Travel Reference
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off, he would just look at me like he's saying, 'What happened to us, man? We used to be in
charge round here!'
I knew exactly what he meant. The place was feeling like bedlam. And the noise! Every-
body, it seemed, was now playing with marbles. Samuel and Maurice had been playing in
the field until Junior, unable to cope with seeing others enjoying themselves, ate one of their
marbles. They were now playing inside. On a tile floor! And the noise went through me, it
was like iron gauntlets scraping down a blackboard. Thérence would then pick up the marbles
and throw them at the windows or the television and the cats were constantly chasing the
marbles around the house. It was total anarchy and no matter how much shouting, threaten-
ing, swearing or begging I did, it just wouldn't stop. At times like this you have to take solace
in the little things but it was so manic and noisy that I couldn't think of any.
In the face of all this pandemonium I responded with a proper, masculine, hunter-gatherer
pastime: I built fires. If I'm honest, the first winter we were here Natalie had to show me
how to build and light a fire, which is as pathetic as it sounds, but since then I've become
something of an expert. I find it, disturbing as this may sound, both enjoyable and fulfilling.
And make no mistake - the job doesn't end once the thing's lit. There's all manner of prod-
ding, adding to, flume adjustment and control freakery to be employed. As someone who has
to bring his 'just can't leave it alone-ness' to everything he does, it's manna from heaven to
me. The winter evenings literally flew by.
The one problem, though, with a real log fire is temperature control; they don't control them-
selves, they're either on or they're not, meaning that if it's the first (and possibly only) job you
do all day, and you start in the morning, by dinner time it is so ridiculously warm that despite
plunging, sub-zero temperatures outside, it is too hot to do anything other than just lie about
indoors in your pants.
There are two open fireplaces indoors; one more than is necessary, so we only use one,
which is just as well because in spring we had owls nesting in the unused chimney. A
Spring-
watch
, Bill Oddie-type privilege you might think? Well, sort of. They are majestic beasts to
be sure. There were four of them, all adolescent but big nonetheless, and they would perch
on the chimney itself as darkness fell, the light hitting their wings as they flew off in search
of prey; and in that respect it really did feel like a privilege to have them nest so close. But
seriously, the noise! Whoever it was who first suggested that owls go
tu-whit tu-whoo
was
either a soppy git, a drunk or deaf and possibly all three. They do not go
tu-whit tu-whoo
at all, at least barn owls around here don't. Far from being the kind of noise which makes
you pause, go misty eyed and say to your children, 'Did you hear that children? That was a
wise old owl', this is the kind of noise that makes grown men crumble, piercing your soul
as you rush screaming from the scene shouting, 'The Devil cometh! Repent!' It is not
tu-whit
tu-whoo
. The topic we have describes it as a shrill
khrihh
, which is best summed up as either
