Falsely Minted

What? says Pliny, sharply. The sweets? Falsely minted ? How so?

It's just a theory, I say, placatingly. I'm formulating it right now while I'm talking. Humbugs are generally thought to be flavoured with peppermint. Correct?

Or aniseed, says Pliny.

Or aniseed, you're right! Now say the original boiled humbug sweets were flavoured with aniseed.

Perhaps they were, says Pliny.

And everybody liked them and got really used to them being flavoured with aniseed.

Alright, yes, says Pliny. What then?

Well, then some enterprising sweetmaker starts making humbugs with peppermint flavouring, I say, thinking fast. And some people really like them, and some people don't, and the ones that don't start calling them Hamburgs because they're falsely minted, like the Hamburg coins that are flooding into the country because it's the time of the Napoleonic Wars.

No, says Pliny, that is bad psychology. The popular name of a sweet would not be the name given to it by the people who do not like it. And if your theory is correct, why aren't only the peppermint ones called humbugs?

You're right, I say, crestfallen. And if you think about it, what would the original aniseed ones have been called if they weren't called humbugs? We need to do more thinking.

Thinking? says Pliny. We need to do more research.

Uim-Bog

We are thinking now, Pliny the Elder and I, about the origin of the word humbug. Pliny has already come across some interesting suggestions.

It seems, says Pliny, that 'humbug' may derive from old Norse, 'hum', meaning night, and a Biblical reference to 'bugges', meaning bogey, or an apparition.

That's a funny name for a sweet, I say, perplexed.

We have not yet come to the mystery of the naming of the sweet, says Pliny, seriously. This refers to the origin of the word humbug meaning hoax, jest or deception.

Oh, I say, and are there any other suggestions, because I don't think much of that one.

Yes, says Pliny. In England in the 18th century, to hum meant to deceive. This may have been combined with the Celtic word 'bwg', meaning ghost.

Bwg! I like that. But shouldn't you pronounce it 'bug' ?

Probably, says Pliny. I stand corrected. However there is another school of thought that favours an Italian origin for humbug. It is thought to derive from 'uomo bugiardo' which means a lying man.

That's a good one, I agree. It certainly sounds a bit like humbug when you say it fast.

Indeed, but how about this? says Pliny. Uim-bog is Irish for soft copper, or worthless money.

Uim-bog. No, that doesn't sound very much like humbug, Pliny. But perhaps you're pronouncing it wrong. You're saying wim-bog, but what if you say it like um-bog?

Oh yes, um-bog, um-bog, um-bog, says Pliny, experimentally.

That's probably it then, I say, unless you've got a better one?

Well, says Pliny, it seems the 1911 edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica suggested it might derive from Hamburg, the source of falsely minted coins during the Napoleonic wars.

Bah! Hamburg! I say, trying not to laugh. That's very unconvincing. But, wait, did you say falsely minted? That may be our connection to the sweets!

Hum Bug

Pliny likes humbugs? When did he ever have humbugs? Better ask him.

Pliny, when have you ever eaten humbugs?

Pliny looks guilty. I can't recall the exact circumstances, he says. But it was some time ago.

Did you eat them in our house? I ask him, as a suspicion begins to dawn.

Yes, quite possibly, he nods and begins to hum a little tune as though the conversation is over.

And it is over.

Because I don't want to bug him. But I know exactly where he got the humbugs from. He must have found those ones in the drawer in the bathroom, left over from last winter when someone had a sore throat and got tired of eating Throaties, and bought humbugs, and couldn't finish them, but wouldn't throw them away.

I wondered where they were disappearing to.

Unfinished

Me: Have you finished?

Pliny the Elder: Finished what?

Me: Your holiday blog.

Pliny the Elder: Yes, why?

Me: Only that you didn't sign off. You just wrote 'And here I fell asleep'.

Pliny the Elder: Well, obviously, you can't sign off after you've fallen asleep.

Me: Oh. I thought you meant you'd fallen asleep in the car.

Pliny the Elder: Yes. That was why it was amusing.

Me: I see. Well, the holiday seems to have done you good. Lightened you up a little. Your blog is delightful. And I must say, you are more observant than I am.

Pliny the Elder: Thank you. I enjoyed myself a great deal. I am only sorry that I wasn't given an opportunity to visit the Moonta Mines.

Me: Yes, I know. I'm sorry. But we'd done it all before. You sit on a little train and rumble around the tailings heaps and pump houses and the cementation works. I forgot you hadn't seen it.

Pliny the Elder: I did see it, from across the road while you were in the Old Fashioned Sweet Shop.

Me: Oh yes. That was a waste of time that Sweet Shop. We heard some ladies talking in the back room but they didn't come out into the shop. Too bad, they missed out on selling us a bag of humbugs.

Pliny the Elder: Oh, did they have humbugs?

Me: Yes, but I was glad they didn't come out because I would have felt obliged to buy something and as it was I didn't.

Pliny the Elder: Why did you go in then?

Me : I was looking for honey.

Pliny the Elder: Sweet shops don't sell honey.

Me: I know that now.

Pliny the Elder: All the same it's a pity about the humbugs.

Me: Why?

Pliny the Elder: I like humbugs.

Pliny's Holiday (end part)

I soon cheered up when we arrived once more at Moonta Bay. My companions decided to walk as far around the bay as the lighthouse, which looked like a very long walk indeed. You go, I said, and I shall potter here upon the sand. The tide was in but there were little islands of red-tipped samphire on which birds were standing. And I wished to make an inventory of shells.

I soon had a small collection of delightful molluscs. Because it was a holiday I had decided on a theme, and only picked up shells of reddish-pink, with the exception of two mussel shells that were bluish-purple, and a small orange winkle. The reddish-pink shells were gastropods of the type called Painted Lady, and bore designs of such intricate beauty one could scarce believe they were not painted with a brush.

Next I turned my attention to the birds. The birds seemed unafraid of me, and allowed me to approach them on their pretty islands. I identified gulls, sandpipers, pelicans, and sooty black oystercatchers with bright orange beaks. But the tide was rapidly going out, and they soon flew away.

My companions returned at last, claiming to have almost reached the lighthouse, which I did not think possible in the two hours they had taken, but of course it does depend on what they meant by almost. Together we ascended the metal steps to the top of the low seawall, and were surprised to hear a kind of natural music coming from them, created by the wind.

And now it was time to head for home. I should like to stay in Moonta Bay, I said to my companions. I believe I could find enough to do here to fill my days. But they looked very dubious, and pointed out that what seemed charming on a holiday might soon become tedious as a way of life. And so we set off to buy some lunch.

On the way home we saw a great fire billowing black and white smoke into the air at Paskeville, and people running to try and put it out.

At Cavan the salt heaps floated upside down in water that was tinted rosy pink.

And here I fell asleep.

Pliny's Holiday (sorrowful part)

The next morning we made ready to check out of our cabin. Before leaving we took a walk around the grounds, for we had reason to believe there had once been a wildlife park there, and something previously unknown to me, called a Mini Golf. And now I come to the most sorrowful part of my story.

We walked across to an area behind the furthest cabins, to a large deserted building, and peered through the windows. This building looked as though it had once been an office and a place to welcome visitors. Inside we saw a stand containing dusty postcards, several pieces of broken equipment and a purple couch, piled high with papers and an old crumpled sheet.

Beyond the building we could see the Mini Golf. A sad thing is a Mini Golf. This one consists of short runs marked with lengths of splintered wood, and pieces of carpet lying on them, rucked and torn. Here and there are cracked and peeling statues of headless kangaroos. Dead spike-leaved bushes and weeds lean at crazy angles in the hard dry dirt. A notice on a post describes the rules of playing Mini Golf.

My companions assured me that Mini Golf is not always played this way. Nevertheless, it was with heavy heart that I surveyed the further reaches of this wildlife garden. No wildlife was in evidence, save the occasional rustling of a bird. Alas for the fragility of the works of man! A dry water course, a broken structure that may once have been a bird enclosure, a circular stone construction and a creaking wooden windmill that turned, to no avail, in the strengthening breeze. A disconnected system of watering pipes in a dying forest of pines.

I could not help but think of my Pompeii, and what had happened there. A place that had once been filled with human activity and purpose, now come to naught. It was enough to make even a man of self-discipline and reason such as myself reflect and shed a tear.

And on this sorrowful note I shall end this description, leaving you the reader to take from it whatever lesson that you will. Tomorrow I shall continue on a brighter theme, for the rest of the day, though windy, was most pleasant, and full of wonders.

Vale!
Gaius Plinius Secundus

Pliny's Holiday (continued)

My companions having returned from Port Hughes, we returned to our cabin to prepare for the evening's entertainments.

At seven we arrived at the Beachfront Bistro, a pleasant venue with a magnificent view of the seafront carpark and jetty. Having ordered our dinner we were entertained by the sight of two young men on the esplanade attempting to film themselves doing twisting tricks upon their skating boards. The young men were models of perseverence, but were unable to perform the trick. We were glad of the entertainment for our dinner was a long time in arriving. Perhaps this is normal; I do not know.

I am not used to going on a holiday. I find it strange not to be doing productive work. After dinner we went for a walk along the beach to watch the sunset. The sunset was very beautiful. The clouds above the horizon took on deeper shades of red and pink and orange as we watched. At the same time the pale full moon rose over the trees behind the caravan park, so that every way one looked there was something of wondrous ephemeral beauty. Even the sand itself was a work of art, the artists here being cockles forming strange curling designs in the sand as they buried themselves for the night. Children were playing on the sand in the gathering dark, and a group of people talked and laughed under the jetty. I thought that perhaps the value of a holiday lies precisely in not doing productive work.

Later still, my companions deciding to go to Rossiters Point with a bottle of wine, and observe the human activities on the jetty and the motions of the tides and the stars, I took my leave and climbed down the cliff steps in the dark, to the beach, to see what might be taking place at night there. Soon I saw a figure with a bright light, walking bent over in the shallows, making a mighty swooshing noise with his legs. What are you doing? I asked him, but he did not reply. I asked if I might observe him, still he did not answer. I sat down on the sand and observed him anyway. Presently his wife arrived at the top of the cliff in a car and walked down the path to meet him. He took a long time to gather up his things. She walked back up the path ahead of him. He followed her but half way up the path he stopped. Are you alright? she asked. Even then he did not speak but remained silent. As if he had seen a ghost.

I returned alone to the cabin, passing on my way a house with a man sitting outside on an old settee listening to music and drinking something out of a can. As I passed he began to whistle strangely. I hurried to the cabin and went inside. Immediately I began to make my preparations for sleep. There was a bunk bed opposite the bathroom. I had never seen a bunk bed before. I thought it would be sensible to choose the bottom bunk, but something made me climb up to the top, perhaps it was the holiday spirit. Once there I fell asleep and slept soundly till the morning.

As for the following day's adventures, let them wait until tomorrow.

Vale!
Gaius Plinius Secundus