Gerald Durrell

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¤ My Family and Other Animals is an autobiographical work by naturalist Gerald Durrell (1925 – 1995) telling of the part of his childhood he spent on the Greek island of Corfu between 1935-39. It describes the life of the Durrell family there in a humorous manner, and also richly discusses the fauna of the island.

Durrell had already written several successful books about his trips collecting animals in the wild for zoos when My Family and Other Animals came out in 1956. Its comic exaggeration of the foibles of his family — especially his eldest brother, novelist Lawrence Durrell— and heartfelt appreciation of the natural world made it very successful. It launched Durrell’s career as owner of the Jersey Zoological Park (now Durrell Wildlife Park) in the Channel Islands [click sculpture on the right for info]

IT’S A LARGE FAMILY!

Apart from Gerald (the youngest) and Larry, the family comprised their widowed mother, the gun-mad Leslie, and diet-obsessed sister Margo together with Roger the dog. They are fiercely protected by their taxi-driver friend Spiro (Spiros «Americano» Halikiopoulos) and mentored by the polymath Dr. Theodore Stephanides who provides Gerald with his education in natural history. Other human characters, chiefly eccentric, include Gerald’s private tutors, the artistic and literary visitors Larry invites to stay, and the local peasants who befriend the family.

The human comedy is interspersed by descriptions of the animal life which Gerald observes on his expeditions around the family homes, island, and seashore and which he frequently brings back and keeps as pets; these include Achilles the tortoise, Quasimodo the pigeon, Ulysses the Scops owl, numerous spiders, Alecko the gull, puppies named Widdle and Puke, and the birds known as the Magenpies.           [Wikipedia]

•  Listen to PART ONE ↓  Chapter 1 … 6

The Migration 5
1. The Unsuspected Isle 8
2. The Strawberry-Pink Villa 15
3. The Rose-Beetle Man 22
4. A Bushel of Learning 31
5. A Treasure of Spiders 38
6. The Sweet Spring 47
Conversation

¤  The Migration

July had been blown out like a candle by a biting wind that ushered in a leaden August sky. A sharp, stinging drizzle fell, billowing into opaque grey sheets when the wind caught it. Along the Bournemouth sea-front the beach-huts turned blank wooden faces towards a greeny-grey, froth-chained sea that leapt eagerly at the cement bulwark of the shore. The gulls had been tumbled inland over the town, and they now drifted above the house-tops on taut wings, whining peevishly. It was the sort of weather calculated to try anyone’s endurance.

Considered as a group my family was not a very prepossessing sight that afternoon, for the weather had brought with it the usual selection of ills to which we were prone. For me, lying on the floor, labelling my collection of shells, it had brought catarrh, pouring it into my skull like cement, so that I was forced to breath stertorously through open mouth. For my brother Leslie, hunched dark and glowering by the fire, it had inflamed the convolutions of his ears so that they bled delicately but persistently. To my sister Margo it had delivered a fresh dappling of acne spots to a face that was already blotched like a red veil. For my mother there was a rich, bubbling cold, and a twinge of rheumatism to season it.

Only my eldest brother, Larry, was untouched, but it was sufficient that he was irritated by our failings.

It was Larry, of course, who started it. The rest of us felt too apathetic to think of anything except our own ills, but Larry was designed by Providence to go through life like a small, blond firework, exploding ideas in other people’s minds, and then curling up with cat-like unctuousness and refusing to take any blame for the consequences. He had become increasingly irritable as the afternoon wore on. At length, glancing moodily round the room, he decided to attack Mother, as being the obvious cause of the trouble.

«Why do we stand this bloody climate? » he asked suddenly, making a gesture towards the rain-distorted window. «Look at it! And, if it comes to that, look at us…. Margo swollen up like a plate of scarlet porridge… Leslie wandering around with fourteen fathoms of cotton wool in each ear… Gerry sounds as though he’s had a cleft palate from birth…. And look at you: you’re looking more decrepit and hag-ridden every day. »

Mother peered over the top of a large volume entitled Easy Recipes from Rajputana. «Indeed I’m not, » she said indignantly.

«You  are, » Larry insisted; «you’re beginning to look like an Irish washerwoman… and your family looks like a series of illustrations from a medical encyclopedia. »

Mother could think of no really crushing reply to this, so she contented herself with a glare before retreating once more behind her book.

«What we need is sunshine, » Larry continued; «don’t you agree, Les?…

Les… Les! »

Leslie unravelled a large quantity of cotton-wool from one ear. «What d’you say? » he asked.

«There you are! » said Larry, turning triumphantly to Mother, «it’s become a major operation to hold a conversation with him. I ask you, what a position to be in! One brother can’t hear what you say, and the other one can’t be understood. Really, it’s time something was done. I can’t be expected to produce deathless prose in an atmosphere of gloom and eucalyptus. »

«Yes, dear, » said Mother vaguely.

«What we all need, » said Larry, getting into his stride again, «is sunshine… a country where we can grow. »

«Yes, dear, that would be nice, » agreed Mother, not really listening.

«I had a letter from George this morning – he says Corfu’s wonderful. Why don’t we pack up and go to Greece? »

«Very well, dear, if you like, » said Mother unguardedly.

Where Larry was concerned she was generally very careful not to commit herself.

«When? » asked Larry, rather surprised at this cooperation.

Mother, perceiving that she had made a tactical error, cautiously lowered Easy Recipes from Rajputana.

«Well, I think it would be a sensible idea if you were to go on ahead, dear, and arrange things. Then you can write and tell me if it’s nice, and we all can follow, » she said cleverly.

Larry gave her a withering look. «You said that when I suggested going to Spain, » he reminded her, «and I sat for two interminable months in Seville, waiting for you to come out, while you did nothing except write me massive letters about drains and drinkingwater, as though I was the Town Clerk or something. No, if we’re going to Greece, let’s all go together. »

«You do exaggerate, Larry, » said Mother plaintively; «anyway, I can’t go just like that. I have to arrange something about this house. »

«Arrange? Arrange what, for heaven’s sake? Sell it. »

«I can’t do that, dear, » said Mother, shocked.

«Why not? »

«But I’ve only just bought it. »

«Sell it while it’s still untarnished, then. »

«Don’t be ridiculous, dear, » said Mother firmly; «that’s quite out of the question. It would be madness. »

So we sold the house and fled from the gloom of the English summer, like a flock of migrating swallows.

We all travelled light, taking with us only what we considered to be the bare essentials of life. When we opened our luggage for Customs inspection, the contents of our bags were a fair indication of character and interests. Thus Margo’s luggage contained a multitude of diaphanous garments, three books on slimming, and a regiment of small bottles each containing some elixir guaranteed to cure acne. Leslie’s case held a couple of roll-top pullovers and a pair of trousers which were wrapped round two revolvers, an air-pistol, a book called Be Your Own Gunsmith, and a large bottle of oil that leaked. Larry was accompanied by two trunks of books and a brief-case containing his clothes.

Mother’s luggage was sensibly divided between clothes and various volumes on cooking and gardening. I travelled with only those items that I thought necessary to relieve the tedium of a long journey: four books on natural history, a butterfly net, a dog, and a jam-jar full of caterpillars all in imminent danger of turning into chrysalides. Thus, by our standards fully equipped, we left the clammy shores of England  .  .  .

                                  

◊  Mike Shaw just sent me this post of  Iblis, one of three Asiatic lions at Chester Zoo UK. They differ from African lions and there are only about 350 remaining in the wild.

Thank you Mike, I appreciate the pic + poem and share the grief.

I Am

I am the one you fear

When respect is all that is needed

I am predator

Turned prey to mankind

Were I once was many

I am now few

I am majestic

But only a trophy to a man with a gun.