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.

I watched the skinny, grey coloured dog trotting down the main street of Candi Dasa. It had obviously at some point been in a fight and the wounds that were splayed like red paint across his body suggested it was a fight that he had, if not lost, had probably not won either.

The nape of his neck had a hole the size of a golf ball, from which muscle and flesh were protruding, exposed to the sultry Balinese air. One ear was hanging in shreds, the blood beginning to cake.

The animal didn’t seem at all perturbed by his own condition. He had a purpose and even if I as his sympathetic observer didn’t know what his aim was, I could see that beneath his scars he was happy. In fact his mouth supported a definite grin.

I had been here on the island for only a few days and already I had seen so many of the famous dogs of Bali, that this one, no matter what his condition was, would be just one of hundreds, distinguishable only by his raw meaty wounds.

On an early morning stroll, I had seen several lying by the roadside, all in various stages of rigor mortis. One animal looked as if he was dozing under the shade of a coconut tree but it was only when I was walking back I reaslised he was dead.

It was obvious that in Bali dogs were nothing but four legged animals that slept, fought, bred and barked continuously. The western idea of a dog being mans best friend was total nonsense. In the bar the locals had all laughed at me when I had told them that at home ,“Dogs are our friends, they live in our houses with us”.

Now cats I had deduced were different. They seemed to have higher social standing then dogs. So much higher in fact that, Mali, the man at the Losman, where I  was staying had told me that if I decided to hire a motorbike, to avoid at all costs running down a cat. “It’s extremely unlucky Miss, to kill a cat, if you are unfortunate enough to kill one, bring it back here and we will bury it where the bike is parked.”

“Why is that? What is so special about cats?” I asked.

At this point Mali had taken a deep breath and then hissed the word, “Niskala – black magic.”

I was none the wiser. Just another superstition to add to the already long list. The Balinese were very superstitious people and I was already struggling with the do’s and don’ts. Some were really funny, like the not walking under someone else’s laundry line when there was washing on it. Mind you it hadn’t stopped someone taking off with my underwear when I had hung them out to dry!

“What about dogs?” I asked, “They are everywhere. How can I possibly avoid them?”

“Oh bang the dogs of Bali. Dogs are not a problem, they cook up very tender.” If the smile belied a joke it was lost on me. Although I wasn’t a vegetarian I had already shuddered at the unidentifiable meat content in some of the dishes served in restaurants.

I looked though to the kitchen of the Losman, where I could see a saucepan of simmering Balinese soup. Just what was he cooking? I mused.

It had been a strange choice of words to use I thought later, “Bang the dogs of Bali.” Wasn’t it Tennyson who had said? “Bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil”

I  decided to go to a festival at a temple in the mountain town of Bangli. One of the many festivals that Bali celebrated. I was sure that by the number of flags and bamboo decorations in the villages, that everyday was a festival to the Balinese.

I took up the offer of the hire of the motorbike along with the advice about the cats. I had no intention of going off fast  and anyway the condition of the roads was an effective speed reducer.

As I rode along towards the town of Amlapura I was hesitant and unsure. I bumped up roughly from out of the seat on several occasions, but gradually I found my confidence and began to gracefully swerve the holes.

I continued for an hour or so and after passing through Amlapura the road began to ascend into hills and the temperature dropped slightly.

From the homes hidden between bamboo and banana trees, children came running, waving and shouting, “Hello, Hello”, some ran alongside enthusiastically for a few hundred yards laughing and smiling.

The dogs, chickens, pigs and various other livestock moved albeit reluctantly from the path of the bike.

Suddenly without any warning a black animal shot out with astonishing speed  from the trees and seemed to literally to throw itself under the front wheel of the bike. I felt a sickening thud and then I careered into the grass bank, toppling off the bike and landing with a hard thump on my bottom.

I sat stunned for a few moments and when it was apparent that no bones were broken, I eased myself up slowly on my feet. I looked at the bike, it too fortunately appeared undamaged. There was though, a dark stain on the wheel arch. And I  knew straightaway that it was blood.

I looked across guiltily to the animal that I had hit. It was a cat and quite clearly it was dead. I walked gingerly over to it. As I peered down at the animal I saw the glassy stare of the now lifeless green eyes. Its tongue hung loosely down from between its teeth.

I immediately felt really guilty; I had killed it even though it was unintentional.

I hated to see animals in pain and was relieved that this cat had probably died almost instantly with no suffering.

Then I felt an impending doom, not because I was particularly superstitious because I wasn’t but because I knew the Balinese were. What would happen? Would they fine me? What should I do? I looked around, not a soul in sight.

It was totally impractical to pick the cat up and take it with me on the bike to Bangli. And I had no intention of heading back to Candi Dasa with the poor thing, just to bury it.

Again I looked around guiltily. I grimaced and shuddered as I picked up the limp lifeless body. And holding it as far away from myself as possible I walked towards the fields on the side of the road.

Closing my eyes I threw the animal into the air. When I reopened my eyes I could see that it had landed in a rice field and with a sinking feeling realised it would contaminate the farmers’ rice. A vision of a distressed farmer finding the body in his field flashed through my mind.

I knew I should go and retrieve the cat, but I just couldn’t bear to touch it again. But just what was I supposed to do? It had been an accident, I hadn’t meant to kill the cat and I hadn’t meant to throw it in the rice field. Not really, its was just a random throw. The farmer would spot it before it did any real damage I persuaded myself.

Looking furtively around, I climbed back on the bike. I would continue to Bangli and try and forget about the cat. It was an accident, why should I feel so bad?

But when I arrived in Bangli, I still felt guilty about it and had decided that on the way back if I could find the field, I would retrieve the cat and take it back to Candi Dasa and bury it and with the animal bury my own guilt.

I followed the crowds of friendly, gaily clothed worshippers up to the temple, terraced into the hillside.

I left the bike with a collection of push bikes and scooters by the bottom of a long flight of steps, which lead up to the temple. Moving with the mass of people up the steps, I stopped at the top to tie the sash around my waist that was handed to me. They wouldn’t let me enter the temple without one.

I walked into the first courtyard, where a huge banyan tree dominated over the multitudes of worshippers.

A blaze of colour and a cacophony of noise entwined to pay homage. Men dressed in yellow sarongs and women in lace and silk with flowers in their black hair, danced and ululated.

I leant against the wall of the courtyard and felt the coolness of porcelain. I looked around and saw tiles, most of which were damaged, but on many the designs could still be seen. One stared out at me with angry eyes – a cat.

For a moment I felt a cold chill. I averted my gaze back to the throng of smiling happy people and the feeling passed. I walked across the courtyard and stepped into another square.

There were three thrones where people were making offerings. Pyramids of apples, bananas, dried ducklings and flowers were piled every where.

In one corner a cockfight was being held. Two brightly dyed cockerels, one pink the other yellow, fought with such ferocity that  I had to avert my gaze in disgust.

One of the onlookers noticed me and spoke to me in slow broken English. “It is very good for us, the birds to spill so much blood. The Gods will be pleased.”

Not wanting to offend I nodded and smiled politely. I glanced at the feet of the two birds; the glint of silver betrayed the weapons. Razor blades! Within a few moments both birds were glistening with warm red blood. I turned away. Auspicious for the Gods or not the sight sickened me.

The festival continued all day and it was dusk before I made my way back down the steps to the bike.

The darkness fell suddenly on the road back to Amlapura and my progress was slow. Insects flew towards the light of the headlamp mesmerised by the glare, continually fluttering in the rays. Not having a helmet, I quickly realized I needed to keep lips pursed together as moths and night insects flew towards me.

So intent was I in getting back safely that the morning’s accident with the cat had all but slipped my memory.

Arriving safely back in Candi Dasa. I never mentioned the cat to Mali. When he asked me ,“Any accidents?” I just shook my head and disappeared rather rapidly into my room.

A few days later I travelled down towards Goa Lawah, the bat cave. Legend had it that a huge snake lived in the deeper recess’s of the cave feeding off the bats. It wasn’t the snake that interested me, it was the bats. I like bats, they are funny, hanging upside down like unused umbrella’s.

I weaved round the holes in the roads with the same balletic dexterity that I had mastered on my first trip.

A bus load of locals came roaring down the road behind me, the exhaust churning its black poison into the air. The driver hooted at me to move over, so that he could overtake.

I veered over to the verge, without slowing down, confident that I could move back before reaching the three pedestrians further along. But for some reason the bus driver hesitated and drove along side of me for longer than he needed to.

A dog lay sleeping far too close to the road. As I crashed into the dog all I could see were the green listless eyes of the cat. I hit the dog, who probably never woke up to know what had happened. I continued, totally out of control through a wooden fence into the compound of the local police station. I felt myself flung forward over the top of the bike and then lost consciousness.

I awoke to find a somewhat concerned policeman looking down at me. Around him were a crowd of curious spectators.

“Miss, are you alright?” he asked.

I felt a pain in my right leg and grimaced, “No”, I groaned “I think I’ve broken my leg.”

Later in the small local hospital adjacent to the police station, the policeman laughed at my concern for the dog.

“Oh bang the dogs of Bali. It’s the cats you must be careful of. If you had killed a cat, now that would have been very unfortunate for you.”

That summers day when my friend Lynda and I were held hostage by the pigeon shooter started out no different from any other.

The  houses that we lived in and grew up in backed on to a farm. That morning, Lynda dressed in her luminous green dress and me dressed in my luminous orange dress had climbed over the railings into the field of horses and walked across to the meadow on the other side of the farm house. The grass had grown high but the drought of the  summer of 76 had turned it the colour of wheat.  We followed the well worn trail of a badger track, the silence  broken by the ubiquitous sounds of a hot summer ,crickets and the velvet humming of bees.

Suddenly a man appeared on the well worn bridle path from literally nowhere. We stopped in our tracks and stared in silence at the unexpected appearance of an adult. I don’t remember immediately spotting his gun but it was quite soon after he spoke that I saw he held one in his hand. It was a I assumed a hunting gun, but in truth I had no idea about guns whatsoever but it was long and he had it balanced over his arm rather like an umbrella. Split in the middle hanging at an angle. He also had a dog, a retriever who seemed friendly enough. It was the dog that brushed any suspicion from mind. Only good people had dogs in my childhood.

“Hello girls.” the man casually said.

Both Lynda and I were silent and then me being the more brazen of the two finally replied, “Hello”.

“What you both doing over this side of the farm?” he asked.

“Nothing.” I shrugged,  “Just playing.”

The man eyed the two of us and then finally said, “Those dresses are bright. They’ll  frighten the birds away.”

The dresses were indeed bright. It was a batch lot of cloth that had been given to our mothers. And  six dresses had been made from each roll of cloth in luminous orange, green, pink, yellow and blue. Lynda, her sister Kim, me and my sister Karen and two other girls in the block, Penny and Donna had become the proud owners of new dresses that summer and we saw no reason not to wear them. To us they were fantastic, all the more because they weren’t hand me downs.  Just what the original purpose of the cloth could only be guessed at, this was after all the 1970‘s.

So it was with a touch of insolence that I met the man’s eye after his apparent criticism of the dresses. Although to be fair I was naturally an insolent child and did not need much encouragement.

“I think you need to come and sit in my hide so you don’t scare my pigeons any more then you have. Come on.” he almost sighed.

I glanced at Lynda who by now was staring at the gun. I hesitated, was this the right thing to do? I mean shouldn’t we just have turned tail and gone home?  But he seemed so harmless and I guess as he was an adult we had to bow to his better judgement, that and his gun of course.

Lynda and I gave each other a bemused look and walked towards where the man had pointed. Just in the first clump of trees there was a “hide”, a shed made of netting camouflaged with pieces of cloth in different shades of green, which was only apparent when you got up close to it. We were ushered into the hide and commanded to sit on the two wooden orange crates.

I felt uneasy and I could now see the look of apprehension on Lynda’s face. A raft of unasked questions began to fill my head. It was apparent that now no one could see us, not just birds but people also. And we were so far from the farm buildings that no one

would hear us scream. I wondered how long he would need to keep us detained in the hide.  I plucked up the courage to ask.

“How long do you think it will take to get your pigeons?” I asked, the sound of childish    petulance already creeping into my voice.

Again the man shrugged and didn’t reply.

“I expect our mums will be wondering where we are soon.” Lynda cryptically added.

Unfortunately this was not at all likely, not yet anyway. We had only been gone a while and until lunch there would be no question of any one looking for us. It was the summer holidays those halcyon days when all rules were forgotten for six weeks until the trip to Lester Bowden’s for the Autumn school uniform.

Although uneasy by the situation we were in I didn’t feel any deep rooted fear. It was  more a slow impatience as the morning wore on and the body count of dead birds rose slowly, piled up by the entrance of the hide. The pop pop noise of the gun as the stranger fired at the birds in flight seemed unnatural but not threatening. Each time he shot one his dog would run off to collect the unfortunate bird and return it so the hunter could add it to his growing stock of dead birds.

It was then I remembered my father’s friend Jim who was a gamesman. Well that’s what he told us, but the point was he had an agreement with the gamekeeper over at the Beaverbrook estate, “I only take enough game to feed my family and a couple extra to sell down the local, Gordon. Any more would be greedy and they would put a stop to it”.

Well this man seemed to be intent on wiping out the whole of the pigeon population in England. Even the dog had started to slow down bringing the birds back. His tongue began to loll from the side of his mouth and he began to pant heavily. Clearly overworked even by a retrievers standards.

At one stage I asked, “Can I go and collect the pigeons with your dog? I am bored.”

“No” he curtly replied.

I huffed and scowled at him but it fell on blind indifference.

So Lynda and I sat in silence for the most part just occasionally hinting at the fact our “Mums would be very worried about us by now.”

Fortunately this transpired to be true because after what seemed like an interminable time we heard the shouts of ,“Lynda, Lena where are you?”.

Without further ado we rushed from the hide past the gun man and sped of towards the shouts. Kim, Karen and Gary had been sent to look for us. My sisters first retort was, “You two are in big trouble.”

As I stared at my sister I noticed the stream of blood from her knee, she had tied a handkerchief round the knee which was now soaked with a viscous red liquid.

“What’s happened to your knee?” I frowned, not out of sisterly concern but out of curiosity, there was so much blood.

“That’s your fault.” she chastised. “Mum sent us looking for you and I got caught on the barbed wire down in the meadow. It won’t stop bleeding.”

Lynda and I just shrugged and followed our older sisters back to the house. One cursory glance behind revealed nothing of the pigeon shooter, he had disappeared along with his stock of birds.

Once home the first response was, “Where the bloody hell have you been? That’s it you two are grounded.”

And then my mother spotted my sisters knee and the moment to tell of gun men had passed.

Lynda and I were relegated for a week to playing monopoly through the garden fence. A situation we often found ourselves in,  usually when our bickering got too much for the adults to listen to. And we were told as we couldn’t play nicely together we were grounded to our respective gardens. Usually within five minutes of the start of punishment, Lynda would stroll out of the house into her back garden, with the box of monopoly and we would begin  the game across the garden fence. I feel quite proud that I used to endure my punishments as a child with such stoicism.

My sister continued all week and on regular occasions for over forty years afterwards to point at the rather angry scar on her leg and say, “See that’s your fault. If you hadn’t gone wandering off …….”.

Now many years later when I hear of young children disappearing I wonder, just how close my friend and I had come to being one of those statistics. I always tell myself he really was just a innocent person, and that our dresses were scaring the birds off.

But and there is always a but, if that was the case surely he should have just let us continue across the fields to do what young children do? Why did he want us to sit in the hide? And why did he kill so many birds?