Narnia Sub Minatio

catnip road trip

and if one green bottle should accidentally fall... again and... again and... again and...

strawberry is at the wheel as we speed through strathbogie our wheels splashing mudstreeks across deserted streets abandoned shops and homes... ghost town

our winter tyres carve deep scars sad memories of disappointments and fading horrors into the gravel drive of huntly castle
stark tower of grey stone
the laird offers kippers and devilled kidneys for breakfast
clad in bonnet and plaid trews he stands beneath his portcullis armwaving local directions
he has drawn us a detailed map... in pencil on scented notepaper
back in the vicecreamvan... back on the road... tracking the bogie river
we come upon a clearing in the conifer forest

 multicoloured patchwork tents yurts and mobile homes cluster about an antique cottage
white woodsmoke pillars upwards from the lone chimney
the aroma of baking
i hope that is fresh hot catnip mooncakes i can smell says boz
anna and bui in the doorway wipe flour handprints onto their aprons
we have encountered the bravehearted refugees of strathbogie...
'twas a day in late november in the year of 2010
when snow began to fall upon this happy glen
they left for work that morning without any dread
never suspecting as they kissed their wives goodbye that by the evening they could be dead
if they had not dressed warmly and worn a woollen vest
as anyone will tell you is the very best
and those that got home that freezing night
looked out in the morning to a terrible sight
for they were cut off by ice and snow
and the temperature was -25 degrees centigrade which is awfully low
they waited and waited in horrible fear
till their rescuers came in the new year
the vicecream van with boris and aunty stella
was a welcome sight to a shivering feller
and anna and bui had baked them all a treat
because as every one knows heroes have to eat
strawberry ferdy and phoebus must be lauded as well
because they endured hardship and danger and went through hell
in order to rescue the good people of strathbogie
and now they had made it those heroes of limehousesailortown and the norwegian doggie
with supplies and aid for which all are grateful
and a poet of fame to recount their perils so fateful
...later as the sun sinks jaffa orange from the pomegranate sky
ANNA PYROTECHNIX
ignites a towering structure of redundant furniture old doors and petrol
winter's funeral pyre
campfire ceilidh
fairy lights hang in the norway spruce
an enigmatic puginesque castiron pierhead plays stage to fiddlers and pipers
fiddles prance pipes lament
bui on onestring fiddlehorn and bamse on norwegian tricycle hurdygurdy duet
the woods ring to the bonfire cackle the uncorked effervescing laughter
the skirling and whirling
the distant chainsaw whine of the encroaching loggers...

Aunty Stella, Ferdinand and Strawberry will eventually take the Vicecream van south to search out the Kittens of Chaos and restore them to the Land of Green Ginger.   As for Boz, Phoebles and myself, we will await the return of the Arctic Coleyfishtrawler Lord Ancaster which will take us by sea to Limehousesailortown.  Meanwhile, perhaps we can help in someway in the defence against the forces of commerce which threatened Anna's forest.

...Far away

A dapper figure in porkpie hat, zootsuit and squirrelgrey spats grubs out the disaffected, the dispossessed.

Slasher McGoogs is spreading sedition throughout leafy Surrey.

But that is another story.  

Ginsbergbear

Rothiemay

2011

Phoebles' Story

Right...   Well...   First off it's PHOEBUS, not Phoebles.   BUS as in red, two storeys, not BULLS as in horns and poo!
So, this thaw thing was really inconvenient 'cos we gorra sledge anna Brockhousecorgisnowmobile thingy an' down in the valleys was all slushy snow and melting ice an' the skid things dunna work proper.   An' we wuz forced up onto the ridgeways wot woz nice cuz we could see all about and where we woz goin', burrit woz a bit windy.   An' the streams woz all swollen an' surging with melt water an' some of the bridges had got swept away so we had to go a long way round.   Anyway it woz fun sittin' up on top of the sledge an' luggage and everything an' real excitin' 'cos we was doin' a real rescue.
Anyway, somewhere north of Edinbugh Ginsbergbear's i-Phone GPS stopped working 'cos it was broke, burrit dinnermarrer 'cos Boris still had his Dan Dare compass an' that told the way... somehow.   But Boris said we wuz running out of fuel 'cos of the Brockhousecorgisnowmobile having to work so hard an' that woz a real problem.
So, there we woz, pootling along on top of some hill, tryin' not to run out of fuel an' a bit worried, but not a lot.   An' Boris woz concentratin'  very hard 'cos he said we woz runnin' outta snow an'all an' would haffta do summat about it soon an' Ginsbergbear woz huddled up in a rug, wiyya hotwaterbottle, readin' Moby Dick 'cos he are nesh, burreye has got very woolly warm fur wot is impervious to the cold and wet and I woz lookin' around and enjoying everything and I sees it.
Down below us woz a road and on the road woz a van wot wern't movin' an I jumps up an' down an is shouting 'cos Boris canna hear above the chuggin' of the engine an' he says,
"What's up?"
An' I says,
"Look there's a van an' it might have some wheels an' we could make the sledge an' stuff work wiyout snow."
So we stops and discusses the practicalities of my idea an' Boris and Ginsbergbear aren't very optimistic an' Strawberry wanna joinin' in 'cos he were being ockard.   An' then Boris says that the van looks a bit like the Vicecream van an' there are people millin' about down there.   So we go for a closer look.
An' guess wot.   When we get closer we can see Aunty Stella, in a boilersuit anna leather jerkin like a lorry driver an' one of the van's wheels is off 'cos it has a flat tyre an' Aunty Stella is rolling a new wheel up.   An' Ferdinand is there too, workin' the jack, only he is a bit little an' the jack is very big.   Still he doin' all right.
An' we run down the hill shouting,
"Aunty Stella, Ferdy, Aunty Stella, Ferdy Aunty, Stella!"
An' they look up an' they shoutin' too.
An' we get to them and stop, an Aunty Stella wipes her swarfy hands on her overalls before she hugs us all.
Then Ferdinand tells us all about crashin' an' polar bears an' wullufses, in an excited sort of way.   An' we tell them about losing my atlas wot woz old and dogeared, an' about losing Bert who were old and dogeared too, but we woz sad.   An' we all says,
"Ah, well..." an' all mucks in fixing the van.

So anyway, when the van's mended Aunty Stella says,
"Stow your gear in the back." an' there will be plenty of room for all of us too 'cos she has had a clear out.   An Strawberry jumps in the cab wiy Aunty Stella and Ferdinand an' we all climbin' in the back 'an WE ARE OFF!
An' we are all singin' Ten Green Bottles.

Phoebus,

Extraspecial Ginger Cat,

Somewhere in Scotland.

Wolves in the Woods

Ferdinand trudged on.   It was a clear, cold day and he felt almost joyful as he strode into a pretty, mixed deciduous wood.   A gentle breeze blew showers of fine snow off the branches above him, his foot falls crunched crisply, and small creatures dashed from tree to tree leaving tiny footprints in the snow.   Birds were twittering in the thin canopy and despite being footsore and running low on supplies Ferdy joined in, humming a selection from Vera Lynne's greatest hits.
On trudged and hummed Ferdinand.   Almost imperceptibly the woodland turned foresty, the chill north wind backed sou'westerly and turned milder.   A thin mist began to form and an occasional drop of water fell from arching branches.   The sky darkened.
Past the road, into the woods, shadows were intensifying, undergrowth thickening.   It really was getting quite dark and a little spooky.   The diminutive woodland creatures had all fallen silent, but out there something padded.   There were rustles and snorts and heavy breathing.
Ferns twitched and Ferdy thought he could see dark shapes keeping pace with him, slinky, lopey, probably howly sorts of shapes.   And they were all around him.
In the deepening darkness there were yelps and snarls.   Ferdy searched his knapsack and produced a small, but brilliant flash-light which he panned about the forest edge.   Emotionless, golden eyes lit up and although not visible he was sure there were fangs and dripping jowls too.
The things closed in on him.   Ferdy flashed the torch, which only seemed to make them playful.   He shouted, which they ignored.   He threw a stick and for a moment it looked as if one of the fiends would run after it, but it's companions glared it into shame.   Ferdy needed a really good plan, quickly - but nothing practical came to mind.   The whole situation was becoming extremely unsettling, when...

Was that distant music?
The encroaching creatures heard it too.   It was growing louder, stirring, Wagnerian.   The pack backed away.   Ferdy recognised The Ride of the Valkyries, not orchestral, more jingly, but deafening.   By the time two lemony beams of light flashed over a rise the thumping waves of sound were blasting the forest.   Terrified golden eyes peeped from behind the trees.   The source of the onslaught, a black van, careered along the road, slewing from side to side, horn blazing, two flashing ice-cream cones glowing eerily above the cab.   It skidded to a halt some yards from Ferdy, the door flew open and out scrambleded a Hollywood fantasy, Russian countess.
"Aunty Stella!" exclaimed the terrified bird.
The tall, slender creature stood before him, clad as last time he'd seen her, in greatcoat, piped and brass buttoned, tall boots of black leather. still the tall Astrakhan hat, but the muff was gone.   Over one shoulder was slung a cartridge belt and she carried a Browning B78, falling block, 45-70 hunting rifle, which she fired, once, into the air.   The wolves departed.
"Oh... Aunty Stella!"
Ferdy rushed at her and they stood hugging for a longtime.
"I think I might be able to rustle up some ginger biscuits, do you fancy a fortifying snack?"
"I've had rather a lot of ginger biscuits just lately," replied Ferdy, hoping he did not sound ungrateful.   "You don't have a bag of millet around do you?"

In the back of the van they partied well into the night.   There were finger snacks and tiny triangular sandwiches and a variety of sweet meats deep fried in beer batter which Aunty Stella insisted was a Scottish delicacy.   There was pop in abundance, liberated from the Strathbogie supplies  and "The Shadows Live at Doncaster Coliseum" on the Vicecream van sound system.
Next morning they had a barbecued full english, assessed their situation and surveyed the local geography.   The first signs of a thaw were now unmissable.
The Vicecream van was looking much more serviceable than when it left The Land of Green Ginger.   It now had heavy duty tyres, the more trivial pieces of baggage were missing from the roof rack, abandoned along with their owners to the music halls of Northumbria, and replaced by jerry-cans of diesel and two spare wheels, strategically placed brackets held towrope, snow-shovel, flares.   The ice-cream maker had been removed and stored in a barn somewhere north of Berwick-upon-Tweed, making room for supplies, a small primus stove and an Elsan Visa model 268.   Ready for anything.
"Last leg.   Lets get this rescue wrapped up." proposed Aunty Stella.

Death on the Ice

Ferdinand Desai was making good time.   He had crossed the coast some time ago, somewhat north of Craster by his reconing.   He could make out Banborough Castle rising above the snow, way off to starboard.   The air was still, and a watery sun gently illuminated the chill landscape below.   Things were going to plan, and for Ferdy that was near perfection.

...And (as always) this blissful state was not to last.   Apparently without warning, he was in thick and freezing fog.   His windshield froze, the fuselage sparkled, his goggles misted over and his beak tingled with the sudden chill.   He tried to coax his craft upwards above the fog, but the build up of ice was making her heavy.   The engine began to splutter, parts were binding and the fuel turning to mush - the prop ceased to turn.   Slowly the autogyro began it's gentle descent, buoyed by the free running rotor.   Then there was a screech of locked and tortured metal, frozen rotor bearings.   The descent turned into a plummet.

There was a jarring thud, some pings and boings, a pop and a small puther.   Ferdy found himself sitting at the centre of a snow crater surrounded to a distance of ten feet or so in every direction by disassembled and slightly bent aeronautical parts.

Having checked that all HIS bits were in place and full working order, he packed a stash of ginger biscuits into a knapsack and removed the compass from its gimballed mount.   He would continue with Plan A (no-one had appraised him of a Plan B) and follow a line towards Edinburgh.   It would just take a little longer without his airborne transport.   Adjusting his goggles firmly he trudged blindly into the total white-out.

Trudging can be tiring and flying boots are not the best hiking footwear.   After what seemed an age Ferdy halted and partook of two well earned ginger biscuits.   It was whilst resting thus that he noticed a small, indistinct black blob out in the whiteness that enveloped him.   As he watched it grew larger, and blacker, and really large, and distinct, and nose shaped.   It stopped, hovering some way above him, in close formation with a pair of coldly intense eyes.   A large mouth also appeared, and spoke.

"And what exactly are you?"

Peering hard, Ferdy thought he could make out the outline of a massive white bear.

"I am Ferdinand Desai, dodo... on an important rescue mission.   Can I assist you in any way?" he added, politely.

"Not just now," replied the polar bear, "I have already eaten, and at the moment a duck is out of the question."

Tentatively Ferdinand explained his situation, without much hope for a happy solution.   The bear however was feeling untypically sympathetic.

"I could give you a lift as far as the Great North Road.   I probably won't get hungry before then and you might be able to cadge a lift from there."   Not waiting for a reply the great bear scruffed Ferdy by the collar of his flying jacket and set off at a speedy lope.   Dangling, limp limbed from the jaws of a polar bear the dodo did not feel dignified, or comfortable, or particularly safe.   He had just about got used to the gentle swinging when they approached the tops of a bus-stop sign and a row of telegraph poles, peeking above the snow.   The bear dropped him at the bus-stop.

"I can't see an omnibus coming any time soon, but you may be able to hitch a lift on a passing snow-plough.   I'm afraid I'm getting peckish and you are starting to look tasty so I'd best go find a MacDonald's, or a baby seal or summat." ...and without looking back he loped off across the icy wasteland.

Ferdinand sat for a while, then rose and resumed his trudge, 

Meanwhile...

Progress across the sea-ice had been slow for the snowmobiles.   They had picked their way though the jumbled blocks and jagged teeth of ice, forced upwards by the pressure of the surrounding shelf, thawed, weathered, and refrozen, time after time.   They had manhandled the machines over blockages, experienced moments of terror, hours of tedium punctuated intermittently and increasingly annoyingly by, "Take the next turn left." from Ginsbergbear's i-phone.

And, "Recalculating." when they didn't.  

"It will work better when we are on land." announced Ginsbergbear, without undue concern.

Travelling some way into the mouth of a wide, frozen river they eventually found a steep and tortuous route up onto the snow plateau that covered the land.   They sat on their machines astonished.   As far as they could see the snow spread before them, flat and featureless but for the occasional spire, pylon or rocky outcrop pushing above the carpet of snow and ice.   They should make good time over this terrain.

Boz eased the throttle open on his snowmobile and moved off.   From behind there was a, "Waheee!" and Strawberry wheelied his Corgi into a madcap dash, overtook Bozzy's combo and accelerating ahead, disappeared.

"Did you see that?" shouted Phoebles.

Boz stopped, drove slowly forwards and stopped again.   The trio dismounted and walked cautiously towards the black hole that marked the spot where Strawberry and Bert Wold had last been seen.   They peered over the edge.

Someway down the upturned Brockhouse Corgi was jammed between the walls of a seemingly bottomless crevasse.   A large orange fur coat lay spread-eagled across the machine and from beneath the collar a pair of wide eyes, black with terror, peered back at them.

"He's gone." a thin voice quivered, "It just kept falling, the sledge, supplies, Ber...    The atlas has gone, everything's gone... and I don't feel very safe."

"Hang on!" shouted Phoebles.

"That's what I've been doing."

"We need a volunteer to go down to him." said Boz.   He and Phoebles glared at Ginsbergbear.   Ginsbergbear glared back.

"Me... do I look like a volunteer?"

"You must be the lightest - your stuffed with horsehair.   And the vet says me and Boz are erring on the pudgy side." explained Phoebles.   "No time to waste, I'll find a rope."   He produced a stout length of manila from the back of the sledge and a bowline was tied around the bear's middle.   The other end was secured by a round turn and two half hitches to the frame of the skidoo, a means of attachment highly recommended in Phoebles' well thumbed copy of A Boy's Bumper Book of Knots.   

"Prepare to be lowered."  Boz mounted the quietly idling Corgi and as Ginsbergbear hesitated on the edge of the chasm Phoebles gave him a gentle shove.

It was as close to abseiling as dangling at the end of a rope with all limbs thrashing wildly can be.

When he alighted on the upturned machine, close to Strawberry, there was a scraping noise and several chunks of ice detached from the crevasse walls.

"Don't hang about.   Tie the rope round the two of you and wave when your ready."

On Ginsbergbear's signal Phoebles shouted, "Go!" to Boz and the Brockhouse Corgi began to inch forwards.

By the time the pair eventually popped over the edge of the hole and flopped onto terra firma it was hard to judge who was the most traumatised.   Hot, sweet tea was quickly brewed up and Strawberry wrapped in spare blankets and woollens.   He was worryingly subdued.

"I'd quite like to get away from here as quickly as possible." he shivered.

"OK, well press on till dusk before we make camp." declared Boz, "Shame about Bert... and the atlas.   Still, that's life."

They re-stowed the gear on the sledge, mounted their one remaining rig and set off once more, somewhat cautiously.

Next morning Boz put his head out of the tent and noticed something dark protruding from the drifts out to the west of their bivouac.   After a breakfast of sardines on toast they steered towards it.   An hour or so later, as they drew close to the object they could see that it was the tilted bust of a gigantic metal man with something like the wing of an aircraft projecting from its shoulder.

"At the next roundabout, take the third exit." barked the GPS.

Ginsbergbear studied the little map on his i-Phone screen, "I think it wants us to follow the Great North Road."

"And where exactly is that?" asked Phoebles.

"Somewhere below us." suggested Boz, turning the skidoo northwards.

Base Camp

                                                                                                                    

The Ancaster's bow was held on the engine, against the edge of the ice whilst Boz and his companions disembarked.   They were joined by a small group of burly matelots with sledge hammers and spikes who quickly made the coleyfishtrawler fast.  A relatively flat area of ice-shelf was selected for the camp and the tents pitched.   The supplies were unloaded and three large wooden crates winched safely from the deck.   As the sailors set up a fuel dump and established radio contact with ship and HQ back in Limehousesailortown the Lord Ancaster slipped away from the edge of the ice and turned South.   The party watched her grow small and disappear below the horizon - a last puff of white smoke against the turquoise sky, reflected in the glass like sea.
"No time to get comfy." said Boz, grabbing a claw hammer and setting about one of the crates.    Strawberry and Bert Wold took up jemmies and attacked a second.   After some frantic action the group found themselves admiring two steam powered Brockhouse Corgi snowmobiles with sledge trailers, surrounded by potentially useful firewood.   Meanwhile Ferdy and Ginsbergbear had been delicately unscrewing the top and side panels of the third crate to reveal an Avro 620 autogyro in magnificent fire-engine red.   Strawberry emerged from one of the bell-tents with his atlas and a plan of action which he was desperate to convey to the others.      

Boz and Phoebles joined Strawberry in a huddled conference while a man-mountain of a Petty Officer rolled towards Ferdy carrying a drum of aviation fuel on his shoulder and holding a hand pump in his free hand - the autogyro would soon be ready for the off.   However, even with the best efforts of the naval detail the construction of an airstrip took most of the day.   By dusk it was completed, straight and flat, with an orange wind sock to the side at each end.   Ginsbergbear was relaxing in a campaign chair outside his tent, drawing on a catnip filled Peterson bulldog briar as Ferdy approached the others, still engaged in animated planning.   He winked and jabbed the mouth piece in their direction.

Eventually, late, by the guttering light of several Tilley lamps a consensus emerged and it was possible to retire.   The matelots, lubricated with Pusser's Rum and worn out by their vigorous postprandial horn-piping had long since fallen silent.

At first light Boz was up, clip board in hand, dishing out orders.

"Ferdy, you will take off as soon as you are ready.   Follow a bearing for Edinburgh and when you're over the castle turn due north.

"Bert, you go with Strawberry in the second skidoo.   Strawberry, if you insist on driving you must lend Bert your atlas so he can navigate, but don't go off on your own, follow us.

"Phoebles, Ginsbergbear and I will lead 'cos we have the compass."   He proudly produced his prized Dan Dare Club Junior Space Cadet's compass in its red and yellow plastic case.   "We must get off the sea-ice as soon as possible.   North Shields should be pretty well due west from here.   Once we are on shore we will make straight for Strathbogie."

He strolled over to a tent at the base of the tall radio mast which the sailors insisted on calling the Shack and addressed the Wireless Operator.   "When we are close to our destination we will ring Wick Radio on Ginsbergbear's i-Phone, so listen out to them."   Finally he conveyed their plans to the CPO whose party was detailed to maintain the base.

It would be a while yet before the skidoos had steam up so the adventurers lined the runway to wave Ferdinand off.   He emerged from his tent in flying helmet and goggles, sheepskin flying jacket and boots.   He gave them a casual wave as he scrambled into the rear cockpit and could be seen adjusting the heading on the gimballed compass.   The forward cockpit was stuffed with supplies.   One of the ordinary seamen spun the propeller and the Armstrong Siddeley Genet Major five-cylinder, air-cooled, radial engine sputtered into life.   The craft gathered speed down the runway, the rotor blades began to turn and she lifted skywards.   Ferdy circled the camp once and then receded towards the NNW.   Phoebles found he was still waving as the tiny red dot disappeared.

Turning now to the duties of the overland party, Strawberry mounted one of the snowmobiles with Bert Wold perched on top of the sledge's cargo, wielding the atlas.   Boris took the second vehicle with Phoebles behind him on the sledge.   Ginsbergbear made himself comfortable amongst the luggage and called up the GPS app on his i-Phone.   With the exception of Strawberry in his orange furs they were distinguishable, in identical reindeer parkas, only by their head gear.   Boz wore his Red October black fur hat with Soviet Navy cap badge, Phoebles a khaki budionovka pixie hat with large red star, Bert his best Keir Hardy flat cap and Ginsbergbear a rainbow Peruvian woolly bobble hat.   With a twist of the throttles, a wave to the Naval detail, in a cloud of steam, they were on their way.

The Brockhouse Corgis whispered chuffs, belched thick, oily smoke, the ice beneath the runners shushed and scraped.

SEA ICE

Sea ice is not still

It heaves and surges

Throws up pinnacles

And towers

Cliff walls of dragons' teeth

Tilted slabs

It pulls apart into valleys

And canyons

Sea ice is not silent

It moans and groans

Cracks and snaps

Pops and bangs

Booms and boings

Sea ice is not empty

It is littered with sea-junk

With barrels and spars

Bottles and jars

Buckets and spades

Like the belly of the tagareen man's

dinghy

Ginsbergbear, beat poet

North Sea

2011.

Barely had the skidoos disappeared over the horizon than a charabanc loaded with architects arrived at the camp.   Within weeks the shanty-settlement was extended to include a tavern, barber's shop and a mall complete with MacDonald's and multi-story car park.   Shortly after completion a flow encompassing the entire settlement detached from the pack-ice and drifted off in the direction of Belgium.