Blue Devil Fish, by Pliny the Elder

Greetings from Pliny the Elder.

There has been much in the newspapers recently about Blue Devil Fish, that hide in caves along the underwater reefs off the coast of Adelaide. These fish, they say, are most mysterious. In colour they are the darkest midnight blue, and their bodies are spotted with pale blue spots as numerous as the stars in the Milky Way.

Each fish has a distinctive pattern of spots by which it may be recognised, and divers have made numerous field trips to local reefs to photograph the fish, that they might make a study of their habits, and the size of their populations.

A study of the earbones of the Blue Devil Fish has shown that they can live to be as old as fifty nine. It makes me melancholy to think that I may be outlived by a fish. For I remain forever fifty seven. Not that it holds me back in many ways. But I will never qualify for free travel on the bus or train.

And therefore, should I wish to join the divers in their study of the Blue Devil Fish, for example by catching the train to Port Noarlunga and joining with them there, I cannot, unless I am willing to part with more money than I can spare. For the cost of bus and train tickets is close to four dollars nowadays, and that is four dollars each way, because it is not possible to walk to the beach from the station, swim out to the reef and back and return to the station in under two hours.

Furthermore, I believe the line is temporarily closed while it is being upgraded.

Blue Devil Fish, I should add, are not edible fish.

Tomorrow I shall be writing on chocolate biscuits. Farewell!

Pliny's Observations

Greetings from Pliny the Elder! I have been asked to deliver some observations on my visit to the Belair National Park, which I undertook by train.

Firstly I shall present my observations on the train. What a wonder of man's invention is a train! A train which can move a great number of persons up a mountain in just over half an hour! A train onto which a man or boy may carry a bicycle! A train which presents to the traveller's eye a series of vegetations, painted artworks, back gardens, black tunnels and spectacular views! Through the moving window I observed willow trees, olive trees, pine trees, aloes, spindly eucalypts, black cockatoos, and bright red green and yellow parrots. A dog sleeping on a patch of grass. A set of broken Corinthian columns next to a wheelbarrow.

I overheard a traveller's tale. A man with a bicycle was talking to one of the guards. He said he remembered that when he was a boy, cinders from the old steam trains would sometimes start spot fires along the line, so that the guard had to lean out with a bucket of water to extinguish the fire. An interesting tale, which the guard had doubtless heard before.

Alighting from the train at the last station we entered the National Park. The park was bristling with a diversity of trees. We saw an avenue of stately gum trees that had been planted over one hundred years ago. Each one was marked with a different pattern on its trunk. Some were striated, as though the tree were made of vertical planks; others were scarified, with rusty blackened holes all up and down. These holes were possibly made by birds, or by the depredations of some insect. Yet other tree trunks formed an artful patchwork of grey bark peeling to reveal a paler yellow bark underneath. The ground was littered with fallen branches, and desiccating leaves, and signs of the continuing works of man, in the manifold heaps of stones lining the path. The light through the canopy of trees was a beguiling greenish gold.

We walked down to the lake which was very low and brackish. A number of ducks skimmed the surface making gentle ripples, that gave off a duck-like smell. The remains of a wooden jetty, stood up out of the mud. A picnic table and some seats, a cooking place, appeared unused. This place was once the destination of the multitudes, but is no longer.

On the return journey the driver expressed, over the loudspeaker system, a reluctance to allow a boy with a bicycle and a bleeding nose to board the train. Strange times indeed, when this should be the case! In my day such a boy would be a hero. I have learned much in the course of this journey, and yet have many questions that remain unanswered.

Pliny's Train Ride

Pliny the Elder's bicycle was in three pieces. He wasn't going anywhere on that.

Would you like to come out with us this afternoon? I asked him. We're going to use public transport all weekend. We plan to take the bus into the city and then catch the train up to Belair National Park.

I would like that very much, said Pliny, looking pleased to be invited. I have never been on a bus or a train before, and I'm sure the National Park will be delightful.

Don't get too excited, Pliny, I said warningly. The National Park has never been delightful.

Nevertheless, said Pliny, I will come.

So we all got ready and walked over to the bus stop. The fourth bus let us on. We made it to the train with one minute to spare, and sat down next to the window.

Pliny gazed about with interest. Five boys had got on the train with mountain bikes, which a guard was officiously ordering them to rearrange in front of the doors, in case of emergency.

The train started off again. Pliny stared out of the window at the passing trees. Willows, he muttered. Olive trees, pines, aloes, geraniums, eucalypts.......do you by any chance have a pencil?
I lent him a pencil, and a little red notepad with a mushroom face on the front.

Here, Pliny, you can make notes in this.

Thank you, he said.

At Belair the three of us got out and walked into the Belair National Park, down steps and through a wooden archway built in grander days. Pliny nearly tripped over himself as he wrote furiously in his notebook.

I wondered what he could be writing. The Belair National Park was full of the dullest of trees. The light was sickly yellow and the path was lined with piles of stones from which twists of frayed blue and black plastic netting trailed in ugly heaps. I decided I was not the person to blog about this outing.

Pliny! I shouted, trying to get his attention.

But he didn't take any notice. He was too absorbed in taking his endless notes.

I mean to ask him to blog about it tomorrow.

The VeloDrone

No, I don't, said Pliny crossly. But I suppose you are going to tell me anyway.

Not unless you want me to, I replied.

Hmm, said Pliny. Alright then, tell me who was the winner of your absurd the Tour de France.

Alberto Contador, I said, followed by one of the Schlecks, and Lance Armstrong.

Yes of course, said Pliny, I know that, but what happened to the members of your Team Philosophe? Rousseau was last seen pedalling furiously up Mont Ventoux. Did he get to the top?

Oh yes, he did. And in record time. He would have been King of the Mountain, but he went flying down the other side and headed straight for Paris without stopping, so he was disqualified. He was livid. He claimed no one had told him he was meant to catch the train to Montereux.

What about Voltaire and Hume? asked Pliny. Did they finish well?

Well, they finished, I said. But not too well. They got into a very deep conversation about the cyclical nature of history and the cogs of human understanding, and they forgot all about trying to win the race. They were philosophical about it though. They're going to give up racing and publish a cycling and philosophy journal together.

Oh really? said Pliny, looking interested. I must watch out for it. What is it to be called?

Hume wants to call it Velosophy, but Voltaire thinks it will be more amusing to call it The VeloDrone.