take my niece Sarah and my two nephews, Andrew and Joshua out.

I liked Hastings. I am from a working class family so Hastings had all the memories of a day trip out. Driving down in my dad’s taxi, winkles, whelks and the old town where all the smugglers would have had a pint after stripping the sinking ship of it wares as it slowly disappeared under the waves of the angry sea. It would not give up its secrets too easily. I loved the fact that the town was seedy and run down. That it didn’t really wake up until gone 12.00.

So at least once a month I would head down to Hastings and 9 times out of 10, I would force my sister’s three children out into the fresh south coast air. We would walk from St Leonard’s into Hastings, what ever the weather. I loved walking the coastal pathway. Sometimes depending on the season the sea would whip itself into such frenzy that foam would float onto land. Covering cars and trees like snow. It reminded me of when I worked at the school for the blind, dancing the waltz through soap suds with a blind resident who had messed the washing machine up. There was a foot of bubbles but he couldn’t see that, he was listening to the radio and the waltz being played. And so I was made to waltz through the bubbles with the soft refrain of music, he was good dancer.

I used to walk the kids down towards the bright lights of Hastings. I would hand a certain amount of money to each of them and I would sit outside the London Trader, my pub, my sisters was the Dolphin.

It was my kind of place, full of bikers, Goths and rockers and from there I could watch the three children enter and exit the amusement arcade called the Flamingo. They would, with what I now realise was obscene speed, spend the money I handed over, and they would run across and beg more money from me.

Occasionally they would return to show me their winnings. It was never Sarah, always Joshua. Sarah was born 13^th October on a Friday. Need I say more? Joshua was born under a silver cloud! And Andrew well he was the guy that could achieve anything he wanted to.

So this particular weekend I parked up and headed towards the Victorian mansion where my sister now lived. Stain glass windows and sweeping stair cases. Huge rooms and leaking roofs and a draft that swept through from the sea like a mischievous ghost. And yes I encountered the ghost, but I kept quite about him because he lived in Joshua’s room, right up in the top of the house.

On this particular night we decided we would take a drive towards North Beach, my sister had found a fabulous pub that we could go to on Sunday for roast lunch before I headed back to Surrey.

We had the usual argument of who would sit in the front. I always said Andrew as the oldest got the trip out and on the way back Joshua or Sarah could have the front seat. We climbed in to my car and headed out from Hatisings. We drove past North Beach and that’s when ,Lord help my sister, kicked in.

There is a stretch of road where the beach is so close and the marshes bleed towards the road on the other side.

We drove singing along with the refrains of the God father. I was a fan of Patrizio Buanne – the Italian Stallion, I called him. Quite often I would drive through Hastings, windows down with Patrizio’s dulcet tones blaring out into the fast fading light. Joshua’s friends would often text him to tell him his crazy Aunt was in town.

And then she said it…..

“You can drive on this beach.” Yes I know what you are all thinking, but she is older then me. This is the problem being the youngest, no matter what, no matter how many years go by, you still have a begrudging reverence for your older sister.

“Can we really?” I replied.

“Oh yes.” she enthused.

So I veered off the road and drove across the shingle beach. Brilliant , until I stopped. And then I heard, Lord help the sister…”who is so daft to actually do what their older sibling tells them to.

We were stuck. I had a Peugeot 206 gti, it was front heavy. And so no amount of me whizzing my wheels around was going to move me from the beach that you could drive on.

A few cars drove past, but didn’t stop. It’s a solitary stretch of road and a car stuck on a beach wasn’t sufficient enough for anyone to stop and help. And of course suddenly no mobile reception.

By now Sarah was complaining and even the usually affable Joshua had an unhappy look on his face. The only one who seemed not the slightest bit concerned was Andrew.

A storm was whipping up, coming in across the channel and I suddenly pondered on how high the tide could get. Was my car safe if we just left it until tomorrow morning? But a line of seaweed and flotsam confirmed to me that the tide would engulf my car and it would probably drift out to sea.

I had the picture in my head of me ringing up work and telling my boss I wouldn’t be in work on Monday morning because my car was stuck on a beach somewhere North of Hastings. Fortunately a miracle happened of sorts.

A car stopped with four big burly men. They assessed the situation and decided they would need to go and get their truck. Assuring us all that they would be back.

Emily Thornberry would have loved those guys, for they were true working class English men. I had my doubts they would return, but return they did. Not a white van but a huge monster of a 4 x 4. And with lightening speed they had got my car off the beach. I offered them money for a drink, they politely refused.

“Why were you on the beach like that love?” one of the men asked.

“My sister told me I could drive on it.” I sheepishly replied.

There was a roar of laughter. “No worries, he is my older brother;” he whacked the guy next to him on his very big arms, “ I would have fallen for the same trick as well, twenty years ago.”

The salt of the earth guys drove off and we began to clamber back in the car. For some reason no one wanted to sit with me in the front. “One of you has to sit in the front; four of you can’t sit in the back.”

My sister quickly got in the back, Joshua was next and then for once without an argument it was Andrew who was left to sit with a now rather annoyed Aunty Lena.

“Why did you say I could drive on that beach?” I turned round to my sister.

“You can drive on that beach. I never said you could drive off it though.”

And there you have it in a nutshell. My interpretation of could and my sisters interpretation of could.

We drove back through Hastings, Patrizio was now singing about a big pizza pie hitting you in the eye. And the world shining like you have had too much wine. I parked the car by my sister’s house.

“Come on”, I said, “we will have a quick drink in the local – your mum and I can share a bottle of wine.”

By this time a natural phenomenon had occurred on the sea front. The ocean had disgorged hundreds of star fish onto the land. It was the first time I had seen this happen here in England. I attempted to pick the still quivering bodies up to throw back, but Joshua stopped me, “It’s no good Aunty the sea has given up on them. It will only spit them back out again.”

“Given up on them or given them up?”

“Same thing isn’t it?”

“No Joshua it means two completely different things.”

The pub was busy and it took a while for me to get served, but by the time we had the drinks, Sarah and Joshua had saved us a seat by the corner.

I placed the bottle of wine down and one glass onto the table. My sister eyed the solitary glass. Her face slowly developed a scowl.

“I thought you said we could share a bottle of wine.”

“Yes I did say we could, but I didn’t actually say we would.” I grinned. Relished the look on her face for a few moments and then produced the second glass from out of my bag.

And so Thomas as you can see the word could covers a multitude of sins. None of which can be explained that easily. And when misinterpreted can land you in quite silly situations.

As a mark of respect to the 888,246 brave people who died in WW1 there will be no blog this week.

I am not clever enough for words for such bravery…..

Normal business will be resumed next Monday.

I hesitated when the young handsome man handed the keys to the hire car, “When you have an accident.” were the words he used, not, “if”.

I had insisted on a Renault Cleo sport, as if that would make the slightest difference to my driving experience.

I suddenly wondered if I was doing the right thing driving round La Reunion, a volcanic island on my own, its main star Piton Le Fournaise was only too active.

I had a vision of myself in the little Renault Cleo desperately racing away from a red hot lava flow, round hairpin bends, the heat and flames melting the rubber on my back tyres.

But I managed to brush his words aside as I began my journey.

Dotted at various stages along the roads I noticed shrines depicting a saint in wooden frames painted in vibrant red and decorated with the gaudy plastic flowers that only people from Catholic nations could love. Candles and what appeared at a quick glance votives were placed by the boxes.

“St Expedite.”, the receptionist at the 1^st hotel told me as I checked in, “The patron Saint of roads. The families of loved ones who die on the roads make shrines to him.”

The number of these shrines suggested to me there were more accidents then I wanted to think about.

St Expedite, even the name conjured up a sense of finality, no going back, no chance of redemption.

Later in the evening in the restaurant I asked the young receptionist a bit more about the Saint.

“Who was St Expedite? I don’t remember there being a saint by that name in the Catholic Church”.

The young girl smiled, “Oh no, he was not a real Catholic Saint. A group of nuns had set up a convent near the town called St Paul. And they were waiting for a statue of their own St Paul to be sent over from France. When the box with the statue arrived it was stamped with the words St Expedite, the nuns thought they had been sent a statue of St Expedite by mistake.”

I laughed, “Oh I see.” Saints always look the same, I thought, even to nuns. The porcelain white and pink features and the same benign look on their faces.

“But how did he become the patron saint of roads then?”

“Voodoo.”, she hissed at me, “If you want to get rid of someone you don’t like quickly then he is your saint.”

I arched my eyebrows, “Oh really. I’d better hope I don’t upset anyone whilst here then.” I said.

Before leaving for a drive the next morning, the receptionist who I had now found out was called Maria, advised, “Go off road and see the real island.”

So at the first opportunity I veered off into a sugar cane field. The cane was over six foot tall, probably soon to be harvested. I followed the well-worn tracks of the ox carts that still transported the harvested cane.

Huge heavy blossomed geraniums covered the wooden shack homes that Maria had called “cases”. Everywhere there seemed to be an influence of the Creole culture and I started to unwind and enjoy the drive.

Suddenly from out of the forest of tall cane a pack of dogs rushed with frightening ferocity towards the car. It was if the hounds of hell had been unleashed. They began snarling and snapping at the open windows, their teeth inches away from me.

I began to desperately close the windows, whilst trying not to slow down. One of the dogs jumped onto the bonnet of the car. He appeared to grin with his huge jaw, through the windscreen at me. And then he began to jump backwards and forwards, sparring like a boxer through the glass.

Knowing that moving forward was becoming a hopeless task; I put the car in reverse and began manically backtracking through the field of cane. And as quickly as the dogs had appeared they suddenly disappeared back in to the tall green forest.

I began to breathe more easily. If St Expedite didn’t get me on the roads then his fiendish four legged assistants would get me in the fields I mused.

At the first opportunity I turned the car round and headed back to the main road, any main road. Still slightly un-nerved by the canine encounter I continued down to a place near to St Paul, called the French Caves, where St Expedite received his sainthood.

There was a shrine to the rather dark saint with a statue of him in his full glory. Looking at him, I had to admit he cut a dashing figure. He didn’t look like your average saint, more like a Roman Gladiator. He was dressed with a silver breast plate and a red tunic. The warrior like aura was enforced by him brandishing a sword and underneath his feet he was crushing a black raven. He certainly was not a benign saint.

I left pondering on just how the heck the nuns had taken this St Expedite as their saint. On second thoughts it was obvious, he was saintly sexy.

I started to enjoy my drive round the island. The people were very friendly and seemed amused by my strange French accent. La Reunions mother tongue is pidgin French, known as Creole. My slow precise French was as alien to some of the villagers as them trying to speak English to me.

I stayed down at Boucan Canot for a few days, the St Tropez of La Reunion.

I then prepared myself for the infamous drive to the Cirque De Cilaos.

There are, depending on which guide book you read, between 300-400 hairpin bends on this road. And reputedly each year there was one death per hairpin bend.

I had contemplated making an offering to St Expedite to ensure myself a safe journey, but decided against it. Many travellers had done this journey and survived. The guide books were overreacting.

I have to say driving is in my blood, my father was a taxi driver. I could do this with my eyes closed; I didn’t need a saint for this journey.

The drive was exhilarating; driving to a height of over 3,000 meters, and looking down was really spectacular.

But as I pulled in to the hotel car park, I did breathe a sigh of relief, I had made it safely. St Expedite had looked after me; perhaps he was the same patron saint of taxi drivers back home.

I had decided that from here I would go to the star of La Reunion, Piton Le Fournaise. When I checked in at the hotel there was sign saying that the volcano was in the early stages of an eruption and helicopter flights were highly recommended. I booked immediately.

The pilot was French of course but said he would try to speak English if I wanted. But words were superfluous to the experience. My stomach churned as the flight started but once we were over the caldera it was fantastic, smoke billowed out and there was the faint red glow of the lava as it trailed down the mountain side. Again St Expedite was on my side. Who from my family could actually say they had flown over an erupting volcano?

My final stop before returning the car was La Hermitage, a destination for fussy French holiday makers. I was staying at the best hotel on the island. After the jungle of Madagascar this was my luxurious treat and I was ready for lobster and champagne. Oh and just annoying a few of the French holiday makers. My grandmother had taught me well.

As I made my way through the small town of Hermitage Le Bains towards the hotel I considered the traffic as rather annoying, perhaps I was too laid back, too careless, or perhaps it was time for St Expedite to receive his dues, who can say?

I pulled round to go passed a parked lorry; suddenly there was a sickening crunch of metal as the top of the car concertinaed. The windscreen of the car shattered and imploded. I had driven into the low loader of a lorry.

I have to admit I started to shake and sat dumbfounded. A crowd began to congregate round the car. People were peering in at me with concern. I eventually stopped shaking enough to attempt to get out of the car, the door opened partially and I squeezed through.

Within a split second my French had gone from mediocre to absolute zero. Trying to communicate was absolutely impossible. Eventually I managed to spit out, “Where is the police station?”

An elderly man motioned for me to follow him and we arrived at a small parochial station. The man explained what the stupid tourist had done. And with mutterings of St Expedite from both of them we returned to the scene of the accident.

Everyone was most helpful. Phone calls were made and the whole situation was resolved in what appeared to me to be minutes. The main thing I remembered was thank God I had ignored the hitchhikers along my route, because if anyone had been sitting in the passenger seat they would have been decapitated. St Expedites’ more unholy followers would have had a human sacrifice for the arcane rites.

I was driven to my hotel by the local gendarme. The hotel provided me with sympathy and a bottle of champagne. That was enough for me.

The next day a bouquet of lilies arrived at my door. “Nobody has died. I don’t really need these.” I said to the girl who delivered them. She smiled graciously and left.

Later there was a knock at the door. I opened the door and saw the Hertz man from the airport. I was for a second flummoxed, what was here doing here?

“I hear you had the accident, do you want a replacement car?” he smiled.

“No, I have had enough of driving. I will spend the last few days of my adventure here.” As I went to close my door, he smiled again.

“Perhaps I could drive you for your last few days?”

His smile was enticing; I had some last souvenirs to buy so I acquiesced.

As I walked to his car I remembered his words at the airport, “When you have an accident.”

I smiled at my misfortunate accident; surely it had turned out to be in my favour. We drove back into town and he pulled up at my first port of call, Lena’s Gold, a jewelry shop.

As I purchased my gold earrings, I looked across at my driver sitting waiting patiently outside in his car – he was cute!

How strange this St Expedite was.

I still have the box for the earrings, with one earring, miniature gold St Expedite! I will never tell how I lost the other one, but I always pay my debts even to a sinner of a saint

In 1835 when the naturalist Charles Darwin disembarked from the ship the Beagle for his brief adjournment on the volcanic archipelago now known as the Galapagos, his eventual findings changed Western mans theory of the evolution of the species. Just six weeks turned the whole scientific world on its head.

Now, when people mention a cruise to the Galapagos, the usual thing that springs to mind is a rather expensive sojourn made by retired city bankers and their wives, or honeymooners splashing out on their last great holiday before the mortgage and the inevitable school fees.

I made a less luxurious trip to the enchanted islands, spending time working on a conservation project, working with the giant land tortoises. I was hoping in some small way I could help restore the ecological imbalance that man was so rapidly and blindly creating.

The giant land tortoises do not immediately spring to mind as being on the endangered species list. But unfortunately mans hand has played a part in the virtual extinction of more appealing species than these.

Hunted and killed for their meat and the fact that they could go for months without water in the hold of ships, both whalers and hunters severely depleted their numbers from the 19^th century onwards.

Each island of the Galapagos has its own unique species and this has meant that certain breeds are already extinct. The most famous representative of the giant tortoise was Lonesome George, highlighting the importance of the breeding project. He was the last of his kind from the island of Pinta, and died in 2013 without an heir or a spare.

The trip to the island I would be working on was a bit of adventure. The island of Isabella is one of the more remote islands in the chain and at the time of my trip did not have an air strip.

I had met up with another volunteer called Amanda. We were both students at the Quito Spanish language school that I had been a student at for two weeks. Although my Spanish was still virtually non existent, this was not the fault of my tutor, but of me being so British that learning a foreign language was just that, a foreign language.

The journey started with a flight from the capital of Ecuador – Quito, to the island of Baltra. A rather enthusiastic Labrador sniffed at our baggage and once he had decided we had nothing untoward in our luggage we were free to go.

We then caught a bus across the small island to where a ferry was waiting to take tourists to the most popular island of Santa Cruz. And then a bus drive the full length of the island to the port. Where we brought tickets for the boat to Isabella which was another three hour trip.

On arrival at the small harbour of Isabella, Amanda and I had been told to look out for a man wearing a baseball cap with flamingos on, but by this time we were both so excited by the sight of seals and penguins swimming nonchalantly around the tiny bay that we forgot all about this arrangement. However two large white ladies jumping around with joy were rather conspicuous and Alfredo with his baseball cap found us quickly enough.

My days began with breakfast at 7.00 and then a walk to the Isabella Tortoise Breeding Centre, the most glorious walk to work I have ever had in my working career. Along pristine white beaches dotted with Iguanas sunbathing and dolphins enticing you to swim with them before work. No journey to work has ever matched it.

At work we were given an explanation (in Spanish) of the centre and its aims and were shown round a small exhibition centre. One of the things pointed out to us was the tortoises’ main predators, of which there were quite a few, and rather depressingly all introduced to the islands by man.

Donkeys and cattle, which destroy the nests by trampling over them. Back rats eat the new hatchlings. Fire ants which as their name suggests are extremely vicious, also kill hatchlings in their nests. Pigs and dogs dig up and eat the eggs.

And finally goats, they compete with the adult tortoises for food and destroy the natural vegetation of the islands.

I was then given my job for the duration of my stay. I would be looking after the small tortoises, cleaning them out, giving them fresh water and just making sure they were happy little tortoises.

The first thing that really surprised me was the size of the adult tortoises. They were huge. But when you looked at the tiny newly hatched babies you could not believe that they would eventually over many many years grow into the benign but prehistoric monsters in the corrals.

The main income for the breeding centre was visitors from the cruise ships. They would turn up immaculately dressed as if attending a summer cocktail party. And initially I would feel ashamed standing there covered in tortoise poo and sweating like a pig. But the visitors were always interested and impressed by the fact I was volunteering to work there.

The mornings kind of rumbled along in the same vein. Tortoises though endearing, do not pull up many surprises in terms of their behaviour.

Although one did attempt to bite a rather overly affectionate German volunteer. She was trying to hug him for some reason only known to her. Fortunately tortoises do not have teeth so no major damage was done. Why the hell the German lady wanted to hug a tortoise was completely lost on me and the rest of the crew.

Suddenly a rumour began to surface; some of the tortoises were going to be released into the wild on Vulcan Azul. It was just a rumour and a rather blurred one at that.

Fernando in slow Spanish said, “We will get up very early at about 5.00. Go to a boat to go across to the bottom of Vulcan Azul. We will then walk up the volcano for six hours and release the animals.” (What!)

For days this was the topic of conversation. I even dragged my hiking boots out of my ruck sack ready for this ridiculous six hour hike with tortoises strapped to my back. And then our expectations were dashed by the knowledge that Vulcan Azul had erupted and therefore it was not the best time for the release.

My stay on Isabella was soon to come to an end. And then on my last week we were told we would be releasing a group of young tortoises to an area known as the wall of tears. Which was a place where prisoners were employed to build what now seemed a pointless wall of bricks in a barren wasteland. No wonder they cried!

We all started running around, tortoises were handed up to be placed in the back of an open truck. One we had about 150 tortoises onboard fellow volunteers climbed in with them. For some reason I was given the luxury of sitting up with the driver.

Tortoises do not travel very well and as the volunteers climbed out of the back of the truck once we reached our destination, their appearance attested to this fact.

Tortoise poo is very green, their main diet when in captivity consisting of banana leaves and the variety of apples that are poisonous to man but that the tortoises love and can eat.

One particular volunteer, Jessica, was usually very white. But her legs were smeared with green, like some rather smelly camouflage paint.

And so we placed tortoises in sugar cane sacks and walked off into the harsh landscape. Eventually a somewhat bemused local stood scratching his head and said, “Here.”

With great ceremony we released the animals. Who ambled off totally disinterested with any of us.

And so I left Isabella, returning to Santa Cruz to embark on some island hopping.

But I first decided to drop down and visit Lonesome George. He lived his lonely life at the Charles Darwin Research Centre.

Fernando had phoned ahead, but I was still totally dumbfounded by the job offer made to me shortly after I arrived.

Lonesome George had once a very special carer. At the time that I visited there were several women who cared for Lonesome George and there was a vacancy, would I like to do the job. I was a bit bemused at first, did they mean clean out his corral?

No. It was then explained to me. They needed Lonesome George to produce offspring, And well given his age he was either a bit reluctant or he just need a bit of help! And back in 1993 Sveva a Swiss graduate was employed to help Lonesome George well get it up to put it crudely.

Lonesome George was so old that T-Rex looked like a young upstart! I could not but help think this was where scientists had got it totally wrong. The poor bugger was knackered. No healing hands were going to resurrect his love life.

I was almost beginning to believe the guy, that there was indeed an opportunity for me to use my gentle hands, and then I realised that although Sveva had been real, this was a wind up from Fernando from the island of Isabella.

I left the centre wondering if I had blown my chances. I could have spent another six months in Paradise. But then I wondered how the job remit would have looked on my CV.

“ Employed as Lonesome Georges personal erection assistant on the island of Santa Cruz.” I really couldn’t see many job opportunities coming from that one! Well not decent ones anyway.

“How do you feel you could contribute to an all male team?”

“Well I am very experienced at boosting the male ego…….”

No, I decided, the blue footed boobies on the island of Seymour where calling me! And so I left the old gent to his solitude and headed for the harbour for my next boat. The island of Seymour apparently was the best place to walk through colonies of boobies, the Spanish word for clowns.

Mongolia has what is called a “Mongolian Red Book of Endangered Species”, in this book are listed Argali also known as the Marco Polo sheep, the largest sheep in the world. Not an animal that would send droves of animal lovers to fill in Direct Debit mandates to make contributions to WWF like a panda or tiger but nevertheless an animal that is threatened with extinction.

I decided to combine a horse riding trip round the “Land of Blue Sky” with a conservation project to learn more about this elusive animal. Before leaving for Mongolia, I tapped in the word Argali into the Google web search. Most of the sites that came up, I sadly noted were for hunting. So immediately I knew one of the reasons why these Mongolian sheep are in danger.

Argali have extremely large horns. A male in his prime can have horns that spiral to over 165cm and rich big game hunters, primarily from Germany and America are prepared to pay up to $60,000 to go on an Argali hunt.

I had tried to arrive at the Ikh Nart Gobi camp site, without preconceptions of what hunting represents. And I was hoping that the local Mongolians would not be seeing the rare wild sheep as rich pickings. $60,000 could keep a nomadic community going for a long long time. There was also the almost ubiquitous market in China for the use of the horn in traditional medicine.

The first few days of the project were taken up with learning how to radio track. Animals that had been successfully trapped on previous seasons had radio collars and this meant the scientists could keep track of herds and individual animals. And it also meant that we were able to spot some Argali if only from a distance.

The Gobi is an ideal environment for the Marco Polo sheep, the rocky outcrops may seem to a visitor as barren but there are enough semi shrubs and scrub vegetation for the sheep to survive and the wide open expanses void of any development are ideal for the animals to roam.

After we had acclimatised ourselves to the desert landscape, the next stage of the project was undertaken. We had to assemble drive nets across a stretch of dry river bed, where the sheep could be driven down towards and hopefully be caught. We spent days assembling these nets. I had no idea what I was doing, but I quickly realised that neither did any of the other volunteers. After days of assembling and dismantling we managed to get the meshes to an acceptable standard for Rich, our project leader.

The first morning of the “drive”, I was keen as mustard. I was sure that we were going to catch at least five or six. And had visions of being kept busy returning back to camp tired but content with close encounters of the sheep kind.

We waited all day and no Argali came anywhere near the net that we volunteers had spent the last three days so assiduously assembling. Our Mongolian bikers and horse riders had seen a group of the animals further out in the Gobi desert but the sheep had somehow avoided being driven down into the valley and ultimately to our nets.

The monotony was not what I was expecting, but I suppose lying on a rock reading a book in the Gobi was not the most unpleasant way of spending a day. I constantly looked around hoping for a sign of any animal. Fortunately I wasn’t totally disappointed.

Suddenly, after what seemed an eternity, a beautiful silver grey fox ran directly to where I was laying. As he headed towards me he quickly realised something not native to the environment was directly in his path. He panicked, and rushed off parallel to the net to the other side of the mesh where my fellow volunteers were doing exactly the same as me, lounging on rocks. This was the first animal anywhere near our nets; but he soon made a hasty retreat.

The whole day just drifted past, lunch time came and went, and then I heard the clatter of hooves. Slowly I rolled over and crouched down. From behind a large collection of boulders, my first close up meeting with an Argali.

A male specimen, obviously even to my inexperienced eye in his prime stood for 10 maybe 20 seconds in front of me. I could see the colour of his eyes, amber. He was that close. He was the colour of the Gobi desert, sandy brown. One thing that surprised me was that he had very long legs rather like a gazelle. But what stood out the most were his great horns curling round over his head like pieces of a gnarled tree. I tried desperately not to move, frozen in the most uncomfortable position. The animal met my stare. His nostrils flared gently smelling the air.

Slowly the volunteers on the right moved towards him to force him down the valley towards the nets, this he obligingly did, but as he ran towards the net someone on the other side on the left stood up way too quickly and our lovely wild sheep darted off in the wrong direction and his rather curvaceous rump disappeared over the rocks.

I knew that this had been an encounter with something both weird and wonderful. I had never seen a sheep with such big horns. He looked majestic, not a word I would attribute to sheep down in the Welsh Valleys or across the Yorkshire moors. But he really did have a noble look about him. It was now glaringly obvious why they were so sought after. Any game hunter would want to unfortunately hang this beast’s head on his wall.

This first week of the project had clearly shown the plight of the Argali. By now Rich, the project leader had informed us we would have caught at least five or six of these sheep. So my optimism had not been totally misplaced. But until this meeting we had seen very few close up.

One particular problem for the Argali was the local dogs. Mongolians do not feed their canines. Notoriously aggressive they are there purely for the protection of the family. This means the dogs have to find their own food. There had been reports of at least three sheep being killed by local dogs in one season.

And now a new problem was beginning to emerge. That was the one of mining. A few days earlier I had gone out on a reconnaissance trip for any vague sightings of sheep in a particular area of the park and we had come on to a group of Chinese miners. They had claimed that they had permits to mine for semi precious quartz.

None of us were in a position to argue or ask to see these permits. Not only did they have guns they had very large dogs which I would assume had not had much to eat in the last few days.

The miners were using explosives to disturb the ground to start the digging process off. This was scaring the sheep and they were being forced further and further from their territory. And this meant that they were no longer in the safe confines of the conservation area of the park. Making them prime targets for the trophy hunters.

The odds have become stacked against such an unobtrusive animal and solutions, as usual, are never that clear cut.

How can you tell Mongolians that to save sheep they should start sharing their food with their dogs? And tell them despite their poverty that killing wild endangered sheep is not a way to make a living. Or that the government selling visas to the Chinese miners is not the way forward.

Mongolia is a vast country with natural reserves that up until the last few years have not been exploited. The demise of communism has meant the expansion of free economy, and new opportunities for the nomadic herders.

Local communities are struggling, and severe weather conditions, winters where the land is covered in snow and ice for months make their lives harsh almost brutal. The landscape is unforgiving and not one to give its riches up easily.

The future of the Marco Polo Sheep is becoming more and more uncertain. I consoled myself that I had at least seen one of these ancient beasts. Other travellers may not be that lucky.

A recent article I read in a magazine discussed the question of resurrecting extinct animals and birds. In this case it was the passenger pigeon. Readers of my blog will recall this is a feathered creature especially close to my heart.

Well should we tamper with nature and reintroduce more native species back into our countryside? I have to say the idea has always excited me. Ever since visiting Tasmania and encountering the legend that is known as the Tasmanian tiger. An animal that has been extinct since 1936 and yet lives on in the imagination of many local Tasmanians and palaeontologists.

The Tasmanian Tourist Board had adopted it as their national emblem and its Thylacine jaw was painted everywhere. Every spare wall had murals of scenes with a stripped beast peering from the fronds of acid green leaves. Even the rubbish bins were painted with tiger jaws ready to devour your used coke cans and sweet wrappers. The island’s beer called Cascade had tigers on the label. Two in fact, just in case you had, any doubt at all of the animal’s existence.

A whole island had not only beguiled itself but so it seemed any unfortunate tourists that landed on its shores. Man had killed the animal off years ago. Yet there were still reports from locals of sightings of the creature, even one deluded soul had spotted him on a beach. As if it was on a weekend break. Park wardens had also reported sightings of the animal.

In the B&B where I had stayed at in Stanley there were newspaper cuttings with the headline, “Tassie tiger get a life.” it was an article about a scientific project at Sydney University where a group of scientists had started a genomic experiment. Obtaining DNA from a pickled tiger pup from over 150 years ago, which they had hoped to mix with the DNA of a Tasmanian devil in an egg from a pregnant animal, then somehow zap away the devils DNA to create a Tasmanian tiger. This egg, the article said, they would then insert into the womb of a Tasmanian devil who would eventually give birth to a Thylacine pup. Once born it would live in the pouch of the female devil until it grew too large for it. Scientists would then take it out and it would spend its remaining days as a lab specimen. So in reality it would never really live the life of a tiger at all.

Unfortunately my vivid imagination had run amok at the thought of a Tasmanian devil the size of a wolf, with a jaw that could open 120 degrees devouring everything in its wake. Drinking its victim’s blood, because that’s what the tiger did, they opened up the heart and drank the warm blood first.

The idea of an animal with blood curdling screams and really rather messy eating habits being conjoined genetically with the rather peculiar looking tiger with his fox like cay-ip cay-ip cries seemed every school boys dream animal.

So after accepting the idea of a mutant Tasmanian devil -tiger rampaging though the island, I gave myself a sanity check.

I had visited the Hobart Zoo where an old black and white film from 1936 had been played in the information centre, revealing the remaining days of the last tiger called Benjamin. I had watched Benjamin pacing backwards and forwards, obviously under stress and the tragedy of it was obvious. Man had the technology to film the last days of the most unique animal on the island, yet it had not been able to save it.

There were even reports that it died of neglect. The night of its death September 7^th 1936 was cold. Benjamin had been left out in the open by the new zoo keepers. People who lived close by to the Zoo often heard the animals crying out in the night. The zoo’s long time keeper had died and his daughter had been sacked. She reported hearing the tiger coughing. After it died its body was thrown into the garbage. Why had this animal been left to die?

The only reason I can see is because the islanders saw it as vermin in the same way many people still view the fox here. Only once it had died did they realise too late what they had lost. (A year after Benjamin’s death the thylacine was declared a protected species but way too late of course.)

Perhaps also the fact it was such a strange looking creature it was feared more then it should have been. If it’s not cute then the chances are man will be less interested in saving it.

And now in the same way we want to bring back that which man has destroyed. I would love to ramble across the Surrey Hills where I live and encounter the beautiful lynx, casually stepping out from behind the box trees, rather like the neighbours tom cat strolling out of the petunias but how long would it be before farmers would say they’re killing our livestock? Or that a bovine illness is being carried to cattle and then culling would be back on the agenda like with the badgers? Would we soon see road kill lynx and wolves? Or in an extreme case road kill sabre tooth tiger. Wow that would be something!

Wildlife enthusiasts have said that the reintroduction of predators would add balance to our ecosystems, which in truth was why nature had developed them in the first place.

But my human heart tells me that the reality will be in the same way the thylacines were vilified and hunted for bounty. We would not be long in putting a price on the pelt of a lynx or grey wolf.

We live in an overpopulated world where it seems we have only the capacity to accept an animal behind bars, depicted in a painting, or have its last days filmed for posterity on an old 1930’s film reel ,whilst not actually doing anything to save it. Are we really advanced enough for reviving species whose demise we willingly caused?

Tampering with nature is something we have done are and are doing on a regular basis. My last trek into the wild Tasmanian wilderness had me praying for the sound of the tiger’s cay-ip cay-ip call. But in my heart I knew that sad Benjamin had been the last of his kind. There would be no opportunity of supper with the devil wearing stripes.

In 1992 a book came out written by the eccentric and far sighted conservationist Gerald Durrell. It was called the – The Aye Aye and I. The book not only immortalised an island in the Indian Ocean, known as Madagascar but also the weird and wonderful creatures on it. An island Gerald describes as a, “badly presented omelette…….stuffed with goodies.”

After reading this book, Madagascar became a bit like the holly grail for me. But I just never imagined I would ever get to go to the big red island. I would never see the, Aye Aye and all his cousins and would have to content myself with regular rereads of Gerald’s book.

Then when my mother died, I was left a sum of money and I knew exactly what I was going to do. I took extended leave and booked myself on a conservation project to Madagascar. Thereby combining my love of travel and wildlife in one trip.

My journey was to an island where 90% of its wildlife is not found anywhere else on earth. Home to 50 varieties of lemurs. I was pretty sure that I would get to see a few of them.

But unfortunately Madagascar also has more endangered species of mammals then anywhere else in the world. The slash and burn tactics of the farmers which Gerald mentioned has not stopped and has bought so many more animals into closer contact with humans and therefore into more conflict. One such creature that is suffering is the Fosa.

A relative of the mongoose, the puma like creature is almost a legend. When you talk to Malagasy people they hiss the word almost in fear dragging the vowels out Foooooossa. This was the animal I would be researching on the conservation project. Gerald had described the carnivore when they had caught a mother Aye Aye and the baby had run away. He was concerned that the Fosa would “slap him down with a velvety paw and engulf him with one great, pink gulp.”

My first encounter with the Malagasy wildlife was with lemurs, on a small island off the coast of Nose Be called Nose Komba. I sailed across the small stretch of water to a hot, sandy beech. The lemurs that lived there were. White Fronted Brown and The Sacred Black.

It was an impromptu lunch meeting, the Lemurs jumped gracefully down from the mangrove trees and began eating fruit from out of my hands and the whole event would not have looked out of place at the Mad Hatters Tea Party. They chittered and chattered, picking up pieces of food and running up and down the table with enthusiastic glee. It was a wonderful introduction and I couldn’t wait for further encounters of the Lemur kind.

I travelled to Majunga for my rendezvous with the conservation team I would be working with. It was from here that Gerald travelled from up to Tamatave to begin his search for the Aye Aye. I think little had changed since his visit.

In Gerald’s book he virtually bumped into the ghost like Fosa whilst out looking for lemurs. “It was relaxed and perfectly at ease: No furtive glances over its shoulder, no ear twitches, no tensing of the muscles. It looked as if it had been invited”

Gerald sits and watches as the cat washes himself, “lifting his plump paws to be licked….curry combing its tail assiduously.”   Oh how I wish I had seen such a creature.

But for me it was not to be. No glimpse of the athletic cat that legend said came like a phoenix from out of fires at night to devour whom he may.

I spent weeks trekking through what remained of the Madagascar forest, vainly hoping that I would catch a glimpse of the islands largest natural predator. By the end of it I had only festering blisters to show for my dedication.

But the experience was wonderful, slowly seeing so many of the strange creatures mentioned by Gerald in his book.

Whilst at camp we had a journalist arrive from Boston who shocked me by saying he didn’t know who Gerald Durrell was. I could not believe that someone writing on wildlife conservation could be so ignorant of such a legend.

But by the time he started to record the sound of clucking chickens penned up alongside the latrines, I realised that I probably would be wasting my time trying to introduce him to any of Durrell’s books.

I was convinced also that all his traipsing around the chicken pens was putting off any visit from the Fosa and I secretly started to get one of the local Malagasy kids to find snakes to divert his attention.

My disappointment of not seeing a Fosa in the wild did not continue for too long after the conservation project. I continued to travel around Madagascar and saw at least 20 varieties of the 50 species of Lemur found on the island. Some were so cute that they would not have looked out of place in a child’s nursery at home.

When arriving at Maroantsertra to go and watch what the Malagasy people call the “festival of whales“.

I was told by the lady at the check in at the hotel rather sweetly, “No all the whales have gone.”

I had visions of whales packing their suitcases a week before my arrival

and setting home after their festival to continue what whales do best. But surely they all didn’t disappear at the same time? She was adamant there were no whales, “they have all gone home”.

“They can’t have all gone at the same time I wailed (sorry about the pun). I pondered about what kind of games whale babies played on their holiday.   Huge sandcastles built the size of Everest all washed away by the evening tide. I heard their complaints as daddy whale said, “That’s it kids, back to the depths of the ocean.”

And then I remembered Gerald had mentioned Nose Mangabe and the Aye Aye. The island had become a sanctuary for the nocturnal Lemurs.

I hired a boat and went across to the island. I refused the first boat offered because of the fact it had a bloody great hole in it the size of one of the baby whales at the festival I missed.

But then a local fisherman said he would take me over and help me set up camp. And so I found myself on camping out on a little secluded beach and searching for the Aye Aye in true Durellian style.

My excitement was barely containable when one night I caught my first glimpse of the Aye Aye, his red eyes glowing in the darkness like some evil spirit from an adult fairytale. Durrell had described this animal as Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky. Peering down from the tree it looked like some alien inspecting the human race and by the look on its face as it turned tail back up the branch it had decided that we were really rather inferior beings. And not worth a second glance.

My time in Madagascar had allowed me to see the smallest chameleon to the largest snakes. I saw the pigmy lemur to the most iconic of all the Aye Aye. Gerald was right the omelette really is stuffed with goodies.

I was lucky of that I knew. Lucky to have heard of Gerald and lucky to have followed in just a few of his large and numerous footprints.

My obsession with the Fosa followed me home to England, and eventually I found my self staring in at one of the animals in Sandwich, Kent. At a place called the Rare Species Conservation Centre. I finally got to see the almost mythological mongoose like cat of Madagascar. Fur the colour of baked treacle. This “femme fatale” seemed to be frowning, as if her natural order of things had been displaced somehow, which of course it had.

Her long tail was meant to let her swing with ease through the forest of an island in the Indian ocean, the garden of Eden, but now it swished through the safety of ,“The Garden of England”.

My journey had come full circle. But as Gerald would say, “Circles have no end”.

Want to read more about the Fosa ?Well read my – The Killing Machine of Madagascar   Published in the short story anthology – See you are here. Published by Early Works Press available on Amazon.