Savage Pleasure

I only realised that hunting is an animal instinct deep in the human race when I read Thomas Harris’ ‘The Silence of the Lambs.’ Hunting driven by pleasure is a theme of the book.

Many people disapprove of cat behaviour. Cats are not only superb hunters, but they are perceived to enjoy hunting, to take pleasure in the chase. As kittens, and less frequently as adults, they enjoy playing games which hone their hunting skills, games that we as children whose play was rarely supervised by adults, also played. Hide-and-seek and tig sometimes require a player to act as predator, sometimes as prey. In a situation where it is understood that the prey is not in real danger there is also pleasure in being preyed upon. Why else, as young children, would we, to our shame, have taunted an old man to come and catch us, as we stood at a safe distance ready to disappear through the open door of an outhouse when he responded? Now our male cat taunts me by audibly sharpening his claws on a carpet I value more than others, ready to run when I appear to chase him.

Long before we left primary school we became bored with these childhood games. The boys turned to Cowboys and Indians as a form of play hunting, and I assumed that hunting was something other people did. Sportsmen on horseback hunt foxes with hounds and many of us regard this as a cruel sport. Police forces hunt criminals and those whom the state considers enemies; but, when we hunt for a mate, a house, a bargain, treasure, we’re not really hunting, are we?

‘Problem-solving is hunting, it is savage pleasure and we are born to it,’ wrote Thomas Harris. These words made me interrupt my reading of this gripping book, showing me myself and others (including animals) in a new light.

May Storm

On the last Monday of May, unusually for this time of year, there was a storm. Our three massive beech trees became giant seaweeds swaying in the current. Watching from a window I saw a stream of leafy broken twigs flowing at eye level from south to north. A voice on the radio repeatedly interrupted the scheduled programme to tell of roads all over the country blocked by fallen trees; but it was mid-afternoon before a great limb was torn from one of our beech trees, the tree on which W. Moore had carved his name in 1914, probably before he set off to fight in the Great War realising he might never return.

The bulk of the torn limb was taken away by the men who cleared the road. Beech is a hardwood the colour of dried pasta. I can think of no reason why it cannot be turned into beautiful furniture, but the fate of this beech branch is to be sawn into logs and burned. Meanwhile we import shesham wood furniture from India where carpentry skills have not died out. The price of oil and other fuels has been steadily increasing, so it is not surprising that the largest remaining chunks of wood also disappeared. That left a heap of unwanted branches blocking the footpath.

One day last week John and I started to dismantle the pile disdained by power-saw owners. We threw, heaved, pulled and dragged branches back into our own territory, returning the next day to continue the work. Using muscle power I sawed up a few of the smaller, shorter branches and burned them for comfort during these June evenings when the temperature can drop, untypically, to a few degrees above zero.

Two long pasta-coloured gashes mark the places where the limb became detached from the tree. What should we do next? The beeches may be coming to the end of their lives. John has just found a google map showing how mature trees lined this road in 1860. The lifespan of a beech is reckoned to be between 150 and 200 years, but it may survive up to 300 years.

The people who planted the trees thought ahead. Future generations would enjoy their beauty, their nuts would provide food for birds, their branches fuel for people, their timber could be shaped into chairs or staircases or parquet floors. But it was not to work out that way. Trees are now not a resource but a financial liability to their owners. A day’s work by a tree surgeon could cost the equivalent of a year’s minimum wage.

I see a very large jinn called the Free Market striding the Earth, determining what we eat, how we keep ourselves warm, what we wear, how we earn our living. With a cup of coffee beside me, I am aware of the benefits it has brought, but also of the way the straitjacket has been steadily tightening.

Freetown John

I was not aware of the existence of John O’Neill Walsh, of Freetown Sierra Leone and Magherafelt Ireland, until my husband returned from the Public Records Office and said he had found his will. John, the brother of one of my ancestors, died in Freetown in 1822. Among his possessions were a table, ten wine glasses and books.

Freetown John can’t have been an old man when he died: he bequeathed property to aunts. What was he doing in Sierra Leone? Husband John suggested he was in the British navy or army, but we soon discounted that. Perhaps he was a trader?

By coincidence I happened to read ‘Ox Travels’ a recently published collection of stories by thirty-six travel writers who have donated all their royalties to Oxfam. I was surprised to find two pieces were set in Sierra Leone. Aminatta Forna recalled being entertained by a street performer while she waited at Hastings Airport; but it was Tim Butcher’s story, ‘Letting Greene go’ that provided a sketch of the city and beamed a light on its past.

Thirty years before John O’Neill Walsh died some of the first slaves to be freed gathered to have a service of thanksgiving under the massive cotton tree which still stands in Siaka Stevens Street. While he lived conscience-stricken Britain had its navy scour the ocean for ships of less enlightened nations which still transported slaves. The navy’s aim was to rescue them and resettle them in Sierra Leone. By 1827, five years after his death, Fourah Bay College, the oldest university in colonial Africa, had been founded as an Anglican Missionary School and Freetown was on its way to becoming ‘The Athens of Africa.’ Perhaps John, with his books, emphasising his Irishness with his middle name, taught in a school which provided more elementary education.

Even if you don’t have family connections with Sierra Leone, I heartily recommend you read ‘Ox Travels’. Nicholas Shakespeare’s account of his journey to Benin with his sister and Brazilian brother-in-law in search of the former street boy’s ancestors is an appetite-whetting starter for a varied feast. Peter Godwin finds himself in grave danger in his native Zimbabwe when he is brought to a secret diamond mine; Ruth Padel’s Burma has people who turn into tigers at night; a veteran matador allows Jason Webster discover the symbolism in bullfighting; Rory Stewart describes the creation of the Turquoise Mountain project in a threatened section of medieval Kabul. These are only a few of the stories which come to mind as I write this.

If ‘Ox Travels’ was published before John O’Neill Walsh embarked on his journey to Sierra Leone, I’m sure he would have put it in his trunk.