A TOUCH OF THE BLUES

New Zealand Listener, Volume 3, Issue 59, 9 August 1940, Page 13

A TOUCH OF THE BLUES

Concerning (In Parts) A World-Famous Grotto

(Written for 66 The Listener 9} by

RONALD

BUCHANAN

é don’t you write something about the Blue Grotto of Capri?" asked my partner in a game of deck quoits when we had resumed our chairs and had begun to discuss some of the activities of shore life. "But I haven't seen it," I said; "I don’t know anything about it." "That doesn’t matter," she replied; "you can easily look it up in a book." That seemed sensible enough, and came nearer to my usual practice than she perhaps imagined. (I remembered a bright young priest in St. Paul’s Cathedral, who, when I appealed to him for an exact translation of a Latin inscription I had just been reading said: "Let’s go and have a look at it; if we can’t make it out, we can make it up"). And so this morning, as I was beginning to feel that after three days in bed, it was time to be doing something for a living, my mind reverted to the Blue Grotto. I had better see what could be done about it. Bluegums and Bears I was not yet up and about, so conditions were hardly favourable for a serious effort in either research or invention. But there lay ready to hand one of those little pocket encyclopedias we are most of us familiar with. It might at least offer some point of departure for the excursion I had in mind. So I turned the pages eagerly. Blue-bird; Blue-books; Blue-gum-"A species of Australian tree yielding eucalyptus oil, an antiseptic remedy of great use..." Now, here was something I did know a. little about. The room was already redolent of it, but I reached for the bottle by my bedside and took another sniff. "Aha, penetrating stuff, this." I said, and fell to wondering whether the little Koala bears I had lately been admiring in Taronga Park in Sydney ever suffered from colds in the head. Gentle and attractive fellows they are, asking only to be left alone to nibble and sleep among the branches of their favourite gums, for it is not every species of eucalypt that is to their liking. In the Park in Sydney, and in other similar sanctuaries, they are safe and well provided for, but in the country, where grazing areas are being extended and bush fires are frequent, their habitat and food supply are alike threatened, Fire, Flood and Snakes I recalled those fearful days during the summer of 1938-39 in Australia, when the fire swept mercilessly through bush and settlement, leaving vast areas of black desolation where now stand, in place of the stately trees that were the glory of the countryside, only the grim, stark skeletons of dead giants, "stretching gaunt arms with a voiceless yearning." And a little later, some of those same areas were flooded by torrential rains, Tragic indeed is the spirit that broods over the bush in Australia, and splendid is the courage of the men and women,

who, amid the wreckage of their hopes and fortunes, can face.the future undaunted. And of course, there are the snakes, always a factor to be reckoned with. But the Australian settlers, even the children, know how to deal with snake bites-a tourniquet, scarification of the wound, and then, where possible, medical attention, usually an injection. The correct antidote is determined by the species of snake that has done the mischief, so if the victim can contrive to take the offending reptile along with him for classification, it is all to the good. I remember the case of a small boy who was bitten in the leg while walking alone in the bush. He bound his handkerchief tightly about the: limb, and, having no knife with which to make an incision, he pluckily shot away the injured spot with a little rifle which he carried. Then he hobbled home to his ‘mother, who sucked the wound and soon had him well, But the culprit is not always a snake. A Scotch thistle, it is said, can give a very good imitation of the real thing. If there appears only one puncture, where there should be two, little sympathy can be expected from the doctor. Among the Immortals But all this was rather remote from my subject. So I took another glance at the helpful little encyclopaedia. Blue Coat School: And in a moment my thoughts had drifted away to an old

church-Christ Church-just off Newgate Street in London, on the west front of which is the inscription: Elia. To the Immortal Memory ot Charles Lamb, Perhaps the most loved name in English Literature, who was a Blue Coat Boy here for seven years. On the other side of the narrow lane fronting the church is the Postmen’s Garden, a secluded little haven of rest that seems utterly remote from the life and noise of the city, though it lies under the very wall of the General Post Office, and adjacent to one of London’s busiest thoroughfares. It was, indeed, to make room for Post Office expansion that Christ’s Hospital (the Blue Coat School) was demolished not so long ago. It was originally the house of the Grey Friars, and the present church stands on the site of the old church of the priory. I wondered if some ghostly Franciscan Friar. ever walks the Postmen’s Garden o’nights and meditates upon a changing world. And then in happy memory I wandered on to the green lanes of Buckinghamshire, through which one memorable day I motored with two descendants of another famous Blue Coat Boy, Leigh Hunt. My friends had spent the previous day in delivering gas masks, and I hope they enjoyed as I did the peaceful charms c’ those English by-ways. We sped along through many a village to the lovely old church at Stoke Poges,

a sacred shrine to all lovers of Gray's Elegy. As we stood before the grave of the poet, and read on an adjoining slab his tribute to his "careful, tender mother" who had predeceased him, and beside whom he lies, a friendly robin redbreast alighted upon a nearby tombstone and gave us a cheery greeting. By-ways and Side-tracks Then on we went, past Jordan’s Meeting House (the Westminster Abbey of the Quakers), where rests William Penn, with many of his kindred, to the quaint old cottage in Chalfont St. Giles, where Milton finished Paradise Lost and began the sequel, while the plague raged in London. What matter that it rained all the way home? I had seen some of the beauties of "Beechy Bucks" and learned something of its cherished associations. My memories would long outlast the showers. Snare and Delusion But Buckinghamshire is a long way from Capri. The encyclopedia had proved a delusion and a snare and had side-tracked me badly; and the next entry that caught my eye as I turned again to its pages gave little promise of a better concentration on my subject. It was "Blue Peter," the flag flown to announce an early sailing. Would it were possible, I murmured. Oh, to be in England! and Ont Theat oc s: My reverie was rudely disturbed by a familiar voice from below: "This is London calling in the overseas service of the BBC." I remembered that the world was at war. For the present, at least, there was no place like home. ? * * * I had got thus far in setting down these reflections when I realised with dismay that I had already written wéll up to the limit of my space and had not even reached my theme. So that was that. But some day I really must get down to that article about the Blue Grotto of Capri.