Pizzles in Paradise

by John Hicks

  The track, such as it is, meanders round and through swamps, over fallen trees, and up and down vertiginous glaciated valley sides. The climate is bleak and predominantly wet. Tramping it involves considerable physical effort, but the rewards are immense.

  At the end of the second day our party of four, warmly ensconced in our sleeping bags, were enjoying the cosy satisfaction of full stomachs and safe shelter. We relaxed in the gathering gloom and, by ten o’clock or so, we were all fast asleep. And then … somehow … by a mechanism it would be hard to define, we were aware of a presence. A sly, secretive presence. It could have been a rat, but the rustles and clanks became gradually more insistent. Our curiosity was aroused most of all by a faint, rhythmic, brushing sound.

  I flashed on my torch and there, frozen in the beam, was a wild-looking individual. His plate was next to his face; his tongue, which had been employed licking its contents, slowly traversed his upper lip. This nocturnal image of reptilian furtiveness was to lodge in our minds.

  Henceforth he was the Gecko.

  To my offered apology and greeting he responded not one word.

  How could he have found the hut in the dark? It was a moonlit night, but he appeared to have no torch. This was country where it was easy to put a foot wrong and get lost, even in broad daylight. This nocturnal visitation was no isolated event; the same pattern was repeated at subsequent huts. The mysterious Gecko seemed to be imbued with almost supernatural qualities, at least in my mind. My companions were also intrigued. And still he never spoke a word, even when spoken to directly.

  At last we saw him writing in the hut book, and seized the opportunity to learn more about our strange apparition. Ah! He was German. That would explain the lack of communication. As luck would have it, at the next hut there were some other Germans. We were relieved to see that the Gecko did possess a functioning larynx, for he spoke with them, albeit briefly. They, too, seemed fazed by the eccentricity of the Gecko. Later they told us that he was no ordinary German, in fact they were keen to point out that he spoke Swiss-German with an English accent, and that he was, in fact, English.

  Over the days, we slowly gained his confidence and had limited conversations with him. I found out that he was an engineer who had spent many years working in Switzerland. His home town was Liverpool. In my mind he was immediately and inevitably linked to the newspaper familiar to all Liverpudlians, The Liverpool Echo. Here, before me, was The Liverpool Gecko!

  It is at times like these, in the remotest parts of the world, that you realise what a small place it can be. The Liverpool Gecko, by amazing coincidence, was a product of my old school. The English public school system had struck again!

  Regrettably, we found it impossible to converse effectively with our reptilian associate. He was a true eccentric. But wild individualists are not the norm in these isolated huts and, usually, the people who tramp the back-blocks are friendly and communicative. They share a love of their surroundings and the cheerful, light-hearted spirit required to overcome adversity.

  The tribulations of the day are leavened, not only by conversing with other trampers, but by perusal of the hut books. In these, amid the coffee stains and squashed sandflies, the weary traveller will encounter much dross, but occasional pearls, from others who have shared the same travails: the mud, the snow, the rain, the floods and the sandflies. Who could not resist this gem, gleaned from the book at the Kintail Hut?

  The Dusky Simulator

  Try the Dusky Track at home without an expensive aeroplane ride! Here’s all you have to do…

  Dig a large hole (over your head) in your back lawn. Fill the bottom of the hole with quicksand and then top up with water—just enough to make it level with the lawn so it looks like a shallow hole.

  Tip in a bucket of eels, five buckets of ice cubes and set the garden sprinkler going at one end.

  Now forget you’ve dug the hole and come home later that night with no flashlight and maintaining good speed walk straight into the hole. Remember to flail your arms about uselessly as you fall in. Get out under the sprinkler and repeat a hundred times.

  Score a point for every time you don’t swear.

  Well done! You’ve just done a day on the Dusky Trail—go inside and try to light some soggy firewood with some wet matches and make a well-deserved cup of tea!

  Anonymous

  Anonymous had the self-deprecating humour that encapsulates much of what is best about the human spirit. His (or her) extract was owed more than an ephemeral life in this tatty hut book, I thought, as I copied it into my diary; and a much wider readership than the few hardy souls who would be lucky enough to time their tramp during the few brief months of its display.

  ~

  Today, as I look to the west I can see the mountains of Fiordland and I am comforted to know of the glorious wilderness that lies beyond. Some untrammelled corners of our crowded planet, untouched by the clumsy developments of man, are essential for our collective sanity. Even when I am too old or frail to gain their sanctuary, my spirit will seek their solace.

  As I muse, I cannot suppress a vision from my childhood … a bright night of full moon. A night of fresh clarity after rain. A cool breeze tears apart the ragged clouds, revealing a scene of unearthly beauty. Below us lie the ancient oak woods, the very ones that clutch that cow-wheat in their mystic depths. But here the silver light bathes the slate roof of the stone farmhouse. My parents, my brother and I stand transfixed, in awe of this rare moment of sublimity. Through the racing gaps of light and shadow, across the Conway valley, the peaks of Snowdonia parade across the western sky: the Glyders, Tryfan, the notch of the Nant Ffrancon and, directly opposite, the dark bulk of the Carneddau. These are places we had enjoyed together, had come to know and love. But for my father this would have been a moment of added poignancy; invoked by Tryfan’s rocky summit. On those steep crags he had rock-climbed with his elder brother on their last shared leave. Precious time together: release from the horrors of war.

  As my vision is replayed, divine music, owing nothing to any man-created god, ebbs and eddies, washes and flows, salving my mind. This is music that I have shared with those I love, perhaps the adagio from Mendelssohn’s atmospheric ‘Scottish’: music to transform the spirit, music to balm the soul. And again, another visit to this Celtic dreamscape, plunged in moonlight, may suit less structured perfection: more passionate intensity. Music that strives hauntingly and, for brief, searing moments, captures the essence of wild ecstasy. For this I would choose the slow, glittering silver of a Bax symphony, the moment where the dissonant trumpets reach for the impossible. Music conveys rapture where words fail. It is but one of many joys in this world.

  ~

  Being a vet and having such an interesting career has been immensely satisfying and challenging. However, a career is but a part of life, part of one section of the journey. I confess to a troubled respect for those individuals motivated entirely by their profession. There has to be a balance. Becoming a vet is no passport to happiness.

  If I could impart any wisdom it would be that it is essential to develop other passions. Furnish your mind; there can be little joy in an empty room. Love; enjoy your family and, for your children, sow the seed; appreciation comes from within. Nurture those spiritual homes. If such is your inspiration, go to the hills from whence cometh your help (an ancient wisdom). Treasure unspoilt environments. Tune in to the beauty and emotion of great music; search for that which speaks to your soul. Immerse yourself in the inventiveness of inspired prose. Travel and learn from other cultures. Delve into history, and understand the guiding principles of civilisation, its very future depends on a motivated and informed populace.

  There are more important things in life than Fru-Fru, even if our love for her enshrines an important aspect of our humanity.

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  About the author

  John Hicks spent his formative years in England, but after graduating from Liverpool University he emigrated with his wife Viv to New Ze
aland, where he started as a young vet with the dairy herds of Taranaki. Looking to broaden his experience and move closer to the Southern Alps, he spent a couple of years amongst the sheep and horses of Canterbury before returning to England for a stint in a specialist dog and cat practice in Yorkshire. He then worked for 27 years in a mixed practice in rural Southland from which he retired in 2006.

  About the illustrator

  Carol Lanfear Montgomery, BA DA (Manc) CIE, is a graduate of Manchester Polytech, currently living in Tennessee. She taught art for 14 years and has worked as a freelance artist since 1987.

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  If you have enjoyed this book you will enjoy its sequel

  A Wander in Vetland: Some curiosities of life as a vet

  [As reviewed by Roger Marchant and published in VetScript July 2016]

  Following on from Pizzles in Paradise, readers will not be disappointed by John Hicks’s equally intriguing A Wander in Vetland - an aptly named wander through Hicks's life as a vet in Yorkshire and rural New Zealand.

  Any story of life as a veterinarian can suffer from comparison with James Herriot’s books and A Wander in Vetland has its share of Herriot-esque stories of cats, dogs, and their owners, along with hair-raising tales of anaesthetising horses, demented dogs, and life-threatening cattle.

  However, Hicks’s book contains much more than a few animal stories, and traverses veterinary medicine and Hicks’s veterinary career. Some anecdotes appear peripheral – such as his wife’s links to a famous ancestor who was gruesomely murdered, and Hicks’s references to the confusing views of Catholics and Protestants in Liverpool – but they are all part of a much bigger picture.

  And the book is not all lighthearted. For example, it covers the development of veterinary and human medicine, including practices like blood-letting, blistering, cauterising and trephining used in the early days of neurosurgery (I now fully understand the term ‘needed like a hole in the head’). The author’s honesty in describing these barbaric and sometimes gruesome practices, which are hard to fathom today, is to be applauded.

  Hicks also recounts life as a student, his stumblings as a new veterinarian and the foibles of his clients, as well as the harsh and grim realities of practice life, and settling into another country. His frankness can be disarming, and he worries that he has 'shaken the cherished delusions of tender-hearted romantics about life as a country vet'. But he need not worry; this frankness adds to the book’s appeal and to a better understanding of the diversity of life as a country veterinarian.

  I found A Wander in Vetland thoughtful and thought-provoking at many levels, and would highly recommend it as an entertaining and educational read.

  A Wander in Vetland is available as an ebook and in print from most online book retailers.

  Also by John Hicks

  She Bid Me Take Love Easy (Also available as an ebook and in print from most online book retailers and good booksellers)

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