25th February, approx. 0900hours

Arrived in the port of Aden after a relatively relaxed journey down through the Red Sea, and embarked to the hustle and bustle of another Arabian port city.  I must say that I'm still adjusting to all this heat, and I'm glad that the Indian Queen wasn't an exceptionally fast ship so that the temperature rise wasn't too abrupt.  This is still winter but it's still so dashed hot that I had to bribe Corporal Fleming to doing a spot of fanning during the middle of the day, and to fill some of my water sacks with ice he purloined from the ship's bar when he could.
Now we're on dry land, with an emphasis on the dry, there's no respite unless you're able to drape yourself over a chair in a local bar.  Corporal Fleming has again been mightily resourceful in surveying the best routes to and from our headquarters and the Embassy and any other buildings we're required to visit during the heat of the day.  Our esteemed commander seems bent on punishing us all with rampant heatstroke to gain very little. My trusted batman has found many a useful 'refreshment' stop along the way.
I am particularly enamoured of a small cafe bar here wherein there is a most charming Oriental lady who dances those exotic dances well remembered from the Arabian tales of The Thousand And One Nights and other stories from this region.  She has entranced me for some hours at a time already, and we've only just arrived.  Her movements set my frenzied into flight as if it were being taken for a ride on a magical flying carpet through a wondrous city.  If it were not for the fact that I know that I'm in a wondrous city in an exotic land I would think myself mad.  Corporal Fleming fortunately brings me back to earth and to sanity by telling me that we have to return to headquarters to complete our tasks however, which is my saving grace.

A Short Pigeon-Morse Code Message From The Colonel

Good evening all

I must apologise for my lack of communication of late, but I was on recall to the Camel Corps on top secret duties in the Simpson Desert (again!). I did send this message some months ago, but I'm afraid the pigeon I've been using is getting rather long in the tooth (or beak, rather) and ended up delivering my message to another travel journal, that of Colonel Roger Farquhar of the Royal Grenadier Guards. Very similar, you see, quite understandable that the poor old thing got a bit confused. I should retire her, I know, but I haven't the heart to see her ending her days stuck in a retirement coop.

Anyway, hope to continue adding some more notes to the journal soon.

Colonel R. Farquhear, RCC (rtd.).

A Commission By Mr. Jerome Sidebottom, Esq.

To celebrate the first new arrival to my camel-breeding program, a young camel just born, I've commissioned an illustration from my good friend Mr. Jerome Sidebottom, Esq., 'artist-at-large' in these regions.  Hmm, 'artist-at-large' sounds rather like the illusive black panther that I've been seeking to capture.  Not as ferocious, however.  Anyway, here in all it's glory is my adoratum to my faithful companion of many moons, my dear Colette of the Royal Camel Corps.

Oh dear, the thought of that sweet old camel brings a tear to the eye. Yes, she's still with me, but getting on a bit now. She's a bit of a grumpy old grandma, but is still good with the littlies, camel and human. Makes me want to break into song, so here's a little ditty of my own. It's one I scribbled down on the verge of my retirement from the RCC. Feel free to singalong!

(Refrain)

Dear sweet Colette, I’ll never forget

Those times we spent together.

But dear Colette, I’ll always regret

Leaving you at the end of your tether.

Deep in the desert, hear my call

Your Colonel has not forgotten you at all.

‘Cross windswept sands I hear your voice

But for leaving you, I was left no choice.

If I could see once more those amusing eyes

You standing tall under that bluest of skies.

I would ask you again to be my desert guide

And on your rolling body I would lovingly ride.

Dear sweet Colette, I’ll never forget

Those times we spent together.

But dear Colette, I’ll always regret

Leaving you at the end of your tether.

I remember balmy nights camped at some wadi

You and I sharing the last of my hot toddy.

Then to bed ‘neath stars, till the coolness of the dawn

Queen of the desert, I’m still your king, your knight, your pawn.

So, deep in the desert, Colette, hear my call

Your Colonel has not forgotten you at all.

‘Cross windswept sands I hear your voice

Oh, but for leaving you, I was left no choice.

Dear sweet Colette, I’ll never forget

Those times we spent together.

But dear Colette, I’ll always regret

Leaving you at the end of your tether.

22nd February 1830 hours

Corporal Fleming had picked up one of the local newspapers during our stay in Alexandria and pointed out to me a small article on page three of the tome.  It told of an adventurer by the name of Mr. George Walker who had been prospecting for gold in the Transvaal region of southern Africa.  This Boer republic had been annexed by Her Majesty in 1877 and there had been speculation as to possible large gold deposits in payable quantities to be found there.  

A number of other prospectors had made claims before but it was Mr. Walker who discovered what  seemed to be referred to as the 'Main Reef Leader', a vast store of gold-bearing rock stretching many thousands of feet downwards from ground level.  The article also spoke of the 'fever' which had started to rage amongst citizens of our African colonies even as far north as Egypt.

Corporal Fleming had of course already relayed this information to many of the enlisted men, and there had been some wild talk of resigning from the military and heading for the goldfields.

I must admit the thought crossed my mind too for a brief interlude, then I came back to my senses.  Grovelling in the dirt or digging hard rock underground was not to my taste, that's why I volunteered for the Camel Corps.  Riding above the ground at a relaxed pace seemed much more convivial than being covered in mud and dirt and grime.  I mean to say, my days as a common foot soldier were fairly short, due wholly to my determination as to not remaining in the position of being ordered about by beetroot-faced Sergeant-Majors for the rest of my days.

So, with a lot of grit and a nose to the grindstone I studied for an officer's commission.  After all, it had been Prime Minister Gladstone's Liberal government which had established a more equitable system of entry into the higher ranks of the military, and of the Civil Service, some years prior that had given me a sense of the possibility of achieving that goal.  That and the fact that my uncle on my father's side was an Admiral in the Royal Navy, and who put a quiet word in the right ears here and there.  Thank you Admiral Edgar Buxtehude Shuntwiggle!!

Almost makes me want to break into song (ahem).  And I just happen to have a little ditty handy that was written by my good uncle for a light opera, one that he composed in those idle hours on the bridge when he'd delegated all his duties to lower ranked officers.  

Ah yes, dear Uncle Edgar, a man of many parts is he!

The Admiral's Sea Shanty

We're coming into port

With a cheering escort

And I'm on the bridge looking dashing.

My ship's the Renown

She sails for the Crown

(Harrumph) All shipshape and Bristol fashion.

If e'er you'd mock her

To Davy Jones locker

When you've had a damned good lashing.

Descended from Nelson

(Ahem) Well, maybe his bosun

And pirates, with teeth all a-gnashing.

I'm not at sea

Yet still, I may be

When I'm in my indoor pool.

Well, it's really my bath

So sit on that hearth

And you'll learn how Britannia still rules.

My toy boat collection

I make selections

Bring nations together to duel.

Wearing my floaties

I battle with boaties

Transfixed so that I start to drool.  (Slurrrp) Oh, terribly sorry about that!  I get so carried away, you know!  Now, where was I??!!  Oh yes!

We're coming into port

With a cheering escort

And I'm on the bridge looking dashing.

My ship's the Renown

She sails for the Crown

All shipshape and Bristol fashion.

If e'er you'd mock her

To Davy Jones locker

When you've had a damn good lashing.

Descended from Nelson

Well, yes, his bosun

And pirates, with teeth all a-gnashing.

Oh dashed good fun!  And what a jolly old roger Uncle Edgar is!   Yo ho ho, eh!  Well,I think it might be time for a gin and tonic water.

22nd February 0730 hours

Embarked once again with all personnel safely secured on board.  Several of the enlisted men, who had been assumed to have been AWOL were actually found down in one of the workrooms on the lower levels where the engine room is.  They said that they had returned late at night and stumbled on board without the watch seeing them.  They had been carousing in a local bar for most of the day, drinking a particularly potent sample of Egyptian wine.

Once on board they headed for what they assumed were the stairs to their quarters, but blindly arrived where they were, totally disorientated.  They shouted for help for a time but the area they were in was so protected that sound couldn't travel too easily.  They gave up mostly due to delirium and tiredness and fell into a long, deep sleep.  

It was some of the ship's engineers who found them and they were summarily brought in front of their commanding officer and sharply reprimanded.  Ten rounds of the ship at a run interspersed with 100 pushups was the punishment.  A tad harsh, by my standards but then Captain Fortescue-Smythe has a reputation for handing out stinkers, and then sitting watching his victims endure it all.  He often sits with a bell, ringing it on each lap and cheering on the lads as if it were a local sporting carnival!  Certainly not my cup of tea!  Just a few days in the brig to sweat it out is enough punishment, I believe.  But then Captain Fortescue-Smythe's grandfather used to be a member of the infamous Hellfire Club, so that says it all really.

Anyway, the Indian Queen set sail for the Suez Canal, which was a source of great excitement amongst the personnel as no-one amongst us had ever seen such a marvel of man's engineering before.  We were practically all of us hanging on some part of the ship for the first few steps in our progress through the canal.  It was only that Major-General Basilworth came up on deck and considered the men to be a little too idle for his liking that we would've been there to the end.  However, he considered that all the officers should have the men cleaning their rifles and kit, and then doing a spot of drilling on one of the open deck areas at the stern.  Dashed spoilsport if you ask me, but then that's life in the Camel Corps.

The Prague Connection

My aunt on my mother's side, Aunt Hermione, married a Slovakian doctor and was whisked away to Prague to be a wife and mother to three fine daughters.  She and I have always had a constant communication via letters, and occasional visits to the Continent by my good self.  Just recently I received this photograph of a portrait commissioned by my aunt in respect to my exploits.  The photos show two of her servants, one a nanny and the other their cook, holding the portrait.  The local residents of the area had heard of my exploits through conversation with my aunt when they visited her husband's clinic.  They were so enthused about my adventures they asked if they could parade the portrait through the streets around the section of the old city, where my aunt lives, in celebration.  

A most wonderful appreciation, indeed!  I am quite overwhelmed and, well, almost embarrassed really.  But then, as the Colonel, I must take it in my stride.

21st February 2100 hrs

The Major-General had us all on deck, officers and enlisted men, at 0600 hours for 3 hours of morning calisthenics to 'cleanse the body of the effects of the previous night's impurities', he explained.  He was so enthused about the potential benefits he considered we would feel, that he proceeded to tell his adjutant that this would be written down as a standing order for 'all personnel' twice daily for the rest of the voyage, and possibly beyond.  This was voiced to the muted groan from 'all personnel', especially the enlisted men.

Their reaction prompted further blustering from Basilworth as to the requirements of 'all personnel' to accede to every request, by the directors of Her Majesty's forces, for obedience and discipline...etc, etc.  Any further groaning was immediately attended to by an infusion of Sergeant-Major high-decibel commands into the earhole of any offending Corporal or Private. These actions produced a crescendo of laughter from the wharf below as groups of Egyptian dock labourers watched the comedy being played out on board ship.

This illustration was made at the ball by a local French artist whom the French Consul had employed to make a record of the night's celebration for the ball.  Seated at the far end are the British Ambassador and Mrs Charles Worthington.

Evening of the 20th, 1900 hours

Later that evening, the Corps' officers were invited by the French Consul to a ball in honour of Anglo-French relations.  All of French and British Alexandrian society were there , as well as a smattering of Egyptian government officials, judiciary and wealthier merchants.  Among the latter I noted a couple of familiar faces from my little sojourn earlier in the day.

I was introduced by Major-General Basilworth to the niece of the British Ambassador and Mrs Charles Worthington, a Miss Leonara Godaire, who was sailing on another vessel, from the Orient Line, currently docked in Alexandria.  She was on her way to Australia and her uncle and aunt were escorting her there to take up residence in the town of Katoomba, in a region west of Sydney known as the Blue Mountains.

Intrigued by her ravishing beauty, I requested a number of dances on her dance card, even though I had not been prepared to admit that I had scant knowledge of some of the dance styles.  Fortunately for me, Miss Godaire was a very popular partner for the night and, by chance, had saved for me those dances of which I was a master bar none.  Perhaps still dreaming a little of the ghawarzee from Cafe Masmoudi, I proceeded to elegantly twirl the lady around the floor to an arousingly magical Strauss waltz, as I engaged her in light conversation about my plans for camel breeding once I retired from the Royal Camel Corps.  She seemed to be exceedingly amused by my arguments for manually applied insemination of the female.

However, having noticed in her purse a small bottle labelled Ether, I enquired of her as to what might be its purpose.  She whispered in my ear that she had been prescribed its use, to help her 'moods', by her Swiss private physician.  But she said that she sometimes took too large a dose, as was now probably the case.  

In light of this, I pondered this revelation for the rest of the night, having been thrown into confusion as to the true nature of her previous converse.  The ball's gaiety faded into the night and we bid our farewells to new friends and old.  I thanked the Ambassador and his wife for the privilege of escorting their lovely niece around the ballroom floor.  I bowed to a mutedly giggling Miss Godaire, who proceeded to exclaim loudly that she would save all her dance card spots for me should I ever come to Katoomba.  I blushed as the Ambassador glared reprimandingly at me probably thinking of all the possible breaches of etiquette regarding his niece's virtue that may have occurred during the evening.  I quickly realised that his understanding of the true effects of his ward's medicinal prescription was severely limited. Aware thus, I acceded a very reserved "Perhaps!" to the lady as I backed slowly out the door.  

At left is a photograph of my good self taken by Corporal Fleming near to where the SS Indian Queen was docked whilst in Alexandria.

20th February, Alexandria, Egypt 0800 hours

Not much to report. Pleasant voyage so far with no hitches. Docked at Alexandria for some supplies and the Major-General allowed us onshore leave for half a day.  Corporal Fleming said he knew of a local coffee-house where there were local women who perform what is called 'bellydancing', and will do so for foreigners privately for a fee.

When we arrived at Cafe Masmoudi the owner, Abdul, greeted Corporal Fleming like a prodigal son returning to the fold.  We were plied with hookahs and houmous and hot lemon tea, and then came the 'dessert'.  We would be allowed to observe two fine 'ghawazee' dancers who had been brought in from the desert to perform for some local Egyptian bureaucrats.  We were told to wait in a room at the back of the cafe until summoned.  When the time came we were ushered into a small enclave at the back of a larger room that was filled with low divans and cushions laid around the walls.

A small group of musicians were seated on one side, and on the other, fortunately facing away from us, were the men whom we considered to be the Egyptian government officials who were paying for this privilege.  The seated drummer began a slow and hypnotic rhythm.  From behind a curtain hanging near one entrance to the room could be heard the jangling of tiny bells.  Then, all at once, the curtain was drawn aside and two women, one slim and relatively young, the other, older, rounder and quite voluptuous, appeared and moved slowly to the beat stepping first one way, then the other.  Their hips would shake on the deeper notes of the drum and then abruptly jerk to one side perfectly in time to the higher pitch notes.  These movements had an alluring sensuality to them that I had not ever experienced in any form of dance I had viewed or participated in before.  I was mesmerised and it was not until Corporal Fleming whispered that perhaps I should close my mouth to stop flies from entering that I fully realised this.  

Just then the oud and flute players joined in and the dance changed rhythm and began to quicken.  The two ghawazee were now turning and 'shimmying', as Fleming told me later, at a faster pace, occasionally bending backwards and using their veils as articulately as ladies of society use their fans.  Though fully clothed in brightly coloured, shimmering costume that fell to just above their feet, these women projected a strength and sensuousness that broke the bonds of the cloth and had me feeling rather weak in the knees, even though I was fully seated at the time.  The swirls of fine materials and heady scents of smoke and incense, and whatever exotic perfume the women wore that mixed with their inherent tribal odours, took their toll on my senses and sent me into a dream-like state.  I was at the point of feeling impelled to get up and join them in their wild dance as the music became faster and their spinning more pronounced, when the music suddenly ceased and the dance ended.  Corporal Fleming had noticed the effect the dancing had on me and was paused in motion, reaching out to stop my rising to my feet.  He suggested that we should retire to the outer cafe for a breath of fresh air and a hot lemon tea.  At first I demurred, wanting to see more of this exotic world I was experiencing, but then rationality hit me and I followed him back into the cafe.

My only desire had become that of dallying long hours, seduced by the ghawazees' 'beledi' skills, and I felt heartily inclined to desert the Corps there and then and to live with these love-priestesses for eternity.  But the sound of camels complaining to all in sundry as they were dragged by their trader owners through the streets outside, woke me from my daydream.  They rudely reminded me of my 'marriage' to Her Majesty as an honourable defender of the British Empire.

So we bid adieu to Abdul and leaving a token for our 'viewers' privilege, part of which I hoped would go to the dancers.  As we left the cafe, I felt myself descending from paradise back into the purgatory that was the stifling Alexandrian back streets we wended along, on our way back to the ship.  

On the way, Corporal Fleming stopped at a local market to buy some cheap trinkets and jewellery which he claimed would come in handy for 'future bartering'.  But all I could think of was the dazzling 'jewels' I had just seen in the back room of Cafe Masmoudi.

17th February, passing the Bay of Biscay

After breakfast I took a stroll around deck and looked over our vessel.  She was a four-decked, twin-funnelled steamship called the 'Indian Queen' that had been purchased by Her Majesty's Government from the Cunard Line and refurbished as a troop ship.  She had previously worked as a merchant/passenger ship on the Orient route around the coast of Africa to India.  Now she made the same journeys but with a very different class of goods and passenger.

Our directive was to be: first stop, Gibraltar, then on to Alexandria, and then through the recently opened Suez Canal and into the Arabian Gulf.  Our final destination was to be Aden, where we would embark and carry on by road to a town called Yeshbum, about 5,ooo feet up on a plateau of the Arabian peninsula.  Near this town was positioned Fort Yeshbum, the 7th Royal Camel Corp's main base and training facilities.  And this is where I, and my regiment, will be learning the skills of camel, and balloon, reconnaissance.

Back in Blighty, I had been told stories of highly classified, but controversial, experiments with balloon observers being sent aloft with accompanying onboard camel transport included for long-range desert reconnaissance on landing.  However, I had also had reports of several gruesome and gory balloon accidents, the details of which are not for the faint-hearted, so I will not dwell on them.  Suffice it to say, there is known to be a number of unmarked desert graves in the mountains near the fort which contain the bodies of several enlisted men with unintentionally-conjoined camel parts, and vice-versa.  Consequently, I am hoping that my regiment will escape the experimental side of our service duties whilst we are there.  I must admit that, although I am looking forward to learning both forms of reconnaissance, I don't wish to end my days splattered across sand dunes, nor do I wish it upon my men. 

A half hour's walk later

On arrival at the docks, I found a few of my fellow officers waiting near the enlisted men's gangway.  Our regimental commander, Major-General Basilworth, was with them and indicated to me a group of corporals standing nearby.  He called out a Corporal Fleming from this group as he was to be my batman.

Fleming marched briskly over and saluted our commander, and then turned and saluted me wearing a wry grin.  I immediately sensed our relationship was not going to be a standard, hierarchical one.  Brusquely, I ordered him to take my bags and kit straight to my allotted cabin which prompted a somewhat deflated "Sah!" from Fleming.  Round one to me, I thought.

As I turned away from the struggling figure of my batman, Major-General Basilworth also dismissed me with the statement that I should follow my batman immediately, as all personnel were to be on deck within the half-hour for a farewell salute as we departed.  Military tradition, so I thought, but I was to discover that the real reason was that Mrs Basilworth had arranged for The Times' society pages journalist and a seeming multitude of photographers to be on hand for her 'fond farewell to her husband and the troops'.

Heading up the officer's gangway, I was hoping that I had been allocated a cabin close to the water closets, as I still had a fear of contracting a case of voracious mal-de-mer once we left harbour.  The ship's purser directed me to my berth.  When I entered, I found Corporal Fleming already ensconced and holding a silver teapot containing a steaming brew of Mr Twining's best Indian leaf.

"Tea, sah?  Milk and sugar??"  I indicated black tea, at which the corporal produced a small decanter of whisky.  "Perhaps something to warm the cockles, then, sah???!!"  I think it was at this point that I began to warm to this chap and to believe that we may be able to have less fraught lines of communication between us than I had expected.

I grinned and acceded to his wordless query as to a small toddy for himself.  He also proceeded to explain that he had obtained just the sort of berth I had hoped for, as he had put in a request, prior to boarding, for a cabin close to the water closets due to potential seasickness on his own part.  As an officer's batman must be allocated a berth adjacent to that of his officer, it thus fell that mine would be the next cabin but one from the aforesaid water closets.

We consumed several cups of 'tea' in celebration, though all the while Fleming was fulfilling his duties as a batman by laying out my dress gloves, peaked cap and sword.  At 1300 hours precisely, we were on the bridge deck where the Major-General and the other officers and assorted batmen and Sergeant-Majors had gathered at the railings for the salute.  On the main deck below, facing the wharf, could be seen a continuous line of enlisted men and other non-commissioned officers in their dress uniform standing to attention.  The ship's massive horns were blasting away, and family and friends of the regiment's personnel were gathered, cheering and waving to us as we stood to attention and saluted as one.

Onshore, up on a separate higher dais, could be seen the forthright figure of Mrs Basilworth waving a small Union Jack limply but 'regally' to her beloved and his troops.  The photographers, who had been positioned at several judicious angles to their subject, were seen to being taking profuse amounts of photographs.  However, as Fate would have it, this was the very moment that a very strong gust of wind blew down the 'valley' created between the departing ship and the wharf buildings.

Predictably, hats, photographer's black cloths, and other light, loose items were blown willy-nilly.  This included Mrs Basilworth's light cotton formal dress which blew up from around her legs, exposing her leggings and pantaloons to all personnel on board.  With lightning speed to appease a now spluttering and beetroot-coloured Major-General, not to mention the state of Mrs Basilworth, we heard Sergeant-Major Merton barking an "Eyes right" at about 20 decibels to all enlisted men.  Recovering himself, our regimental commander promptly ordered all personnel off the decks with no further shoreward vision.

Thence we retired to our respective berths until we had breached the harbour entrance.  At 6 bells we gathered in the officers' dining room for dinner, but we were directed that any talk during our meal would only be on strictly military matters.  A very disgruntled-looking Major-General joined us but spoke chiefly only when food was served.  After dinner, I chose to retire early as I still feared the dreaded mal-de-mer and wanted to get as much rest as possible.  As it was, I found that, though there was some mild rolling of the ship once we had left the Channel and entered the Atlantic proper, I felt no queasiness at all.

The same could not be said of Lieutenants Farnsby-Smythe and Waterson who seemed to be taking it in turns running between the water closets and the railings.  As this toing and froing occurred close to my cabin during the night, I was awoken several times.  I banged on the wall and asked Corporal Fleming if he had any earmuffs or other appropriate means of stifling their retching.  This he did, and so I gained a sound sleep for the rest of the night.

This is a fine print of an illustration given to me by Mr Gwarne, depicting Miss Millicent Gwarne cooking some of the daily meals.  It was drawn by an artist who often frequented The Boiled Frog Inn.

16th February, midday

I had awoken relieved that the 'snortleywiggans' that had been chasing me naked through the streets of Southampton, and who all looked like Mrs Gwarne, were no longer a worry.  I ventured that I should steer clear of Mr Gwarne's ale, and of Mrs Gwarne herself, as much as possible before the morrow.

My thoughts returned to the fact that, never having been on a sea voyage before, I don't know if I'll be seasick or not.  Consequently, I requested an extra generous serving for breakfast, as I considered that it may well be the last good meal I could have, should it be an exceptionally rough trip.  To her credit, Mrs Gwarne obliged me threefold!  

I was served 2 poached eggs and FOUR sizeable rashes of bacon, potatoes, a slice of shepherd's pie, FOUR apples (2 of which I put in my satchel for later) and copious rounds of ale to wash it all down with.  I must say that I felt as though I had eaten enough provisions for at least 3 weeks after that feast.

I rose to pay the bill for my stay, and felt somewhat at sea already.  I turned to thank Miss Millicent first for her graciousness the night before and to farewell her, but instead I found Mrs Gwarne standing so close to me that I could smell her last 3 meals wafting from her open mouth as she leaned toward me, leering and winking.  

"We naht seed ee fur a braave spur then, lahd?!!  But e'en tho' our daighter's a skinamalink, she be waitin' fur ye when ee return.  Ahl try t'feed 'er up on turmots'n'taters an' all, so she be plump an' pluffy on yer homin'."

I reeled back, catching a glimpse of a flushed Miss Millicent running out of the dining room, and bent to pick up my satchel.  As I picked up my kit, I was brought upright by a slap on my posterior and was about  to address the perpetrator.  But I was left mouth agape by Mrs Gwarne chortling: "Ah, you'm a proper 'aythen, me lad.  Turnin' thay bottocks tae me!  But I can tell that ye be cold hands, warm 'arrt.  You'll make a good husband weth she." 

"Would there'n be a little token t'give 'ern whilst yer in those far-off lands?  A gold piece she can keep near'n 'er bosom p'haps?"

Awash with ale and staggered by her presumptiousness, I proffered her a gold sovereign before I knew what I was doing.  I smiled weakly saying, "Er, yes...certainly,...for Miss Millicent's bosom."  At the sound of my voice speaking these words, I blushed profusely, spun on my heels and trotted quickly toward the inn door.  As I strode off down the street, I glanced back to see Mrs Gwarne waving madly and shouting, "Fare thee well, my son-to-be!" and an abashed Miss Millicent raising a limp hand from her bedroom window.  The  latter gesture made me falter in my step and the former to hasten my stride.

16th February, morning

Woke to the sounds of the early morning deliveries heading for the docks some blocks away.  Horse-drawn carts carrying goods to and from ships waiting patiently at their moorings.  I also awoke to the raucous voice of Mrs Gwarne yelling at the cook: "This mait es gone pindy an' the turmots es gone pluffy!" which made me thankful that I would not be staying much past breakfast.  

"Put oal the scroff in the pig's bucket", sailed through my open window and turned my thoughts to perhaps that a light, liquid breakfast may suffice.  "Come on, you gate slocum, do ee git on weth the job 'sted uv frickin' 'round!"  

A calmer voice retorted: "Do ee stop yer tongueing, wumman.  Ee jes' some stodgy but ee make a fitty job uv et."

15th February, evening

Staying at The Boiled Frog Inn in Codpiece Lane till the morning of the seventeenth.  The innkeeper, a Mr Albert Gwarne, speaks with a strong Cornish country accent, and regaled us all this evening with many a tall tale from his home county.  His comely daughter, Miss Millicent Gwarne, joined in with some games such as 'Musical Chairs', 'Dumb Crambo' (which we all knew as 'Charades') and Mr Gwarne's favourite, 'My father bought a rooster', wherein we all sat around the room and one resident would say to his neighbour: "My father bought a rooster" and so on round each person.  The next round, the question plied was: "Can he crow?"  On the final round everyone crowed like cocks at dawn, all at once, and the inn erupted like a madhouse!  Oh, such hearty jinks!

Mr Gwarne, who hailed from the Water-me-trout area near Wendron, married Mrs Gwarne, who came from Touch-me-pipes adjacent to the town of St Keverne.  He had sold his first inn, Ye Olde Punch Bowl and Ladle, for a tidy sum he said, and had moved his family to Southampton with hopes of obtaining a better vocation in shipping and an education for his daughter.  But to no avail it seemed, as he ended up purchasing The Boiled Frog with his last savings and returning to his former vocation.

During the evening, I had noticed that Mrs Gwarne, a rather pleasingly plump woman, seemed to be overly concerned about her daughter's diet and health, continually offering her (and I must say, everyone else in the room) copious amounts of food and drink.  She referred to her often as a 'proper skinamalink', which Miss Millicent, an altogether charmingly buxom young lass, later explained to me that it meant her mother thought that she was far too thin (which of course she was not, by any means) and needed to eat a lot more. 

Mrs Gwarne was also eternally leaning her bodice over me and saying things such as: "I dunnaw 'bout you, but I'm some leary.  Willes ev wan uv me nubbies?"  I must say I was rather taken aback as to what she was referring to, until Miss Millicent lent close and whispered quietly in my ear this translation: "She said, I don't know about you, but I'm quite hungry.  Will you have one of my buns?"

It was at this point that Mrs Gwarne, having spied this kind gesture on her daughter's part, began hinting that her daughter had taken a 'widdle' (a fancy) to me.  She nudged me and winked, saying: "'Tez like she knaw'd ee 'fore you wuz britched.  Albert an' I don't mind ev you git t' sparkin' weth 'er.  She' some coxy an' do dearly love to titillate t' dennar an' all."  Poor Miss Millicent, who had overheard this, blushed bright scarlet, turned and rushed out of the room.  

Mrs Gwarne turned to her husband and said: "Look Albert, Maid Millicent got a fair vlicker up now 'er nahm sed."  Mr Gwarne, who had been attending to some matters outside, re-entered saying firmly to his wife: "'Tedn' no good t'git 'er all hurried up 'bout et, wumman, so stop yer courantin'."  He then turned to me apologetically, and said: "She seem to be gittin'er in a vouch 'ere.  Arh, 'tez awnly ole wemmens widdles, sirree.  Daren't ye mind 'er now."

By this time I had almost begun to translate for myself, as I had gotten the gist of what Mrs Gwarne was intimating.  That knowledge, and Mr Gwarne's gesturing, was prompting me to remove myself from her sight.  So, it being after 10 o'clock, I bid all a good night and retired to my room for some well-deserved rest and respite.

But not before Mrs Gwarne had the last word: "Ye be gittin' yer beauty sleep then, Colonel?  Et be good, thee must know the snortleywiggans do oal come out be night, so et be better abed!"

15th February, morning

Arrived Southampton after a dreadful coach trip on some of the worst dashed roads in England.  Had to continue with only three horses when one of the team had gone doolally during the night.  Couldn't handle the roads either, I suppose.  As well as this, we had to jettison a passenger to reduce the load on the way.  He certainly wasn't too happy about it all, but when I threatened to shoot his bollocks off, he demurred.  My posterior having recovered from the journey, I shall endeavour to find lodgings till I embark.

(A postcard from Devon.)

Exeter, Devon, 14th February 1886

What ho!!!  Sailing from Southampton on the sixteenth of this month for the Near East to take on training within the Royal Camel Corps.  Then, well, to whatever Fate may bring.....