Some of the unexpected sights I come across are a charming surprise.  A few nights ago, for instance, I found two bats clinging to opposite sides of my mosquito net, mother and baby, hanging together. But some, like the little Bush Snake who was headed into my kitchen are rather less welcome, but nevertheless interesting.

It is always the way that small creatures have a habit of appearing when you aren’t looking for them.

Like the small yellow-green chameleon that my husband came upon when he was checking his tobacco barns. The chameleon had found himself a cosy spot on one of the air ducts, which bring warm air into the barns during the tobacco curing process. The barns, being warm, become a bit of a draw card for small animals and birds as early April brings cooler temperatures at night.  The chameleon obviously felt comfortable for he did not move away and instead watched my husband and stayed obligingly still for his photograph to be taken.

Not so much the young Bush Snake I mentioned earlier. His little head was a beautiful blue-green colour and I would have dearly liked to get a photo of him, but he was moving far too quickly. And since we had both arrived at the kitchen door simultaneously, and as I had no desire to have him in my house, I had to forget about the picture and find something with which to chivvy him away from the back door.

Now, just let me just be clear here. We are talking a teeny, tiny snake, – about the width of a pencil and perhaps a few centimetres longer – and not a poisonous sort. If it had been the latter (no matter how small) or if it had been even a bit bigger, I would most definitely not have been chivvying him anywhere!

As it was, I walked carefully behind him, but keeping my distance, using the first thing which had come to hand; a succulent plant that obligingly ripped out of the pot it was in, as I plucked it from the stone surround at the kitchen door.  I held this between us and thought briefly that the knights of yore missed a trick! I mean, there is nothing like a succulent with floppy, soil-covered roots to protect you. And if you chose a large enough one you could even hide in it till danger had passed. Sorry. Where was I?  Oh yes. Well, whatever the merits of the plant versus the metal shield, it certainly kept little Mr Bush Snake moving forward.  Although I must admit, he stopped twice and made small, backward lunging movements. Punctuated with small shrieks. By me. Not the snake. Still, there were several metres between us and I was quite determined he needed to get away from the house. So I kept shooing him and he kept moving. Finally to my relief (and his too I expect) he found a small hole on the edge of a fairly distant flower bed, into which he obligingly disappeared.

The rather more dear mother and baby bat we found as we went to bed one evening, looked very sweet together, but still something of a worry since I did not really want them hanging over my head all night!  But how to get them out was a puzzle. Bats have a rather unsettling way of moving when you approach and this large female was no exception. My husband and I positioned ourselves one either side of the bed until she moved close enough for him to trap her in a towel, and I did the same, rather gingerly, with her baby. Once outside mother flew off and the baby perched on a veranda table for a short while. When I checked a few moments later, the little one had flown off and  there were a pair of bats flying around the veranda.

We felt they had come into our bedroom via an open curtain, since their usual daytime roost is tucked up against the eaves, over the bedroom window. Sure enough, checking in the daytime, I could see one large bat on top of a much smaller one, making the larger bat appear to have a comically fat belly.  Next to them another pair were hanging side by side. I found it rather endearing and also interesting, that when they spotted me, the smaller one immediately scuttled nimbly sideways towards the larger, who lifted one wing and tucked the youngster underneath her in a most protective and motherly way.

Meanwhile inside the house, the geckos are not unexpected, but their entrance usually is.  They will suddenly peek their head out from behind a picture and just as quickly disappear when they spot you. They dart over the walls at incredible speed as they go about their food hunting at night. And every now and then, I feel I am being watched by a large pair of eyes as they stare at me, apparently transfixed on their journey from behind a gallery of photos to an old water-colour print, called Shangri-La – a mythical heaven – which hangs on my dressing room wall.

Perhaps these domestic walls and human habitats are a kind of heaven to the resident bats and reptiles. Which is fine. Just as long as some of the latter don’t get too comfortable!

“Paradise” was written by George Ezra and Shane Mariott in 2018. A catchy tune and the unique singing tones of Ezra combine to make it happy, upbeat song. Happy Easter everyone!

There is something special to me, about walking in the early morning, and especially on the day after rain. On almost every leaf on every tree, the rain drops that fell yesterday, still hang suspended like tiny crystals on a chandelier. They hang as if in anticipation and will wait until I pass beneath before they drop. But I don’t mind that sudden, cold sensation on the top of my head. Indeed, I have been known to tilt my head backwards, to catch these falling droplets on my face, or to hold out a hand and catch them in my palm. I do love the African rain.

As I walk, the sun is not yet completely up and the light filters down through the trees. It is the sort of gentle soft light that ladies of a certain age would rather be seen by. You know. If we had the choice. The coolness too, is most pleasing. Later in the day the sun will be hot and bright and also beautiful, but it will make me want to find the shade. Early morning air is just perfect.

Early morning light is unique and like the big Zambian sky, different every morning. Today, as I walk I am wreathed in a light mist, which slowly disappears as the sun climbs upward. In the field beside the road, dozens of spiders’ webs span lightly, the spaces between the blades of grass. Grass and webs are coated with tiny diamond-drops of water, and here and there, the sunlight is beginning to catch them, turning them into rather breathtaking small wonders. Indeed, every web is more than a simple work of art, it is an intricate mastery of engineering and design, but most often the engineer herself, is nowhere to be seen. I know this, because I have often looked for her.

The fields beside the road where I walk, are thick with the grass which my husband sowed, and other varieties besides. Crowsfoot and Timothy grass have sprung up with the Rhodes grass and all of these are heavy with seed. Vying for space in this ocean of grassy abundance are crowds of bright yellow Bidens Schimperi, the sweet, yellow daisy-like flower of a spiky, sticky seed, very similar to its relative, the black-jack (Bidens Pilosa). On the verges standing tall over them, like nobles at some ancient festival looking down upon the peasants, are the vivid, dark orange Red Sunflowers (Tithonia Rotundifolia), which grow in eye-catching clumps along the roads at this time of year. Both these shrubby weeds have a deeply-pungent plant smell and after a little bruising rain, the scent of them hangs in the air.

Meanwhile the soil makes a rather satisfying crunching sound as I walk. The road was recently worked on. I walk on the crown of the road which is moist but not wet, since the rain ran off into the lower drainage areas as it does on a well-built road – another tipping of the hat to my man – and in the low areas are the evidence of the recent rain, a dark tilled area of mud. Call me strange but I sometimes think soil looks somehow delicious…Further down the road, there are a few puddles, some of which are now beginning to reflect the sky as it lightens. Soon the sun will be up over the trees. I pause to take a photograph or two before it gets too high. Then I continue. With my walk and with my thoughts. My mind often wanders when I walk. In a day or two it will be time once again to make the long, and rather taxing trek up to see my daughter at boarding school. I definitely wouldn’t do it so regularly for everyone. But, for now, I can simply enjoy this early morning, this light, this air; this walk.

In the bushveld unseen but I hear them, a pair of Heuglin’s Robins (White Browed Robin Chats) are singing their little hearts out, like the always do. A small party of noisy Trumpeter Hornbills arrive and depart with raucous calls and nasal laughter. Racing ahead of me, my dogs scare up a small family of Swainsons’ Francolin who shriek as they take to the air and then plunge themselves into the deep, green thickets beside the road and are instantly lost from sight.

Overhead, a skein of Cattle Egrets fly in vee formation. They call to one another as they pass by. The sun catches on their feathers and turns them from white to gold for the moment. Another, smaller group follows behind. I think they are heading out to take their breakfast. And so we head home, the dogs and I, to take ours.

The Bee Gees, possibly my favourite group, singing “Morning of My Life.” There is something deeply evocative about their music, memories of my youth and my childhood interwined with sadness that they have all but one, now departed this world. I reflect on the feelings of the oldest brother Barry, who has lost both his younger brothers, Maurice and Robin, from their trio, and indeed an even younger brother, Andy, many years ago. Perhaps he is grateful, at least, as I am, that their legacy lives on. And what a legacy it is!

During the extended break from the blog, I had planned to spend the time taking photos, which happened, and thinking about future pieces, which didn’t. Instead, my little brain has been addled these past couple of months with considerably less enjoyable challenges. Still those particular problems are now behind me – touch wood (touches head, but gently, you know, because of the addled brain.)

And here I find myself very nearly at the end of February already, a month filled with family birthdays, which means I have been engrossed in a favourite task of mine; making small, personalised music videos using my own photos.

I spend quite some time thinking about the music, either a known favourite, a piece of classical, or a much-loved tune from some of our good old days, of which we were blessed with many. And when it comes to the photos, I try to match picture to person.

For some members of the family a cute little caterpillar can make them go aww, but for others they’ll be issuing warnings to stay out of their crop, whilst at least one person would feel the urge to pick up secateurs in order to perform a decapitation. For some of us a frog picture is cause for a smile, but for a couple of others, it would be time to leave. That’s all. Goodbye!  At least three family members can get almost dewy-eyed about pictures of bulls. As can I. Go figure.

For some of us, flowers are perfect, but others would rather see hawks. Which leads me to scanning the skies and also, sometimes, to tilting my head and camera tripod so far back, we both fall over.  The sight of a perfectly installed solar panel would make one person’s heart beat faster but since I’m not that sort of girl, these type of photos are thin on the ground.  Old family memories are of course good for everyone. But above all, I love to use my bird pictures, since they are probably my favourite wild animals and luckily we are a family of bird-lovers.

Browsing through my photos, I see that the Black-collared Barbet is almost always in the same dead branch of a tree. From here his black and red colouring is distinct and I have nearly always photographed him on a grey day or early evening. Other birds, like the Variable Sunbird seems to love a sunny day, especially when the weather has been rainy and cool, but no matter the weather, I can hear his piercing little call as he flits from flowered shrub to flowered tree. I think there is more than one pair nesting in the garden right now, but though I have followed them from time to time, I’ve not found the nests. But along with the Weavers and the Brownbuls, this particular kind of Sunbird seems to be a permanent resident now.

Recently I have been delighted to capture on camera, two less common bird visitors; Hypargos niveoguttatus and Amadina Fasciata.  Oooh! Get me flicking out these Latin names – I hope Mr Jennings, that old Latin teacher of mine, is pleased as he peers down across the years. And when it comes to birds – amo, amas, amant indeed. (I love, you love, he/she/it loves – in case, you know, you’re interested.)

Actually I have a specific reason for using the Latin in at least one of these cases. These birds are the Red-Throated Twinspot and the Cut-Throat Finch, respectively. And there it is. What a truly unpleasant  name for such a beautiful little bird. As you might guess from the name, this little bird has a  crescent of bright scarlet at its neck. Mind you, the Latin is a bit of a mouthful. So-o-o, let me just say two pairs of Amadina F (for finch or Fasciata) are nesting in a pair of old Red-Headed Weaver’s nest under the eaves of our thatched roof. Such is the quality of workmanship on these particular nests, they have both seen at least five different pairs of feathered tenants over the past few months. 

The Red-throated Twinspot, arguably one of the most stunning little birds I know – I mean, just look at him! The size and shape of him is simply sweetness itself and his plumage is sublime. And happily he has taken to bathing in a newly-placed birdbath which I can watch from the verandah. I had acquired a sweet frog statue from a very dear friend who left the country and I wanted to put it somewhere where I could see it often, if not daily.  Inside a bird bath seemed the perfect place and the bird bath, made by me some time ago, was placed beside a garden path. It is overhung by a very Busy Lizzy (Impatiens) and a large, droopy conifer tree in which the Paradise Flycatchers made their nest last year.  The move was a good one, there is a lot of activity in this bath. Of the bird kind mostly. Although at Christmas the playful, new puppy who accompanied my family used it too (giving rise to photos which by the way, just happened to be perfect for yet another family birthday video).

 It is good to be back at the blog.  I intend to put it out on a Saturday now, and probably one every two weeks rather than weekly but that could change. It really all depends on how much I’ve got to say. And as many of you know, that can be an awful lot!    

An old song from the old days. I always liked this voice. And this song. I first heard it when I was very young and we played the old vinyl records on the portable gramophone that my grandmother owned. When my daughter was baby it was the song I would sing to calm her. And myself 🙂

Christmas is coming and all around the world, many people will soon have visitors.

We ourselves have had an early visit from one eager family, all thick-skinned and whiskery – and no, I don’t mean my family – and tails in the air. I’m talking of course of the warthogs who came trundling casually into our garden a day or two ago, and through the front gate, if you don’t mind. They were a large group, with at least four little ones and several older siblings to mind them.

This was all too much for one of my dogs who ran into the road barking furiously. Fortunately the cherub was on hand to call him back. And call for her father. (In our world, when things look most dangerous, dad is the one to call.)  Happily, the dog came back. I say happily, because while most of the warthogs took to their heels – one still chewing on a little something – the largest of the warthogs, a big, chunky male, had stopped, and was standing his ground. He had his head slightly inclined and a look in his eye that reminded me of a t shirt I once saw in Scotland which read, “Are ye talkin’ tae me?!” 

But the dog didn’t need a t shirt to read the signs. He returned to the safety of his humans and the warthog, having shown he was in charge, moved on with the rest of his family. I was half sorry to see them go; – I would have rather liked to have watched them, digging up my garden.

By contrast, the Hornbill who had been foraging for food in in our garage was mostly unconcerned by my attention. He hopped intently from spot to spot as he had much more interesting things to do;  he was feasting on that much sought after African delicacy – the flying ant. A night rain had brought hundreds of flying ants swarming around the security light and in the morning, having shed their wings they were easy prey. And delicious it would seem, judging by the fact that human, animal and bird consume them with great joy.

On the road several mornings in a row, there have been mongoose which I have come upon, playing on the wet, green verges and on the rain-damp road. Their attitude is quite different to the warthogs. They usually have one lookout who will watch to see what you’re up to. If they decide you are not a threat they will carry on with their scrimping and scraping at the earth, digging up tasty morsels. And at the slightest change from you they will take off almost as one, flinging their furry little bodies with agility and speed, through the long green grass. The little ones are inevitably flanked by larger ones, and there are usually a few adults bringing up the rear.

A pair of beautiful male Impala also found themselves in the field near our house. We thought they were youngsters who had been kicked out of the herd they had been in. I believe December is the time for new babies and changes in their family dynamic.But I was later glad to see they had headed back towards where they had come from – the little game park on the farm.

For these wild creatures the tempo of their life does not change as much as ours does over this time of year. Of course for my farmer, the work continues – it simply alters according to the season. Right now, the tobacco is being reaped and then cured in the barns.

As for me, between stocking up with Christmas fare and getting my house ready for the season, I’ve enjoyed seeing some of the local wild animal residents going about their lives. And they’ve seen me going about mine, if they but knew it. Like me, they too are stocking up on seasonal goodness – theirs being berries, toadstools and insects, rather than cheese, and ham and lashings of chocolate. For the next few days I won’t be seeing much of them as I will be indoors for a time. But I will be making occasional forays into the garden for greenery and berries whilst munching on a tasty morsel – perhaps a mince pie – as I go.

Turns out, we may not be so very different, the warthogs and I!

I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and the best year ahead in 2023. For people driving, be safe. I will be taking a break of indeterminate length, from my blog. I wish you all well and thank you so much for being along with me for the journey so far. Still, I am pretty sure this not so much goodbye, as see you again, sometime, in 2023!

My last song for 2022 is just chosen because it is my favourite carol of all. Enjoy this beautiful version by the combined children’s choirs, of Fairfield County, Conneticut, USA.

For the classic Christmas poem by Clement Moore – A Visit from St Nicholas (T’was the night before Christmas) and those cheeky Chipmunks singing their Christmas hit, please follow this link:- https://shellbell.home.blog/contact/verse/

One of the things I love about December is putting up my Christmas tree. Is there anything more beautiful in this season of good cheer? All that decking the halls with boughs of holly Fa la la la la and all that!

Except, problem. We don’t have holly. Nor many fir trees for that matter. And unlike in the movies, searching for a tree does not involve driving to a dedicated Christmas tree farm or a light-bedecked night market to select one that has already been cut. Here in Zambia, I have to find my own tree. And usually in the bushveld. Which, let’s face it, is no hardship. It just means there’s another thing I love about December:- hunting for my Christmas tree in the African veld.

I mean, don’t get me wrong – I do love the smell and shape of the traditional, northern hemisphere Christmas trees. Just thinking about them gets me singing, “Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree! (Mainly because I don’t know the words, to the original, “O Tannenbaum”, a beautiful old German song which always reminds me of my father since it is a favourite of his.) But conifer trees are not very plentiful in our part of the world. I do have one in my garden but it has a much more important purpose than to be cut down and draped with baubles. It stands tall and evergreen year round, and in its branches Blue Waxbills and Cape White Eyes have nested. And it also becomes the cool, dark, daytime roost for visiting Epauletted Bats in hot October.

So finding a Christmas tree means an early morning expedition, before it gets too warm, to find a fallen branch. Of course the dogs have to accompany me, since they know where the best trees can be found. If not for quite the same purpose. The dogs and I have several woodland pathways that we follow. And while investigating many a fallen branch I am delighted to find all manner of lichens and tiny toadstools which grow upon them. Some are hollow and hold tiny nests for insects, or beautiful fairy mats of emerald moss. The soil smells wet and delicious. It feels soft underfoot. All around me, branches and leaves are still wet with last night’s rain and in the morning sun, spiders’ webs shine like delicate Christmas stars.

Ahead of me the dogs are nosing about in the undergrowth. They are full of the joys of being dogs; where every smell needs investigating and every other blade of grass needs to be marked. By all three of them. In succession. It’s a funny little doggy ritual. I wonder if it is like a kind of postal service – like a dead drop perhaps. Other creatures passing by will read the scents and know who came by…Suddenly a bushbuck female erupts in front of us. The grass is so long we had not seen her. She leaps away but the dogs don’t give chase. After we have passed by I expect she will return to where she had been having her breakfast of December green grass.

Meanwhile my search along my usual pathways has not brought me success in my hunt. I pause beneath a couple of live trees and consider them, as I do every year. I sigh a little. There is nothing as beautiful as a living tree! But, as I do every year, I dismiss the idea for I know they will not stay green for long and even if planted along with roots, into a pot, they will soon look sad and deprived indoors. So instead I decide to follow beneath the power line where they had to clear branches which had grown too tall. These have been lying here for a while so many of them are dry. I find one that might just be perfect.

I drag it home with some effort, which pleases me – I quite like not to be the helpless little flower, all the time! But it is rather too tall this branch. And a woman has to draw the line somewhere. Cutting things with saws is man’s work, isn’t it? Manly man’s work even. So I call my manly man. And ding dong merrily on high, he cuts the bottom third off for me faster than you can say manly. And there I have my perfect tree! It’s very twiggy which I love, but not yet too brittle (because of the rain). So often the best bits of a wild branch are lost when it is moved indoors and take it from me, inadvertently colliding with the doorway is disaster. One bump and the branch goes from magical to meh, in an instant.

After giving my chosen branch a wash I coat it haphazardly with white paint. I arrange it in a pot and get to work. Unlike the dwarves in Snow White I don’t whistle while I work. Mainly because I can’t. But I do sing along to the Christmas play list I’ve made myself, making sure to give the big dramatic finishes…”you’ll be doing alriiiight, with your Christmas of white, but I’ll have a blue, blue Christmas!” I warble as I wobble on the stepladder, reaching for the tippy top of the tree because there is always, but always a gap in the decorations above my head. I am just thinking I am ready for my farmer to put the fairy on the top of the tree (this being one of his less manly jobs) when I hear his footsteps at the back door. As if on cue, “Santa Baby” starts to play. Eartha Kitt sings of her very, very expensive Christmas list. Mine is much simpler and more immediate – just the angel on the top of my tree! For now.

The sublime voice of Nana Mouskouri sings O Tannenbaum and to my ear she does a good job of pronouncing the German too. But I will wait to hear from those in my family who would know! Such a beautiful song for a beautiful tree – the song refers to the tree as a symbol of constancy and faithfulness.

Meanwhile to a different decade and a very different style of woman, the unmistakeable husky tones of Eartha Kitt definitely suit “Santa Baby.” It was released in 1953 and there was some feeling back then, that it was too suggestive for a Christmas song which would be played on the radio.. How times have changed!

For a beautiful Christmas poem by Thomas Hardy “The Oxen” and another version of O Tannenbaum, this time by the great Nat King Cole, please fol[ow this link – https://shellbell.home.blog/contact/verse/

Around us the bushveld is covered in swathes of green; bright carpets of emerald grass and lime-coloured leafy canopies overhead. It is a wetter November than we’ve had in some time and the sight of so much abundance in the veld is truly heart-warming. Between beautiful showers of rain we’ve had warm, blue skies. This recipe of water and heat has made everything grow furiously.  And I know that there is plenty of grass for the local bushbuck and kudu because the flowers in my garden have not been eaten this year. I even have bright beautiful blooms on the agapanthus which is pretty unusual since they don’t normally make it to flowering. Just far too tasty.

This abundance of rain brings with it the bugs of course. Zambia is an insect paradise year round, but that increases tenfold when the rains come.

We recently stayed at a lodge and  awoke to find some 30 tiny millipedes had hatched in the bathroom overnight. Tiny wriggly chongololos – as we call them – everywhere! The millipede invasion has been ongoing, with several making their way into our own house too, every day.

Millipedes are extremely voracious and destructive amongst the garden plants. My mother, a very dedicated gardener, performs a humane dispatch by decapitation. With her secateurs. Shudder! I myself will pick up frogs and any number of other creatures but there is just something about the millipede… Still, I don’t really want them in my house either so I will force myself into coaxing them on to pieces of paper or whatever is handy, so that I can move them into the garden.  Once there they are free to eat whatever they please as I’m not about to step on them either – I literally couldn’t bring myself to do it. And this year, with the number I have relocated into the garden, I’m surprised I can’t hear those avid little jaws, munching away.

After continuous rain the earthworms also appear and in search of drier living spaces, wriggle into my kitchen and on to the veranda. Suddenly their soil is not the “des res” it was a month ago and they appear in their 10s at least. Do you know – they are surprisingly difficult to pick up! Because I do try and rescue at least some of them. Those that are collected can be assured of new living quarters in one of the potted plants, which, standing beneath the eaves of the house, are less saturated than the garden in general. I never know if the little wrigglers survive or if the shock of being collected and deposited in a totally new area is too much.  Still I reckon they have more chance of surviving in a pot than out there where the White-Browed Robin Chat would be only too delighted to have them for his breakfast. And don’t for a minute think the bird goes hungry because I deprive him of the odd worm or three; there are sometimes so many earthworm-workings on the lawn that you may as well be walking in mud…

The green season brings forth a bountiful harvest for all creatures and especially for the birds in my garden.  From the earth, worms and grubs, and from earth and sky,  flying ants who emerge and take flight for a short dramatic dance of life before they land and shed their silvery wings. Midges and flies abound and on a warm day, the dragonflies will appear in teeming squadrons, to partake in the insect feast. The birds, in turn, feast upon them – those, of course, that can catch these attack helicopters of the insect world. It’s an eat-or-be-eaten world out there in the wild and perhaps the greenness of it all belies this somewhat. I can almost forget how very fundamental life is to most living creatures.

In the chorus of the frogs, the steady hum of the crickets and the lazy buzz of a bumblebee flying around the purple blooms of the agapanthus,  I can’t help but feel that all is right with the world. In the simple, plain words of an old hymn written in 1891,  “Glad that I live am I, that the sky is blue. Glad for the country lanes and the fall of dew. After the sun, the rain, after the rain, the sun. This is the way of life, till the work be done. “

English singer and composer, Asha Elijah, grew up listening to Cole Porter and old musicals. In this video he sings the above-mentioned song and the images were filmed in Hungary, in Winter. Although here in Zambia, we are in the middle of Summer and these snowy images are not of a world I am at all familiar with, still the joy of them communicates itself to me. And speaks the plain truth – “Glad that I live am I.”

For the full hymnal poem, A little Song of Life, by Lizette Reese, and an old folk favourite of mine,”Green Green”, please follow this link -: https://shellbell.home.blog/contact/verse/

Here is the news; rain and more rain! November rains have been plentiful in our little corner of the world, and indeed in other parts of the country and region too. I hear that even in Botswana some dams are already full. It is a summer season off to wonderful start. But I do worry about saying too much about the rain, in case – so let me add to that statement – it is a summer season off to a wonderful start, knock on wood! Still as November draws to a close, the Summer is in full, fine form.

November has its own soundtrack and it is one I love. Insect song is high and constant as you go about your day. In some more wooded places in the bushveld, cicadas hum ceaselessly. At dusk the frogs start to sing in the vlei and what a chorus it is right now! I sometimes try to imagine how many there are as I lie wakeful and listen to them. November rain itself has its own music and the arrival from time to time of a loud wailing Trumpeter Hornbill or the sweet, melodious songs of the White-Browed Robin Chat add to the symphony. Guinea Fowl clucking softly to each other or screeching their alarm, can be heard most mornings.

More recently what I have been hearing, ringing daily through the trees in the backyard, is the sound of a woodpecker hard at work. It’s a sound that always gets my attention.

It is unmistakeable and somehow thrilling. The drilling sound of beak on bark is evocative to me; I remember once hearing the sound when I was a child and being told what it was. This was a name that I found rather entrancing. The word “woodpecker” put me in mind of elves and fairies with whom the sylvan creatures around me were somehow inextricably linked. And the idea of a small bird that pecked at large, solid trees was quirky enough to captivate my imagination.

The sound of a woodpecker knocking on wood carries a long, long way through the veld. You can hear that unrelenting, slightly dull drilling for quite some distance but really struggle to pinpoint the actual bird. Like a carpenter forever working some hard wood, the bird is singleminded. The occasional change in tone of his beak striking the bark, may mean he has struck it lucky and found the insect food he is after. He will also drill holes or widen small hollows in trees so that he can nest.

To help him in his quest for drilling, he has a very suitable arrangement of toes; two in front and two behind, which help him to grip bark and stiffened tail feathers enable him to lean back while he bangs at the wood with his beak. He has a special tendon and muscle mechanism in his jaw which acts as a shock absorber and even his skull is constructed so it can withstand an enormous amount of force. And as if all that is not amazing enough, he has also, I read, special modified bristle-feathers over his nostrils which prevent him from inhaling wood chips! Which means I presume, we will never hear a woodpecker sneeze…

I do remember catching glimpses of them in the bush where I grew up but mostly it was just a momentary delight-inducing little flash of red. In fact I never knew a woodpecker that did not have a red head.

And would you just know it – it is the same right here in my back garden when I finally track the industrious little bird down! To my delight there is not just one to watch, but two together. And I am close enough to see not only their pretty, speckled yellow markings but their bright, beady gaze and head tilts for days…

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A song from the past and an old favourite of mine – Amii Stewart with “Knock on Wood” from heady school girl days in 1979…

For a sweet and short poem about a woodpecker by Emily Dickinson and another old tune that I recall from childhood – the Woody Woodpecker theme – please follow this link. https://shellbell.home.blog/contact/verse

Recently I came across a lovely array of ducks down at the dam. They were all in a row and I just had to take a photo. One step nearer – and of course, they scattered.

It got me thinking that life is like that too.

Just when you think you have carefully planned it all, that’s when it goes wheels up. I mean, you’ve herded them, and there they are and gosh you are pleased with yourself because they are just perfect – just look at all your ducks in a row! Suddenly there is a loud squawk from some unforeseen circumstance and that’s it. Ducks scattered on the four winds, your plans in tatters and there you are, back to square one, no ducks, no row. You haven’t the nerve, just yet, to go back to the drawing board so you find yourself plodding, one foot in front of the other with no idea of where you are heading except that you could have sworn today was Monday when in fact it is Thursday. Or is it Friday?

Life has a tendency to happen whilst one is making plans. So I have read and so I believe. Still, in spite of this, I am a person that would rather have a plan. If you have a plan, you can always change it but to start with nothing is just too chaotic for me. Still, I do need to remember that the plan may have to change. Eye roll. Mutter. Or even in some cases, indignant ranting…

In Nature there always seems to be a plan, whether it is some grand design, or something smaller and more localized, something influenced by the immediate environment. Season after season, the wild creatures and plants follow this plan and the rhythm of their existence follows a pattern. For them it is more to do with instinct of course than diaries. But they can adapt too. The impala can actually hold off giving birth until the rainy season arrives for this is when the grass will be more plentiful.

Here in my garden, the rain and the weavers arrived about a week ago. These first rains were good and measured, quite unlike the more common big storms we sometimes get when the rains first start.  I feel sure that this slow start is a good thing since the water has time to soak into the earth properly and all the newly-built birds’ nests can withstand this kind of weather more easily. High winds at nesting time can cause devastation. After all the frantic activity of building amongst the weavers’ nests wind destruction can be quite heartbreaking to see. Gentle, first rains must also be so much better for the survival of the fledglings when they arrive. 

Many of the birds have nests now and a number already have fledglings. I have watched the Paradise Flycatchers ferrying nesting materials back and forth between the back garden and their nest, which is tucked into the limbs of a conifer, quite near the front veranda of the house. 

The Paradise Flycatcher nest is woven with plant material and stitched with spider web. It is a truly a wondrous little work of art. The bird itself is beautiful. The long bewitching tail always catches the eye and the slate-black head is offset by striking amber colouring on wing and back which make it gleam in dark, green thickets. How lucky I feel to capture the bird on its sweet, snug nest. I know the flycatchers have worked hard to get to this stage. To me, bird and nest are picture-perfect; almost as if a plan came together.

Woza Friday was a hit for Johnny Clegg and Juluka in 1981. The song is about looking forward to a a joyous celebration of Friday, for that is the end of another hard week. For me, one of my absolute favourite songs!

For a poem about the season of birds and that old pop tune Manic Monday, please follow the link:- https://shellbell.home.blog/contact/verse/

October is the hottest month of the year in Zambia and the region. The sun is scorching. The hot air it creates is palpable. When you move from the cooler interior of the house to the outdoors, you are immediately draped, as if by a blanket, in intense, stifling heat. The air is also thick with dust and utterly dry. We spend a lot of October in cool swimming pools or under cold showers. Humans and animals spend a lot of time drinking water.

And in my case, looking at it.

Water is always mesmerising.  In all its many forms, be it ocean or river, pool or puddle, water fascinates. And In October especially, even just gazing at it is a moment of relief,  an antidote to the dusty parchedness of the season. 

This October I believe there is more vegetation than usual for the wild animals to eat since I have had less buck coming into my garden. There is also, still water in some of the rivers and streams, and the farm dams, whilst not completely full, still have a fair amount of water in them. And In the bushveld there are still rockpools on one of the rivers.

The water in a typical African rockpool in the bushveld is mostly fairly murky, and sometimes green with algae and choked with plant life. Leaf litter collects in crevices and is swept into the pool turning it into a rich nourishing soup which sustains many forms of life. Where the water is entering the pool, there is movement. In October this is often reduced to a trickle, but in some cases the flow of water is a slow and steady, small stream.  Water sliding over rocks takes on different colours and attitudes; now a deep green swirl, now a frothy cream splash. Meanwhile dragonflies and  other insects, dart in and around the water and the air buzzes with the sound of them.

In the rainy season some isolated pools appear in the veld but in October there is little or no evidence that they even existed. Occasionally there is a patchwork of dried mud to show that water was there but for these stand-alone watering places this is not the month when they will be replenished. Later these small basins may hold water again, but their time is not now.

For the stock dams however, the story is quite different. In bad years they too can shrink, even to almost nothing, but this October they are still holding water.  And on and around the dam there is always a rich variety of life.

Kingfishers are common residents, their incredible wing-power keeping them in one place as they hover overhead and dive at break-neck speed, their large pointed beaks plucking fish with perfect precision. Beneath them the fish sometimes make bubbles or small swirls but usually the water on the dam is absolutely still. In certain light it has a sheen, like polished green glass. 

In the early morning the dam reflects exactly, the pale sky and the green trees which line its banks. Water in its very liquidity is able to take on almost any shape and water lying in a dam is the perfect instrument of reflection. And so it is on a late evening when the sun is going down.  I expect the reflected golden glow of an African sunset over water is almost a cliché,  but I must admit, it is one I just never get tired of.

In this clip you can watch the sun set on the Zambezi River. Set to the music of Beethoven – Moonlight Sonata.

For a song by Neil Young and a poem by Robert Frost, please follow the link. shellbell.home.blog/contact/verse/

It’s an early October morning and the air is still cool. We have gone out to have our first cup of tea of the day, out in the bush. On our way, we pass by one of the stock dams. The sky is grey, for now. Later, this will change as the sun climbs upward, going from shades of pale rose and orange, to a dusky blue. In this month of summer, the dryness and the bush fires change the colour of the sky, coating it with an overlay of dust and smoke, muting the blueness, draining away its colour.

Silhouetted in a large tree on the edge of the water I see that icon of African rivers – and Zambia’s national bird – the African Fish Eagle.  He is perched in silence so I do not hear his distinctive, head-thrown back call. This song, sometimes called the sound of Africa, is plaintive and hair-stirring. It has a primeval quality; once heard, never forgotten. Some might even say it is absorbed into their very bones.

This Fish Eagle is still silent. He looks out over the dam and I catch a glimpse of his sturdy yellow beak, tipped with black. This is an awesome hunter. He will go fishing and sometimes requires great feats of strength to lift his catch free of the water. He will prey on waterfowl and other birds. And in times of need, he will scavenge. He will even steal food from such birds as a Goliath Heron.

 Aside from his voice, the  fish eagle is instantly recognisable by his distinctive plumage. The body feathers are tan and brown and like a medieval king, he wears a collared hood, all in white. From his lofty throne he watches the world go by.  He studies me too but I am considerably less interesting than the water below him. I watch him in the hope that he will call,  but he does not oblige. So I turn my own attention to the water itself.

The water in the dam is quite motionless. It mirrors sky and trees in perfect, pristine, pin-point detail. The water lilies have not all yet fully opened. They lie serenely still, except where they are being agitated by the activity of a trio of African Lily Trotters. I imagine the water itself is cold but the Lily Trotters do not seem to notice or mind. On spindly legs, and long, outspread toes, they make small runs from pad to pad. Now and then they stop to stab at some morsel with their long, pointed beak, fashioned for just that purpose. The water ripples beneath them as they move, causing the water lily pads to undulate and bob, like small, circular boats.

Across the dam, a group of Knob-billed Geese are also on the water.  They paddle slowly, with no great sense of direction or urgency. Like that sleepy, not-a-morning person that I’m sure we all know, they seem reluctant to get moving at all and float gently, aimlessly upon the water.  

I think that is what life should be like, sometimes. These days there always seems to be some great rush, some red-tape-embroiled paperwork to get done, some arduous journey to undertake. How good it is then, to simply stop and stare, and listen for the call of the Fish Eagle. And it doesn’t matter that I didn’t hear it this time; – just to stand beneath him as he surveyed his kingdom, was really quite enough.  

Like the song of the Fish Eagle, the music of Johnny Clegg has the ability to seep into my soul. These sounds remind me of my youth and of the beautiful continent I live on. Here he performs “I call your Name”.

If you’ve never heard a Fish Eagle call, and you long for the “Peace of the Wild Things” by Wendell Berry, please follow this link – https://shellbell.home.blog/contact/verse/

If I go back to a previous blog I have written in the same month a year or two ago, I often find some things are the same. That is probably one of the things I enjoy most about doing a Nature-inspired blog. It not only makes me stop and observe, here and now, it gives me proof, if ever I needed it, that Nature follows cyclical patterns. And in these infinite and intricate plans of hers, my small and humble part is simply to marvel.

September’s seasonal change and bounty means that the squirrels are particularly active, once again. They bound from rooftop to treetop and back, and in the process, drive the dogs into a barking frenzy. When they are not in the Wild Fig tree, they can be seen darting around in a large Mnondo tree, their tails flicking in and out of the foliage as they find just the pod they are looking for. When they find it, they will stop and sit, and holding the pod with their paws, they nibble their way all round the edges. Rather like me with a peanut butter and apricot jam sandwich – munching the crusts off first and then that perfectly blissful bite of the soft, best, middle bit! To the squirrels, the pods are obviously just as tasty – nothing is left, not even a tiny bit of the hard shell.

In this month the bird activity increases after the slight pause in the Winter months, for September is the time when some species find their mate and nest building begins. And in this garden, certain birds (wearing their more eye-catching breeding plumage) are always more visible at this time; like the handsome Red-Headed Weaver, and the Red-Chested Sunbird.

Last September, readers of a previous blog may recall there had in fact been an altercation between  a Red-Headed Weaver and some Scarlet-Chested Sunbirds. And just imagine – they are at it again! Of course, I can’t be absolutely certain that the birds I watched arguing with each other last September, were exactly the two I saw a week or so ago, but since it was the same species involved, I can’t help wondering…

Last time the Red-headed Weaver almost succeeded in chasing a pair of Scarlet-Chested Sunbirds from their nest. This time, he has managed it! They have vacated and he has built his own nest in almost exactly the same spot. A few days after his success, I saw him sitting on a trellis beneath the nest having a confrontation with a female Sunbird. They seemed to be squaring up to one another and I couldn’t help imagining the conversation.

“You again!” says the sunbird, puffing up her small brown body. “I hope you’re proud of yourself – chasing us away from the spot we had chosen!”

“I have just as much right to that spot as you!” replies the weaver, cocking his bright-coloured head to one side. “Just because you’ve got a curved beak and a shiny mate, don’t think you have special privileges!”

“Well you’re nothing but a bully and I don’t have to talk to you!” she snaps at him and flies away.

“Well…well… my nest is much more intricate than yours!” he calls after her, determined to have the last word.

Of course it’s not likely that their encounter was quite as human as that.  Still it did rather intrigue me to watch them apparently having a proper go at one another. And all the more so because I had seen that behaviour before.

Meanwhile, out back, in considerably more silent attitudes, the Epauletted Fruit Bats are back. In the day time they hang from the branches of the same fir tree I saw them in last year. I peer up into the tree they roost in. Their little noses are v shaped and bony-looking, their wings folded like an intricate origami toy. Silently they stare down at me out of doleful brown eyes that shine like polished agate.

In the Cassia Abbreviata, all decked in her yellow blooms, a Brownbul is putting on a show. I’ve seen its like before, in September. He hops and flaps his wings, his fixed attention on a female sitting above him. She seems to be watching his performance with intent. He is singing his little heart out. After all, it’s September.

One of the many beautiful hits from the superlative Neil Diamond, this one written in 1979. This is September Morn.

For a lovely piece of music “Spring Song” by Mendelssohn and a poem by the great pastoral poet, John Clare, please follow this link :- https://shellbell.home.blog/contact/verse/

It’s September – that month of change and possibility. Here in our southern hemisphere, September means that Spring hovers on the cusp of Summer. And in our house, there is now an absence of play station soundtracks, baking smells and heart-lifting, girlish laughter, for the holidays are over and the girl is back at school again. Still, it was with some sense of anticipation she returned; the prospect of milestone exams something of a challenge to her, a chance perhaps to make her mark.

And so it is with September in Nature. If there is a month in the year when Nature makes her seasonal mark, it is September. Almost from one day to the next, the days are warmer, and out in the bush, the leaves on the Msasa and Mnondo trees have turned from red to green and gleam against a blue, blue sky.

Here in the Southern part of Zambia, it is not quite proper Summer – the nights are still quite cool, the duvet still necessary, but like a travelling show, there are signs which tell of Summer’s imminent arrival.

In the veld many of the wild trees are covered in flowers and others are crowned with gleaming pods. Flowers and pods catch the eye and dance in the wind, like colourful banners heralding the start of the procession. Yellow Cassia Abbreviata and white Dombeya, or Wild Pear, are a mass of blooms and here and there a singular Erythrina (Lucky Bean) strikes a cheery scarlet note in the brown bushveld.

Like a band tuning up, pods rattle and branches creak when the wind blows through, whilst the expectant audience, the leaves and twigs, sigh and whisper and lean towards each other. The music truly begins with bird song which is suddenly more notable and more varied than in August. The plaintiff high chirrup of the Scarlet-Chested Sunbird competes with the mellifluous song of the Heuglin’s Robin and the sweet notes of the Brownbul are in a higher range than the Cape Turtle Dove. As Trumpeter Hornbills swoop in flocks of 6 or 7, they call raucously to one another as they dip and glide over the stirring tree tops. Now and then one or two are blown slightly off course which for some reason always makes me laugh; September is a windy month.

Beneath the trees, dead leaves have been blown about. Here and there, they lie in deep piles, brown and crackle-dry beneath my feet, but on the trees themselves, many new leaves and shoots have appeared. In Brachystegia woodland the newest lime-green leaves are accompanied by flowers. These delicate blooms are not easy to see, being predominantly green and white, but as I pass beneath the trees I smell the sweetness of them; it’s lingering scent, quite as fragrant as jasmine, stays with me as I walk along the country road.

In the undergrowth Francolin and Guinea Fowl call to one another, a prelude to pairing-up for the breeding season ahead. The grass is now dry and at watering places animals will gather more often. A colony of mongoose dash over the road ahead of me although one stands tall, watching me with intent. The others urge each other on, the larger adults shepherding the smaller members of the group. They seem to be heading somewhere. There is a feeling that to all things there is an added sense of purpose at this time of year.

It’s a catchy feeling. I would rather be doing something anyway -I’ve never been that good at just twiddling my thumbs. So I find myself cooking up the last of the kumquats into a sticky marmalade and although Spring is now all but departed, spring-cleaning is high on my list of To Do. Winter blankets can be washed and stored away. One of these days I will do the same with the clothes in my wardrobe which I always like to change around by season. It’s like having new clothes when I unpack them from their winter quarters – a suitcase clean-smelling of moth balls. Which reminds me of an old joke about a big moth…

Meanwhile out in the the back yard the birds sing and call and pair up. Some fledglings can be heard in the nest of the Red-Headed Weavers and those dear little Blue Waxbills have returned to nest in the herbaceous border in the front garden. The Brownbuls sing rather sweet songs How blessed I feel to have these September signs of Nature around me; for when our daughter is away these are the things which bring me solace. And remind me that it is the way of the world for things to change.

This song is a favourite of my daughter’s. It is called “Thumbs” and sung by Sabrina Carpenter, a diminutive American singer with understated power in her voice. (By the way I do love her boots which would have to be called nose-dives if I wore them…) Meanwhile, the tune is upbeat and catchy, the lyrics true; and the video fun to watch. All of which pretty much sums up my daughter too.

For a poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson and Vivaldi’s lovely piece, “Spring”, please follow this link:- https://shellbell.home.blog/verse/

An old folk song goes, “The rustling leaves beneath my feet swirl in a colourful kaleidescope; the seasons come, the seasons go.” And it’s true, they do.

Here in Zambia we are now in our dry season, our winter. The seasons do come and go, and so it is with the months which follow in their turn, wearing their seasonal clothing, as Nature sees fit. In July, the sky is sometimes dotted with very white, fluffy clouds which hang extremely high, but mostly it is blue and clear. The bush, having been slowly drying out since the last rains fell in the summer, turns steadily more grey and brown, and the pathways and tracks are littered with leaves beneath the trees from which they fell. This is the general pattern. Sometimes, however, the bushveld dries out more slowly in winter because the rains of the summer that came before, were good. And then there is a different aspect to the veld.

Such is the case with this July.

Studying photos of an area on the farm where a stand of Mukwa (Pterocarpus anglosensis) trees grow in a copse, I see how dry and desiccated the bushveld looked one year. That was 2019, a year when we had a drought. Going to the same spot this July, there is a marked difference. The grass is longer and more plentiful, and there is still a tinge of green too; a feeling almost of rare bounty at a time when the pickings are often scarce. And yet the Mukwa trees are less laden with pods this season, than they were back then.

This is what I have noted before; that in the years when the bushveld is very dry, there are more pods and more flowers on the wild trees. I think this is Nature’s way of compensating, a way to make sure these species survive despite the season. Against a dry, grey backdrop the wild flowering trees seem brighter because, as in the garden, trees also produce more flowers in times of stress. In a July like we are having this year, there seem to be less flowers on the trees and fewer pods. But I believe this is a sign of a less harsh winter.

This year, even now, there are still has some areas of green not only in trees and shrubs but even in the wild grass itself. Flushes of green are unusual in July unless the area has been burnt, but this year there was more moisture in the soil as the winter months came on. And the benefit to the wild foliage is quite plain to see.

The dams are higher than they usually are in the winter. In a very dry season there are visible tide marks on those trees which stand in the water and you can see an almost daily descent of the dam level. In a July like this, some of those trees are still chest-high in water. There is a notable difference in the water level at one of the stock dams, as can be seen by comparing two photos taken of the same large group of petrified, dead trees. In 2019 they are surrounded by bare ground and a clump of hardy grass. This year, it is as if they are standing on their own leaf-green reed island.

At a different dam there are several trees which stand in the water. Beyond them, water lilies adorn the water’s surface with bright and beautiful abundance. There are always water fowl here; Egyptian geese and White-faced Ducks, particularly when the water is high. I have seen a Grey Heron too but I wonder if he moves between dams when the levels drop so that fish are easier to catch. The rise and fall of the water level can probably be used to some birds’ advantage.

But on this particular July day there is another difference; a pair of Hammerkop sitting in a dead tree surrounded by dam water. I’ve not seen them here before. Perhaps they came because the dam is still almost full. I would guess that they are a pair. They sit side by side in silent contemplation and seem to be just quietly enjoying the seasonal winter sun upon their backs.

Thank you for reading. I will be taking a break in August and will be back in a few weeks’ time. I hope you can join me again then.

Bobby Gentry was a folk country singer who was born in Chickasaw County in Mississippi in 1942. She grew up without electricity or plumbing but when she was young her grandmother traded a cow with neighbours, for their piano. At age seven, Bobby wrote her first song. One of the first female artists in America to write and release her own material, she rose to international fame with “Ode to Billy Joe”. This particular song, “Seasons come, Seasons Go”, was released in 1969.

For a beautiful poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and a fine, rollicking tune by Mumford and Sons, please follow this link:- https://shellbell.home.blog/verse/

I find driving in Zambia pretty challenging. And judging by the slogans I see painted on the back  of some vehicles, some would agree. But there are those that wouldn’t.  Crawling through yet another built up area snarled up with pedestrians,  bicycles, trucks and the odd goat, I come up behind  a taxi  called, “Speed Miracle.” Alright then. He is either very optimistic or, as I suspect, a cut-in, get-out-of-my-way driver who hurtles along without worrying about the consequences. 

Sitting behind yet another taxi who proclaims, “Only God Knows”. I find myself wondering if this is a statement, an appeal or a warning.  I don’t reach a conclusion for “Only God Knows” has just cut in front of someone who had indicated to turn. There is a loud honking of hooters and a few shouted words and then the two vehicles involved move off again. All in a day’s driving.

As is this – yet another police road block. This one is not too banked-up with trucks thank goodness. Still, it gives me  time to think. And to read all the information on the trailer in front of me.”Thinks afety” it proclaims proudly and wouldn’t it have been nice if only they had thought before sticking the letters on…. But we are moving and I consider, once again, how all the towns which dot the road to the capital, are on the main highway of Zambia. Also, that there is no servitude to speak of since it is always covered in hawkers` stalls or actual shops or houses. And lots of people. This means there are also speed bumps to negotiate in every small town or settlement you come upon. Unwary or careless drivers can find themselves launched into the air if they hit one of the particularly nasty ones at anything faster than 1km per hour.  Speed Miracle indeed!

Sometimes, in between trucks and leviathan ‘Abnormal Loads’ vehicles carrying mining equipment up to the Copperbelt, I pass a little cart being pulled along by fast trotting donkeys. Honestly, to me this is the very height of mixed emotion. I find very few animals more endearing than a donkey and I so love to see them. But not, no never, in traffic! Their little hooves clipping the tarmac is probably music to the ears of their handlers who don’t have another means of transport but it worries me terribly. I have also seen an ox-pulled cart once but it was very early morning and he was crossing the road and not traveling along it for which I gave thanks! Draught animals are still used here in Zambia but most often you see them on the dirt tracks which sometimes run adjacent to the road. In one place I stay there are a pair of large oxen who collect the rubbish bins. This pair of power houses, called ‘Black and ‘Brown’ are lucky. They are not destined to brave the traffic of the Zambian highways.

For out on the highway there are potholes,  livestock wandering on to the road and  seriously, I mean seriously, really, really, no place for the bicycles which you have to negotiate with as they wobble their way beside truck and traffic. It can be quite chaotic but the most challenging thing perhaps, is the volume  of truck traffic which has increased massively since we first came to Zambia nearly 20 years ago.

Coming up behind “Big Big” – a huge tarp-covered rig with a bright yellow horse, I would agree – he is. His name is a fact, like the refrigerated carrier, “Great Dimension” whilst ” Great Wise One” just sounds preposterous. “Time-Time” is often on the road and always makes me laugh. It’s a positive slogan made to convince you that time means something ….hmmm are we saying that? Still there are those who are much more optimistic about their Zambian trips – like the large grey carrier who boasts,”Impossibilities we do Every Day!”

No wonder it is so hectic; this is the only route to several of the the main towns of Zambia and the capital city of Lusaka. What`s more this main highway is single lane for nearly the entire length of the country. And Zambia is big. From the southern border at Livingstone to its Northern border at Tanduma, into Tanzania, it is a nearly 1500km. The road I take regularly from Choma to Chisamba is a mere 350km. But it will take you 6 hours at least.

All of this means there is a lot of time spent sitting behind trucks. And reading their slogans. Or adverts. I come up behind “Need More Payload” on the back of a large trailer. Having just missed a big pothole I find myself shouting, “No! No! We do Not need more pay load… you load and we pay when we hit all the potholes your heavy load created!”

Nearing my destination I find myself smiling for there, in front of me is the taxi which caused my girl so much mirth when we first saw it. It makes me smile again because I remember her pointing and reading it aloud. There were no signs of damage upon it and yet the words printed boldly on the back bumper seemed to hint at some past misfortune. She wondered what he could have been through. I remember how we laughed. And how she read it again, in a very plaintive voice,“Please! Leave me the way you found me!”

One of the great driving songs by that truly stellar rock band, The Eagles, here with Jackson Browne and Linda Rondstadt (who was once in a band with members of The Eagles, called The Stone Poneys). Good advice from them for drivers everywhere… Take it Easy.

For a poem about Zambian traffic by my daughter and that old 80s song Fast Car by Tracy Chapman, please follow the link. https://shellbell.home.blog/verse/

Here on this farm in Zambia we see certain animals quite regularly. And some almost daily. Like monkeys. And baboons.

Monkeys follow the fruiting trees and those which drop edible pods. In Winter they often come into my garden in search of water too, which they may find leaking from a hosepipe, dripping from a tap or simply by drinking their fill from the bird baths. Baboon also come for water – I have watched one wrapping his mouth around a tap where the water was leaking from the join in the attached hose. I expect he would quickly learn to gnaw through the hosepipe if he came often enough. In fact these primates don’t really need to come into the garden for water because they can find it in a trough in the small paddock behind our house; it is mainly there for the bulls but we keep it full of water all year round.

Monkeys are very alert to human and dogs. They will take to the trees as soon as the dogs appear. But even though they see us as regularly, they don’t like to be stared at. They will fidget and twitch and balk. And if you stare at them for long enough they will run off as if they can’t cope with it any more. Baboons will also, but to a lesser extent, and some of the bigger males will appear to ignore you. The fact that they are regular visitors does not make them much less wary of us, or we of them. We keep our distance and so do they, even though it is almost commonplace to see them.

But now and then, once in a while, we are also treated to a view of the much less usual suspects.

Out on a drive on the farm, one particular day, the wintry sunshine brought out some beautiful small antelope, the Oribi. They are such dainty and pretty buck, with rather beautiful markings. I don’t often see them myself, so it was a treat to come upon them. And in fact there were three of them against a backdrop of thick, golden grass and they watched us intently as we passed by.

Passing over the dam wall, my husband recently came across a small African Python, lying perfectly still in the warm winter sun. It did not move as he drove by, nor when he stopped. It was not particularly long and it markings were clear and striking. Its slightly triangular-shaped head was kinked at a slight angle to its body. Further on into the grass it would have been considerably harder to see. We learnt later that it was a hatchling, so perhaps it was unaware that it might have been prudent to move away from a human at great speed. Luckily for the python, on this occasion, it was in no danger from this particular human.

But we had an even more unusual visitor, right in our garden, one afternoon after a walk in the bushveld.

It was my husband who spotted something dash beneath the pile of wooden planks in the wood shed. The planks are up on bricks to protect them from ants and there is a fairly large crawl space beneath. (Not that I’d crawl in there mind!) Whatever had run in was definitely bigger than a squirrel, and almost cat-like. Before I could stop her, my dog followed it under the wood. A second later there was an angry sounding squawk and my dog shot back out, her tail between her legs. For her it’s all beer and skittles until the chased becomes the chaser! After that she wasn’t keen on playing any more. Finally, with all the dogs closed inside, we went to have a good look ourselves. Peering into the dark space, I saw a pair of enormous round eyes and the fluffiest, round body. It looked like a Rock Hyrax, a Dassie – pronounced Dussy – as we call them – but since there are no large granite outcrops near us, this seemed most unlikely. And was. We were close though – it turned out to be a Tree Hyrax, an animal of which I had never heard.

Even though it could see us watching it, the Hyrax was in no hurry to move. I was charmed by its grey furry body, its sweet, round black nose and winsome, shiny black eyes. Once a whisker twitched but apart from that, it sat quite still, staring intently at us. It did not even flinch when the flash automatically went off as I took its photo.

Later I was so glad to see that my photos had come out quite well. Even out in the Zambian bushveld, and certainly in my garden, it’s just not every day you see a Tree Hyrax.

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They are certainly very sweet to look at, but their call has terrified more than one camper at night in the bush! Have a listen…

From one singular call to another – please follow this link for that superb African foot-tapper “I call Your Name” by the late, great Johnny Clegg and Savuka and an evocative African poem, “Song of the Seasons” by South African poet, W.C. Scully : https://shellbell.home.blog/verse/

I saw a meme recently of a winged man lying exhausted, flat out on the ground. The caption was, “My guardian angel, after a day of trying to control me on social media.”

Ha-ha-ha! Yes. 

The ability to keep in touch with those we care about is the blessing of social media; the larger net of acquaintances it gives you, considerably less so. Especially when I read yet another piece of forwarded, rabble-rousing nonsense that has nothing to do with the actual facts.  I do find it hard sometimes (and judging by phone traffic, I am not the only one) to just let it go. This is coupled with the fact that many of the people who forward everything they read, aren’t really interested in being told the facts. Unless it is as they see them. What social media has taught me above all, is that there are a surprising number of people who don’t actually think like me. Perhaps you have learnt this too. It follows therefore, that although our opinions might matter to a select few, in the grand scheme of it all, they are actually much, much less important than we think they are. Which turns out to be fine by me. After all, self-importance is such an unattractive quality.

I don’t care what’s trending on any social media platform nor could be bothered to find out. As for what the so-called famous people are up to, or have to say about it any of it, I literally could not care less about that. If I want real news on the really important things – like the terrible war raging in Ukraine – I find out from my husband because he visits several different news sites daily. And when I want, I can deliberately disengage myself from what’s happening on certain phone groups because really, I’m much more interested to know what’s going on in the world of uncut grass at the bottom of my garden.

In these April days, the grass is saturated with moisture in the early morning, and the first sun makes the dew drops sparkle and gleam. It is not yet time to cut it as the veld is still green and I’d probably have a little tantrum if anyone tried to. In this grass-waving world, I am Gulliver in a world of giants, for most of it towers over my head. In here there is only the sound of the wind and the grass and  the occasional beat of birds’ wings.  In here, there are always treasures to find, like the birds’ nests I come upon as I venture carefully in. Busy Bronze Mannequins can be seen flying in and out all around me. There are several pairs; one pair appear to be building their nest elsewhere as they fly off from time to time, with long strands in their beaks. Others disappear into the thickets of the grass as if their nest is in here somewhere. I am reluctant to disturb them so don’t go any further but back track to the edge.

Besides, it is here, near where this stand of wild grass begins, that one nest in particular has caught my eye. I’ve not seen this particular shape in my garden before. It is much neater than the wispy and seeded confection knotted and cobbled together by a Blue Waxbill. It is oval and woven, like a Moses basket, and quite small, no bigger than my hand. When the wind blows through the grass, the nest moves gently, but it is well secured to the waving fronds. There is another one like it, nearby. I watch a small brownish bird disappear inside and am at a complete loss as to what she might be, until I see her mate nearby. He arrives with a sudden, bright flash of orange-red and black and alights on a strand of grass. It’s a Southern Red Bishop. The grass doesn’t seem strong enough to hold even such a small bird, but it is. The feathery topped seed heads lift and drift as a gust of wind blows them around but through it all, the Bishop clings steadfastly on. He has a bright beady black eye as he surveys his grassy kingdom. I have never seen his kind in my garden before, let alone seen him nesting here. It’s an instant of pure joy to watch him. How delighted I am he is here! Until my dogs appear which makes him fly away to the safety of a high tree.

As I head back to the house I feel once again, the privilege of appreciating the vitality and rhythms of Nature. I am grateful that I am able to find solace in these. I think on a quote by the famous children’s author Beatrix Potter, the creator of Peter Rabbit. She said, “Believe there is a great power silently working all things for good, behave yourself and never mind the rest.”

I can definitely go along with this splendid advice  – although the “behave yourself” part is quite difficult for me in this technologically-connected world we all live in.  Still, I’ve always been inclined not to mind the rest; I’m not really the one who you come to if you need to know the latest fashion, or dish the latest dirt. But, if you’ve a mind to come out on an April day, and to treasure small birds going about their business  in a beautiful sea of grass, I’m definitely the one. And you’re very welcome here.

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This week’s song, is “I Promise You” sung by James Corden. It is from the movie, “Peter Rabbit” – the most famous of the characters created by author Beatrix Potter. Have a listen. “Life’s rough when you feel confused, Still rough when you hear the news, that each day gotta pick and choose, The same old sides, the mes and yous, but don’t be sad, you’re welcome here”. With Easter around the corner, who better to bring a little happiness to us all, than Peter Rabbit. This song is a tonic – I promise you!

I’ve always been glad there are people who choose to live in the cities – otherwise I might have to!

Of course I am aware that there are those who need to, due to the nature of their work. And to be honest there are some very old cities I have visited which I really loved, but I believe it was the novelty of seeing beautiful cathedrals and temples, of engaging museums and quirky shops. But not all cities are fascinating and then you are left with only the bustle of thousands of strangers, the noise, the grubbiness and the traffic. To me that would be a huge challenge although I have heard city people saying it’s too quiet in the countryside for them. Still, even they would benefit from that single vitality, the green space.

To my mind, the value of green space in cities and towns cannot be exaggerated.

That is why I lament so much when I see trees being chopped down in the towns of Zambia. These trees, often having been planted by people with foresight decades ago, are now removed to make way for yet another building or another overhead cable. If some people were left to it, there would be only concrete (with the resulting dire lack of drainage) and that particular apparent Zambian delight; the billboard.  I never realised how much I could come to despise it. Here in Zambia, there are vast numbers of them crowding every entrance to nearly every town. Add to that the fact that many of them have replaced established avenues of trees and I just sometimes despair of this world. To me, it’s partly symptomatic of the appalling madness that prevails when too many people live too close to one another…

Family of mine recently moved from one area of the city of Lusaka, to another. They left for a number of reasons but the final straw was when the landlord cut most of the beautiful established trees down, some in their yard and some protecting them from noise and sun, on the perimeter. He claimed these stalwarts were in danger of collapse. All I know is that their old house now contains a beauty parlour and business premises no doubt, earn considerably more in rent than houses. But after some initial indignation and disbelief, we all find it doesn’t matter because the move was the best thing they could have done for themselves.

Instead of a hectic road with noisy trucks screeching to a halt before they hit the speed bump a few metres from their house, or full volume political and commercial broadcasts emanating from tinny megaphones at 4.00 on a Sunday afternoon, they have a garden full of trees and birds. Instead of being slowly but surely surrounded by business premises with delivery vehicles coming and going at all hours, they are now in a more residential area. There are neighbours’ dogs to contend with of course, – that’s unavoidable in cities – but on a scale of 1 to cacophonous base music driving past their house regularly at 3.00 a.m on a week day, the dogs are manageable.

Now, they have sanctuary. In this tropical oasis they are surrounded by trees, by palms, enormous cycads and a Giant Strelitzia. Birds thrive in this place; in the flowers, Sunbirds, whilst in the wild trees all around them, Green Hoopoes call. Vocal Brownbuls flit from bush to tree and shout at the Barn Owls who have moved into the owl nesting box which my brother hung on the roof. The family have added flowering shrubs and annuals to this space, each of which bring their own reward of colour and fragrance.

Beautiful indigenous trees, a large thicket of bamboo and a grove of bananas provide sanctuary (and food) not only for themselves but also Jennets and White-Faced Owls. Monkeys climb around in the trees that overhang the garden and the young ones cavort around on the top of the water tower stand, whilst their parents forage for food.  With no vegetable garden to be concerned about, the monkeys are welcome, even though they do steal bananas – but my family see this as a small price to pay for the joy of watching these entertaining wild creatures in their own backyard.

In my ideal world, everyone would value and be able and willing, to create a space like this serene sanctuary. It wouldn’t have to be a big or impressive; just a place that’s nurtured and cared for, which will in turn nurture its carer. For here, at the end of the day, when the sun starts to go down, the garden draws you out. Out on the green lawn, my sister in law and I sit and enjoy a glass of wine at sundown and watch the Zambian sky change colour. Sometimes there is the distant drone of a vehicle but that only reminds you how far away you are from it all. In this cool green seclusion, birdsong is mingled with the symphony of the bamboo, conducted by the wind.  This is music to my ear – this constant flow of movement which makes the towering yellow trunks sway against each other and rustles the finger-like leaves on their long spindly branches.   Like self-conscious girls at parties, the bamboo trees murmur and giggle as they lean towards each other, and they only dance if and when, their companions do.

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This song, “Sit Down” performed by English band James, was released in 1989. It was written by lead singer Tim Booth, who had been battling depression and found inspiration in music and books he had read, which showed he was not alone and made him feel better able to deal with it. The song is an invitation to all who feel alone to join together, to find sanctuary with each other.

For a wonderful poem about an enchanting flute – Krishna’s Flute – and arguably the most famous piece of classical music in the world, Pachelbel’s Canon in D for Flute, please follow this link:- https://shellbell.home.blog/verse/

A friend of mine recently wrote a blog about turning 40. She titled it “Not Just a Number”. And oh, how I agree! It’s a thing people like to tell us these days, that age is just a number but I only have to think about these numbers – my daughter’s first Christmas and her 16^th birthday, to know they are wrong.  Moreover, my father recently celebrated his 83rd birthday and my father-in-law, his 82^nd.  Those are some serious milestones! And so very much more than just numbers.

If I think of their lives and all that they have seen and all that they have been through, I am humbled by the vastness of their experience and the obstacles they have both overcome.  War has touched them both and shaped their destinies. So has political expedience and political greed, and other such evils as they had no control over. Their lives have spanned several iconic inventions; from the first ballpoint pen and the first helicopter, to the first cell phone, home computer, internet and so much in between. With all that they have done and no matter how the cards have often been stacked against them, these two amazing men have both raised loving families and given their children the best life we could have had. And if you consider that between them they now have an array of beautiful and talented grandchildren, they are so much more than just the sum of their years.

Numbers themselves have no emotion – except when it comes to age. There is a world of difference in the celebration of a baby’s first birthday and the coming of age of a beloved child who will soon fly the nest. One can’t help but view these moments differently; the one because it is the sign of hope and new life and a reassurance that the world goes on, the second of the bittersweet naturalness of life’s seasons, but also, perhaps, of our own mortality.

In Nature, of course, it is less complicated. The cycle of life is straightforward, for the simple reason that in their world it is eat or be eaten, and breed or die out. In Nature there is birth and life and death, before the cycle begins again. Right now, the Bronze Mannekins have a nest tucked under the large leaves of a Dombeya tree, and outside my window Red-Headed Weavers can be seen going in and out of their own elongated, boot-like nest. If I stand beneath them now, I can hear the sound of fledglings. It won’t be long and they will be gone. Meanwhile in the bushveld, the Munondo trees are crowned with their warm-brown pods which catch the sunlight and look pale. In a while the pods will drop, and the trees will have done what they could to keep their own species alive.

Of course, in our world, for most of us fortunately, there is room for so much more than simply survival. There is room for the sprightly septuagenarian or the glamourous grandmother. There has even been room recently for a 90 year old man who wanted to go into Space. But what they all share is a life and an age which marks them each down in a certain place in the history of the world.

Now look, I do understand why they like to say it,  these hale and hearty pundits of the modern attitude and good mental health.  What they mean in saying that age is simply a number is that we should try not to have to leave this world with the feeling that age is just a number of the things we wish we’d done. What they mean is, is don’t limit yourself because of your age. But the real truth is, there are limits and some of these are down to just plain common sense. I hardly think an old person who needs help to get out of their chair could manage to climb Mount Everest.  For that matter, I’m not that old myself – and yet, if the truth be told, I wouldn’t mind some help sometimes being pulled up out of my chair! Let alone attempting Everest… This age thing, in my opinion, is anything but just a number, unless it is a number of things you probably can’t do anymore – that is, (at least in my case) if you ever could!

So when I hear this little gem about age just being a number, I can’t help cringe a little, or rolling my eyes. Again. Along with a number of the other little stock phrases that people like to latch on to, it just sounds glib and trendy and really quite thoughtless. And in regard to my Pa and my Dad, each with their 80-something years of life’s joys and struggles, I say age is most definitely not just a number – in their case, it’s a triumph!

To my mind, one of the most beautiful songs ever written is “Sunrise, Sunset” from “Fiddler on the Roof”. Nowhere done more justice than in the film, by the magnificent Chaim Topol and the wonderful Norma Crane who reflect on their lives as their oldest daughter gets married.

For a Robert Frost poem, “Nothing Gold Can Stay” and a considerably more light-hearted song, “When I’m 64” by the Beatles, please follow this link. https://shellbell.home.blog/verse/

This blog called “It isn’t Just a Number” is written by a friend of mine. Her post inspired mine. You might like to take a look. https://lifeinz.wordpress.com/

As if blown in overnight, suddenly it is March. As usual, it arrives with scudding clouds, intermittent downpours and some bright blue skies. In my garden and in the veld, the trees sway and bend, sometimes quite alarmingly. March winds blowing through the leaves sound like a river splashing over rocks.

But the sound I hear the most right now, is the call of the Trumpeter Hornbill (Bycanistes bucinator) whose melancholy wail can be heard ringing out over veld and vlei, and garden. It is a loud call and carries a long distance and like the cavalcade for some visiting dignitary, it trumpets their arrival, long before they come in sight.

Out of the breeding season, Trumpeter Hornbills are gregarious birds; I often see and hear them, in groups. They fly over or into the garden every day and on one particularly stormy afternoon, they can be seen hunkered down in a large, commodious tree, just sitting it out. After which they resume their feasting in a wild fruit tree.

Their flight pattern is very distinctive; like a slow-moving roller coaster, they glide and drop and climb, repeat. Their silhouette too, is unmistakeable, for the beak is crowned with a decorative, curved structure, a casque, so-named for the French word for helmet. In one of the Hornbill species, the casque is near solid, a fact which has caused its great destruction. I read that the Helmeted Hornbill, which is found in the forests of Indonesia and other countries in that region, have been poached to near extinction for this casque, which is used to make jewellery and other artefacts and traded, especially to China. They are now on the critically endangered list. The greed and ignorance and entitlement of people never seems to abate. And how tragic that this bird cannot simply be appreciated for its own remarkable, sake.

I personally find Hornbills quite fascinating. When it comes to breeding, the Trumpeter Hornbill has a rather unique way of nesting. The male will collect mud with which the female will seal herself up inside a hollowed tree to lay her eggs. She leaves only a small opening in the mud and it is through this aperture that the male will feed her, and the young chicks when they hatch. When the fledglings are old enough, the male will break her out of her self-imposed prison and the entire family will forage together for another week or so. They will eat insects and even small animals, such as frogs, as well as seeds and fruit. In fact, the bird is a vital seed disperser.

The black and white feathers can sometimes be found on the ground below where they have sat. I saw one recently which I picked up. The bird was still in the tree above me. He looked down at me from his superior height, the red ring around his eye shining in the sun. He was calling to a companion who sat a little way off. His voice was loud and I thought of the superstition I was told about when we first came to Zambia, that this call is believed to be a premonition of bad news. I can’t say I feel that when I hear it. Let’s face it, you can find bad news anywhere, and often without trying too hard; on an entirely personal level, for instance, the girl goes back to school this weekend because her half term break is over. But, for me, I’d rather seek out the good news – which is that the April holidays aren’t very, very far away.

And when it comes to the case of the Trumpeter Hornbill, I rather like its call; as plaintive as it may be. It does not fill me with foreboding or concern; rather the opposite, in fact. To me, it is a sign that things are right and as they should be. It is the sound of the natural Zambian bushveld; the wail of the Trumpeter Hornbil is instantly recognisable, evocative and entirely unique. Rather like the instrument it is named for.

I grew up listening to the trumpet music of Bert Kaempfert. This one , African Beat, I remember very well, here played by street musicians in Brazil.

For a thought-provoking poem The Bells of Heaven and a beautiful piece of trumpet music called “The Lonely Trumpet”, please follow this link – https://shellbell.home.blog/verse/

It is hard to write a Christmas blog when the rains have not yet come! Oh, we have had a teeny shower here and there, but the proper, splish-splash, muddy-puddle, drumming-on-the-roof-top rain  has not yet started. We watch the blue sky and white fluffy clouds and sigh. I grumble under my breath. And loudly. I think there are signs that it may be on the way… the humidity is pretty high for one thing and for another, there is some sign of cloud-building. But not nearly enough for my liking.

Still. It’s December, the holidays are in full swing and the girl is home.

We had a recent belated birthday celebration for her – after a couple of anxious months waiting for a special parcel from the USA for her. When it arrived, I think it is fair to say her father and I were almost as excited as we knew she would be when she opened it! I was only hoping frantically to have had a little cooling shower by then otherwise goodness knows what was going to happen to the cake – at a temperature of 30*C (86*F) and humidity at 36* (96*) all icing bets were definitely off! I feared the sweet fox face I was intending was going to end up looking more like an ageing were-wolf painted by Picasso.  Oh well, at least I thought, I could blame the weather. This time.

Did I mention it’s hot? It is though, and sadly, still pretty dry.  As if to prove my point, I still have bushbuck wandering around my garden. It is unusual for them to be here in December, but the wild grass, after a first flush of green, is dry in some places now, so the areas of green lawn in my garden are a great attraction. As is the water trough, filled to the brim and often visited by all manner of wild things. We have even had regular visits from the warthog.  In the bushveld, the trees are still green and many laden with fruit, so there is something for the animals to eat. And really, it won’t take much rain to get the grass green again too…but we do need some!

I am reminded of the poem by AA Milne about bad King John, who starts his Christmas list with a heap of things, but most of all wanting a red India-rubber ball. Finally, fearful that he won’t get even that, he asks only for the ball. That’s how I feel about the rain. The man can safely forego a present under the tree for me this year (or can he, evil laughter mwa ha ha!) as long as we get some rain! If we don’t, whooeey people, he better bring his A game in the gift department, otherwise it will be a less than festive season, with much banging of pots in the hot kitchen, deep sighing and a bottom lip constantly on the point of wobble.

For the rain has that effect on me (and I suspect I am not alone in this). Only the arrival of it can magically change everything. Only the arrival of December rain spells the real Christmas season here in Zambia. The lack of it is like a heavy burden you can’t safely put down, one that you have to keep carrying, while still trying to get on with everyday tasks. Not to mention the niggling worry, which you try not to think about, let alone discuss, that it really won’t come. That’s a thought which can keep you awake on a hot, cloudless night.

In the morning you try and shake the thought off and get on with the day. Speaking for myself, I turn to work for my hands when I feel worried. And in December work for my hands is my favourite kind; crafting and decorating in preparation for Christmas. This always includes forays into the wild bush behind our house to pick up twigs and such other bits as catch my eye and I carry these home in great triumph making the man no doubt sometimes wonder if he might as well be living out there himself. It wouldn’t help; I’d collect him too.

Collecting things has always been a hobby of mine; especially bushveld treasures. So when he says he’s going for a drive into the game park, or down to the dam, I’m there, with bells on! So to speak.

Down at the dam, which has water in it, and will hopefully soon have more, there are signs of animals coming down from the surrounding bushveld, in the footprints depressed into the muddy banks.  In the late afternoon sun, a pair of Bushbuck, male and female, approach cautiously and drink their fill. On the opposite side, three zebra are grazing on the green grass which grows in the wet area around the dam. Suddenly one of them takes off with mouth wide, attempting to bite the smallest member of the group. It’s strange to me as they all appear to be females. Perhaps the heat is getting to them too! Perhaps it is hierarchy or simply a case of middle age being annoyed by youth. I really can’t fathom it. Meanwhile closer to me, I see the head of a Water Monitor, or Legavaan, swimming slowly between two large water-logged stumps. There is a turtle here too, but I have never been able to catch him on camera, only fleeting glimpses as the man points him out. Perhaps one of these days I will see him properly. Perhaps one of these days, I will see him – and it will really rain.  

Suddenly, thunder. I hear it rumbling away in the distance for now. It’s a sound we’ve not yet heard this season.  The sky looks considerably more promising, clouds moisture-filled and the air clammy and close. Also, I am told it is pouring in Choma town. So I think – I hope – it is here.

This will be my last blog of the year. Thank you for sticking with me all this time! I appreciate your support and interest so very much. I wish you all a very Happy Christmas and a considerably better New Year for us all. I plan to continue this writing journey in January… hope to see you there.

A song which is beautiful, haunting and always brings a tear to my eye – Celtic Thunder singing Christmas 1915. Get the tissues. You may need them.

For a complete change of mood and tempo, have a listen to this cover by First to Eleven, one of the girl’s favourite bands with “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.” Well, inside my house, it certainly is starting to.

For the funny, whimsical poem King John’s Christmas, by A. A. Milne, and a lovely rendition of Carol of the Bells, please follow this link. https://shellbell.home.blog/verse/

I seldom take my camera on my early morning walk because it is for exercise rather than loitering. With or without intent. Walking briskly with a camera bouncing against you at every step starts to get a little tiresome. I don’t have to document everything; I just enjoy the cool serenity of the morning. And sometimes I see something different.

Like this morning, for instance, as I walk out of the house, a family of warthog are busy crossing the road just outside our front gate. After a moment or two of watching me with whiskery, wary intent, they dash off into the bush. I am glad my dogs have not spotted them – that would have broken the peace! And besides, there are some animals that I’d rather my dogs did not get too near, and warthog with babies are just some of them!

I set off with the dogs bounding joyfully along beside me, making occasional forays into the veld. Them, not me. Not this time. The earth is damp but not wet, and the dogs will not yet be tracking muddy feet back inside the house when we get home. Around me the grass is long and mainly still ochre-coloured, but the trees are bright green. The contrast is breathtaking. And that’s not just because I’ve been walking fast. There is something very beautiful about these late November days; there is intense heat, but there is also the hint of moisture in a sky building up. Those billowy white clouds have not yet piled up into enormous, dark grey towers – but they will.

On a fence post, I see the Lilac-Breasted Roller. I’ve seen him before. And got a photograph. But that was on a different walk. The dogs don’t take much notice of him. They nose about on the verges and one of them makes me laugh as he rushes into the waving grass which is way over his head. He makes small standing jumps to see what he can see – or chase. He is pretty good at stopping if I call him back, but oh, a rabbit is a huge temptation! Happily we don’t see any today. On both sides I am surrounded by green trees and golden grass. I keep walking. Sometimes, it is just good to be.

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An old tune from when my brothers and I were kids. (The eagle-eyed amongst you might remember I’ve had a track from this guy before.) If I had the urge to play music while I walked – which I don’t as I am lucky enough to have a bushveld soundtrack – but if I did, then this would have to be on the list to get my feet moving. Bert Kaempfert doing one of those happy tunes of his, “That Happy Feeling.”

For a pastoral poem by the great John Clare, and another happy melody, Swinging Safari, by Bert Kaempfert, please follow this link :- https://shellbell.home.blog/verse/

Today it is my daughter’s 16^th birthday and I am not with her. What more can I say? I am beset with the bittersweet joy of knowing my child is one year older and the sorrow of not sharing this special milestone with her.

She is of course, away at boarding school and in the middle of exams. How I wish I was like the amazing impala antelope who can hold on to their young and give birth only in better times – in their case, when the rain has come. Imagine! I’d have held on to her until at least after exam time!

Oh well.

I am comforted by the knowledge of at least three birthday angels who will surprise her with treats today; I am so grateful for these other mothers who will step into the breach for a moment today and hug my child for me. I hope, I think – they won’t be the only ones who remember it’s her special day.

But here, back on the farm, I do what I always do when I feel bowed down by life; I go into the garden. But today I am looking at everything through my daughter’s eyes. On the Duranta a striped bumble bee insect finds nectar in the flowers. She’s always loved their fuzzy, neat stripes.

I am drawn to the Caladium whose leaves veined with the brightest pink, remind me of how much she loved that colour when she was a little girl. In the herb bed I see new Bracket fungi are growing… small, round and green. By the time they are starting to look like the polished wood for which they are known, the girl will be home again. For now, they are still soft and wait, as do we all, for the rain.  It has not yet started in earnest. We are told there will be rain at the weekend. Actually, it should start today since it usually rains on her birthday. I look at the sky – it still looks a little too clear to me. But it is hot. So maybe…

Meanwhile, I have spotted something strange – a small piece of grey lichen on a the horn of one of my twig reindeer. It does not fit and catches my eye.  I go to pick it up. Imagine my great surprise when it moves! To my amazement, I find it is an insect. Like the girl, it is quirky, secretive and beautiful. Like her, it chooses not to be the centre of attention. Unlike her, it looks exactly like the tree lichen it emulates. I take a photo. I know she will love this little creature and its chimera-like existence will fascinate her.

Trust Mother Nature to come up with a treasure on a day I really need one; a treasure, moreover, that I can share with my girl when she comes home. In the meantime, happy, blessed birthday, Sweet Sixteen.

If you want to subscribe you can find the subscribe/follow me button at the bottom of the blog. If you are viewing this on your phone, then you will need to scroll right down to find it. Thanks for reading!

A favourite of my daughter’s…Hey Brother, a song of unity and love in the face of adversity by Avicii. Avicii was the stage name of Swedish born Tim Bergling, a dj and musician, who became something of a world-wide music phenomenon during his short life.

For a pith and wit, it’s hard to beat an Ogden Nash poem. And aha! It’s Aha…another of the girl’s favourites. Please follow this link:- https://shellbell.home.blog/verse/

When it comes to identifying birds, I am much more at home in my own garden. In new locations I expect the more expert birders would not have this problem being, as they are, more familiar with a lot more species. And also probably considerably more observant.

I stumble about peering up into trees and trying in vain to figure out what that yellowish bird is…Taking photos does help. As long as they come out of course. Honestly, I have more photos of empty branches, piles of leaves and empty telephone lines than anyone I know! I could produce a veritable coffee table book of them. If, you know, these things were of interest. And then there is a selection, of course, of apparently headless birds – their heads in fact buried in flowers or behind leaves.

From this you might gather that I do not have the reactions of a young leopard; not even, if I am honest, those of an old moggy with only one good eye, dozing in the summer sun. Still, from time to time I surprise myself with quite a nice photo.

Such was the case with the Arrow-Marked Babbler I recently spotted on the bird count day. What was particularly interesting about him, was that he only appeared to have one leg. He was not as agile as his companions certainly, but I was intrigued at how well he had adapted to his lack of limb. He had a certain reckless fling-myself-into it sort of gait, lurching a little from side to side as he hopped around the ground in search of food. He reminded me of myself in fact – and not just for his habitual chatter. But also, I imagine I present a similar picture, trailing camera and tripod; in my habitual clumsiness I stumble as I stand on unseen large stones, step in holes and staggering sideways into the foliage, generally cause mayhem amongst the bird population who dwell in hedge and bush. In fact, on reflection, the one-legged Babbler is much more adept than I at getting about and certainly better adapted.

Birds are truly remarkable at adapting in fact. There are many instances of this but one which always fascinates me is the presence of the magnificent, wild peregrine falcons in various cities around the world, who have taken to dwelling on the outsides of city buildings, their nests a skyscraper eyrie. From there they must have an incredible view of the ground below them, but it intrigues me that they have somehow learnt to live with the noise of traffic and the often polluted air.

One of the famous and fascinating cases, to me, of adaptation, concerns the Carrion Crows of Tokyo. Crows are of course known for their intelligence and ability to learn, but these have taken smart thinking to their own level. They drop walnuts into the traffic and then retrieve the kernel after cars’ wheels have smashed the shell. But what is even more astonishing to me is that these birds have learnt not to fly into the traffic to get at the nuts; they drop their walnuts at pedestrian crossings and then, when the humans step out and cross over, so do the crows.

In nearly every hotel or inn I have stayed at, here in Zambia, and in Mauritius, sparrows can be seen scavenging amongst the breakfast tables, in search of crumbs and bits of fruit. In some places they become so used to people, they have to be shooed away since they are quite happy to land on the breakfast table and have a go at your newly-buttered toast.

In new environments I do try to adapt. Wherever I stay, I go and armed with camera, bird apps on my phone and bird books in my bag. I am part of an excellent bird group who are a WhatsApp message away and often come to my assistance. Then there are the four highly proficient bird enthusiasts in my own family that I can call on, who are almost always able to help me with identifying. Sometimes it is hopeless, beyond even them. For after all, it’s not their fault that the photo is so blurry that the only impression one has from it is that those things might be feathers… or that the only sound recording I manage to capture is almost instantly out-decibled by a fellow guest calling out to a friend in the car park, roughly 1km away…

I will be taking a break for a while. See you in November sometime!

A favourite Bruce Springsteen song of mine and that of the man, from the film The Wrestler. “If you’ve ever seen a one trick pony….you’ve seen me. ”

For a poem Lullaby of the Birds, and a clip from one of David Attenborough’s fascinating documentaries, showing crows using the city to their advantage, please follow this link. https://shellbell.home.blog/verse/