Desert Days
It all begins with an idea.
It was quite tricky being a fox in an African desert. The nights were chilly, and perfect for the furry covering of foxes to strut the Playa and investigate all of the things under cover of darkness. The daytimes were full of searing heat, and winds that sent dust swirling through Mrs Fox’s roof-tent whenever the screens were loosened.
The light was mellowing on their first full day in the desert, when a sharp knock came from under their steps! Mrs Fox crawled to the end of the tent and peered out, suspiciously, wondering who on earth could have located them hours from the nearest town, miles along the R355 into the Tankwa Karoo?
A cheery face, framed by a silken hat, grinned up at her.
“The Playa provides!” yelled Mrs Fox, scrambling part way out of the tent to hug their friend from Berlin. “I’ve come to invite you to the first burn, this evening!” he announced, bowing deeply. The Foxes shrieked with delight and tumbled, like a pair of foxes, down the steep ladder of the roof tent. Scrambling in their various bags, they put together outfits suitable for crossing the Playa, and set off, the three of them, linking arms and remarking in wonderment at the sights on their way.
A giant table lamp, switched on and off by a huge rope cord, lit their way intermittently, along with many bright creatures and vehicles, playing both alone and together, as they found their way to the emotions of the first South African burn of 2019. The three friends huddled together on the edge of the cordon, their stillness absorbing the memories of others, and of themselves.
The flames began to lick the art work, racing to reach the top. A tension was released and the Foxes held on to each other, watching the disappearance of the old right in front of them. The ashes swirled in the light of the flames, and the background of the Southern Hemisphere clear skies reached into vastness above them.
Time settled.
Gretna Green
It all begins with an idea.
The Foxes were in trouble. Big Trouble. The kind of trouble that a raised eyebrow cannot do justice to, even years later….
Like naughty teenagers, they had planned and plotted. Dates, times, cover for the horses, dogs, cats and chickens, a dinner date the day after with friends in Stanley Common.
The frozen snowfall glistened with promise and excitement. Mrs Fox sent a picture to the cub, a mountain of snow for her cub in the south to share, enviously drinking in the scenes that she loved.
The day unfolded in startling sunshine, the white glare of the snow sending sparkling light over the village as they arrived, bags of secretly made clothes stashed in the boot. They dressed with care, adorned in their velvety finery, and stepped smartly from the hotel reception.
The Blacksmith’s Shop stood waiting, timeless and yet immediate, full of history and promises.
The Foxes nervously sipped teas whilst they waited, attracting calls for photographs, comments of compliment as they sat. Mr Fox was tall in his burgundy velvet dress coat, his elegant top hat framing the edges of their pictures. Mrs Fox was wrapped in silk and velvet, draped around her, with petticoats rustling.
The ceremony over, they stood in the sunshine, wonderment awash.