What is Life

The poet William Henry Davis famously wrote: ‘What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare….

Every evening of late, just after dusk, the ‘boys’ Pinot and Rufus take up their positions; P sitting alert on the threshold of the front porch, gazing upwards in fixed concentration. R, being shorter, yet twice as feisty, having got as high as he can – onto the gallery table or sideboard – adopts the same posture. In the silence the tension is palpable. No theatre audience ever sat in such wrapt anticipation of the curtain rising. Gypsy begs to come inside – she knows this show, gets easily bored and prefers a belly-rub.

Then the show starts. Mister or probably Missus Rat on the concrete ring-beam pokes his or her nose round the corner of the wall – a full 9 or 10 feet above the floor. The ‘boys’ start to go crazy; keening, barking, prancing and Rufus jumping clear into the air. Rat’s nose comes and goes a few times peeking and retreating behind the wall, adrenaline rising – then he’s off ! – making a serpentine traverse the length of the ring-beam – snaking down and around each rafter, claw-hanging onto each hurricane clip – like any of the great bare-handed rock-climbers, with the dogs in excited anticipatory pursuit below; until at last she reaches the other corner and disappears from sight into the night.

The show is over. The dogs settle down immediately – with their questions; “where’s the remote?” and “who’s got the peanuts?”

My question is, “Why doesn’t the head of that rat family go quietly ‘across’ the roof each evening instead of  journeying precariously ‘under’ it?”

The Hitchins gardener in Trinidad once told the mistress of the house, “Mistress, your friends, Mr and Mrs Rat just arrived.”

“No Isaiah,” she said, “it’s not RAT; it’s pronounced Mr and Mrs RAH.”

Sometime later he came again to the lady of the house;

“Mistress, you should know; plenty RAHs in de chicken-house.”

A Sting in the Tale

A few days ago my faithful friend and house-keeper came and told me she’d seen several bees buzzing around the side wall of ‘the old-wooden house’.
‘They’re probably a scouting-party’, I told her. Let’s hope so. With bee-colonies worldwide being under threat these days from the over-use of toxic pesticides.

It reminded me of a similar situation with the same old house a number of years ago:

One of the things about living in old houses, especially old West Indian Wooden houses is that they’re full of history. Now, believe it or not, to a bee ‘bee history’ is very important, so much so that whenever there is the need for new quarters for a dividing or ‘swarming’ hive, the bees scout around their very large district and can usually find an old but currently unoccupied place to set up the new nest by ‘sniffing out’ the long ago remnants of an old location. Apparently there is some residual scent detected by the bees who then bring the new group back to an old site.
This happened a couple of times in the small house I was living in up in the mountain in St Kitts. The first time I was not actually the tenant but the neighbour, an unsympathetic ‘radio-ham’, occupying the house had merely had them smoked out unceremoniously and had the access hole into the cavity between the wooden side wall of the house sealed off. That was a bad idea; for a couple of years later, by which time I had acquired the house and was living in it, they came back. Finding no difficulty in gaining new access, very soon there was a constant flight of bees in and out of a small hole just under the gallery floor, which like the rest of the residence was of wood; and really they were not troublesome.
Eventually I decided that if I was to be surrounded by bees, I’d better get them into a proper home and invoked the assistance of Doug Llew-wiss, our vereey Welsh – “south act-uallly, Swanseee to be truuthful – well – Mumbles – (the place, not him) – see?” – local Apiarist, together with Ralph Vanier our ‘sort-of-retired’ bee-keeper, both apiarists ‘extraordinaire’. They came complete with smokers, veils, suits, and a crow-bar, to prise open the wall to reach the wild nest within, and to set it up in an empty hive they’d brought with them.
Some time later Doug came up with a second hive-full of bees to go with the ‘first set’ that they had extricated from the house that  quiet afternoon in  April – quiet that was until they started meddling with the bbbbb’s, who were by then well ensconced in their new quarters but in need of some added ‘strength’.
This second hive Doug had obtained as a ‘swarm’ somewhere ‘in  the country’ and he reckoned they were a strong colony and  would add to my interest in ‘Bee-Keeping’ – as opposed to  just ‘bee-having’ as the books say. He  was going back to Wales for his son’s  wedding  and  a vacation,  having said that he would visit  Bayfords again  upon his return to put another ‘super’ on top of  this strong  hive.  That’s  a  sort of  upper-deck,  and  with  a screening  device with which one can exclude the Queen from  going  up there  to lay and so, consequently, just have honey stored there by the diligent workers.
“You shooould ‘ave  honeeey by Chriss-mass” Doug had said, enthusiastically, before his departure.
Well,  all  went that way,  until a short time later, on a Sunday afternoon, when  two bees were a’buzzzin’ round my head as I sat in my room at this  machine (or its predecessor) writing a couple of letters – “why don’t you two buzzz off?” I’d said, a trifle irritatedly by that time. Later  passing  through  the living-room on my  way  to  the Kitchen,  imagine my concern at seeing at least  150 bees’ in there buzzing round inside. I thought perhaps they were trying to find, or maybe had found,  new nesting quarters about the house.  I  opened all  the doors and windows and shut myself back in my  room. Then,  after a brief shower of rain, bingo – no more ‘in-house-bound’ bees – until the next time…..

Tunnel

So now St Kitts can boast a road-tunnel. The old ‘cut’ on the Sir KAS Highway – the SE Peninsular Road – was always potentially dangerous from falling rocks – especially after heavy rains. So they cut back the terrain, filled in the cut with the spoil, then took the rocks out again and built a tunnel – after having constructed a ‘slip-road’ to link the upper and lower levels of the highway. The whole project, it seems, has been going on longer than the whole original highway construction back in the 1980’s – no doubt at the cost of many millions. So my questions are, was it really necessary, and what happens to the very substantial ‘slip-road’? Or as was famously said in film and song back in the 1966 British Movie, ‘What’s it all about, Alfie?’

Hello –

Welcome to my Blog – ‘Is it serious Doc?’ – This is my first post – I hope it creates a stir, or at least some responses as I sit here ‘in the mountain’ on a beautiful May morning, writing. The dogs, Gypsy [the Duchess], Pinot [aka. ‘Black Adder’] and Rufus [aka. ‘Baldric’] are all taking their midday ‘quietly’ out of the sun. Good aromas are emanating from the kitchen – it must be nearly time for a cold thirst-quencher. Talk to you later.