Gerald Durrell - The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

“No, no. You couldn’t ride ’er,” said the man. “ ’ Ur pulls a trap.”

“Oh, I see,” said Larry. “But, then, how do we get her back to you?”

“Oh, don’ you worry about that, sur. You jist ’itch up ur reins nice and snug to the trap and she’ll come back to me. Oh, aye, she always comes back to where I’m at. She’s as good as a wife, sur, and that’s no disrespect to my ol’ woman. If I goes to the pub of a Saturday, an’ ’as one too many, they puts me in the trap, sur, and Molly takes me ’ome without a word of a lie, sur.”

“A sagacious animal,” observed Larry. “Will your trap carry six people?”

“Yes, sur, if you takes it slow, like — and a couple of you walks up the steep bits.”

So we went round behind the hedge, where we found Molly, covered in sacks, chewing thoughtfully at her nosebag. She was as sturdy as an Exmoor pony but twice as big; the trap was a nice one; there was plenty of room. The man unhitched Molly and handed the reins to Larry, who passed them hurriedly to me.

“You’re supposed to be the zoologist of the family. You drive,” he instructed.

The man gave us directions which, like all directions in the country, were full of confusing details like “pass the blasted fir tree on your left” and “go straight past the sheep dip or round it if you prefer”. We made him repeat them twice to get them right, and then, thanking him profusely, climbed into the trap. Molly, who must have been chilly standing in the hedge, responded eagerly to my chirrups of encouragement, and we set off towards the road at a spanking trot. Our appearance was greeted with hilarity and disbelief by the family.

“What are you going to do with that? Give us a tow?” enquired Leslie.

“No,” said Larry austerely, “this vehicle is to take us to shelter and to a telephone. If we tie some picnic knives to the wheels, Margo can pretend she’s Boadicea, and with a bit of luck we can run down a villager and cut off his legs.”

After a certain amount of argument, we persuaded everyone to vacate the sodden Rolls for the equally sodden but more mobile trap. The rain had eased off now to a fine mizzle which, if anything, made you damper than a hard downpour. Molly, her ears back to hear my encouraging comments on her prowess, pulled with a will and We progressed at a rapid walk down the lanes. After some twenty minutes, we were in totally unfamiliar and uninhabited country.

“I do hope you know where we are going, dear,” said Mother, anxiously.

“Of course I do,” answered Larry, impatiently. “The man’s instructions are burnt on my brain in letters of fire. Here, Gerry, turn right there, at that oak tree, and then second left.” We progressed some distance in silence, and then we reached a cross roads without benefit of a signpost. Before Larry could give instructions, Molly, of her own volition, had turned to the left.

“There you are,” said Larry in triumph, “the horse agrees with me. Even the dumb beasts of the field recognize a born leader. Anyway, her owner probably frequents this pub, so she knows the way.”

We plunged into a piece of damp and dripping woodland, where the wood pigeons clapped their wings at us and magpies clucked suspiciously. The road wound to and fro through the rain-soaked trees.

“Very soon now we’ll reach this wonderful old country pub,” said Larry, waxing poetical. “There’ll be a huge, wood fire to warm our outsides, and a huge hot whisky and lemon to warm our insides. The landlord, s humble peasant, will leap to do our bidding, and while we are roasting by the fire…”

Here, we rounded a corner and Larry’s voice died away. Fifty yards ahead of us, squatting in the mud, was the Rolls.

Molly may have had her failings, but she knew her way back to her master.

However glib you are with words, your brain is inclined to falter if you try to describe the Piazza San Marco in Venice under a full daffodil-yellow summer moon. The buildings took as though they have been made out of crumbling over-sweet nougat in the most beautiful shades of browns and reds and subtle autumn pinks. You can sit and watch, fascinated, for the tiny tellers, Moorish figures, that come out and strike the big bell on St Mark’s cathedral at every quarter, so that it echoes and vibrates around the huge square.

On this particular evening, it was as ravishing as only Venice could be, spoiled only by the conglomeration of my belligerent family, clustered around two tables which were bestrewn with drinks and tiny plates of appetisers. Unfortunately, it had been my mother’s idea and, as had happened throughout her life, what she had produced as a treat had already, even at this early stage, started turning into a fiasco that was edging her slowly but relentlessly towards that pillory that all families keep for their parents.

“I wouldn’t mind if you had had the decency to tell me in advance. I could, at least have risked death travelling by air,” said my elder brother, Larry, looking despondently at one of the many glasses that an irritatingly happy waiter had put in front of him. “But what in heaven’s name possessed you to go and book us all on a Greek ship for three days? I mean, it’s as stupid as deliberately booking on the Titanic.”

“I thought it would be more cheerful, and the Greeks are such good sailors,” replied my mother, defensively. “Anyway, it’s her maiden voyage.”

“You always cry wolf before you’re hurt,” put in Margo. “I think it was a brilliant idea of Mother’s.”

“I must say, I agree with Larry,” said Leslie, with the obvious reluctance that we all shared in agreeing with our elder brother. “We all know what Greek ships are like.”

“Not all of them, dear,” said Mother. “ Some of them must be all right.”

“Well, there’s damn all we can do about it now,” concluded Larry gloomily. “You’ve committed us to sail on this bloody craft, which I have no doubt would have been rejected by the Ancient Mariner in his cups.”

“Nonsense, Larry,” said Mother. “You always exaggerate. The man at Cook’s spoke very highly of it.”

“He said the bar was full of life,” cried Margo triumphantly.

“God almighty,” exclaimed Leslie.

“And to dampen our pagan spirits,” agreed Larry, “the most revolting selection of Greek wines, which all taste as though they have been forced from the reluctant jugular vein of some hermaphrodite camel.”

“Larry, don’t be so disgusting,” said Margo.

“Look,” protested Larry vehemently, “I have been dragged away from France on this ill-fated attempt to revisit the scenes of our youth, much against my better judgement. Already I am beginning to regret it, and we’ve only just got as far as Venice, for God’s sake. Already I’m curdling what remains of my liver with Lacrima Christi instead of good, honest Beaujolais . Already my senses have been assaulted in every restaurant by great mounds of spaghetti, like some sort of awful breeding ground for tapeworms, instead of Charolais steaks.”

“Larry, I do wish you wouldn’t talk like that,” said my mother. “There’s no need for vulgarity.”

In spite of the three bands, all playing different tunes at different corners of the great square, the vocalization of the Italians and tourists, and the sleepy crooning of the somnambulistic pigeons, it seemed that half of Venice was listening, entranced, to our private family row.

“It will be perfectly all right when we are on board,” said Margo. “After all, we will be among the Greeks.”

“I think that’s what Larry’s worried about,” commented Leslie gloomily.

“Well,” said Mother, trying to introduce an air of false confidence into the proceedings, “we should be going. Taking one of those vaporiser things down to the docks.”