The Anglo-Zulu Wars

130 years ago last week, over 24,000 Zulu warriors attacked a British Invasion Force as it encamped on the slopes of Isandlwana, Zululand. Both sides fought with amazing bravery, both sides suffered severe loss.

It was a terrible defeat for the British Army. Of the 1300 plus troops only a handful survived but over 3000 Zulus also died. On the same day the British troops at Rorke’s Drift, a few miles away, were also attacked but after many hours of fierce and furious battle the British troops repulsed the Zulu warriors.

Rob Gerrard (the resident historian at the stunning Isandlwana Lodge overlooking the site) guides tourists through every angle and nuance of the battles of Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift. He brings the events to life – so to speak – in the most vivid detail. The experience is guaranteed to move even the most unemotional of men.

What is less than impressive is the arrogance and ineptitude that was shown by commander of the British forces, Major General Lord Chelmsford. Men such as he rose to positions of power, due less to ability and more to connections, and their lack of professionalism had disastrous results. What is even more shocking is that many a similar thing continued to happen, later, in the First World War.

As in any war, it is not just the lives of soldiers that are lost, it is the lives of their families that are blighted. Every man who died on the 22nd January 1879 was a son; many a father, some a brother. Most would have been a breadwinner, others a potential one. British and Zulu families would feel the consequences for generations to come.

If I were to consider the Anglo-Zulu Wars on a totally uninvolved level, I should find the amount of interest that they exert for military historians - amateur and professional alike - surprising. The wars were condensed into a very short period, over a very small area. Could it be the complexity of them, the tactics, the reasons for them or the results of them that are so gripping? Or perhaps it’s the astounding bravery that was displayed: five VC’s were awarded at Rorke’s Drift alone.

But, in actual fact, I’m involved on a very personal level: my great-grandfather died at the Battle of Isandlwana. His name, Charles White, is on the memorial at Isandlwana. Somewhere, under one of the cairns – a pile of white stones – or scattered on the battlefield lie his remains. He left behind a family and dependents in Natal: seven children and a pregnant wife. Mr Kipling was wrong; there is very little glory in war.

Lucy
lucyannwhite@googlemail.com

And When Did You Last See Your Father?

When? Twelve days ago, just three days before he died. I'm so glad I did. And I told him that I loved him. How lucky I am: so many people are not able to and regret it. And many say that they wished, too late, that they had spoken to their parents more about their lives: probed into their pasts.

But, researching A Little Blue Jacket, I spent many hours recording my parent's memories, winkling out buried facts. And it's often surprising what rises to the surface. Blake Morrison's book, And When Did You last See Your Father? examined his – and probably everybody's - inability to stand back from events or see our parents as individuals. And it really highlighted how there are so many inconsistencies in 'memory'(see my blog archive 'Memories', 3 Feb, 2007).

My father reached a grand old age and was only seriously ill for weeks but knew that his time was finally up, that his body was just about worn out. But his will was so strong that he held on until he was ready. He was so proud of his family: he could still introduce us to the nurses - this is my younger daughter, this is my eldest son – he would apologise for 'messing up your plans' (as if), and he could still flash an illuminating smile when something amusing was said.

I knew he was proud of me: not for my achievements which, let's face it, are pretty thin on the ground, but simply because I was his daughter and he loved me. And I'm very proud of him: not just for his achievements, which were many, but for his ambition, his dogged determination to succeed against all the odds, for his will, his application and his talent.

I've inherited none of his scientific talent – my eldest brother has that – but I have inherited some of his other abilities: I'm able to 'visualize' spaces, can think creatively and solve problems. And I have his ability to stick at something until I get as far as I can, as well as I can, with it. And like him I can be equally happy alone or in company: have a love of gardens and landscape, an appreciation of food and wine. And, yes, (whisper this) I have inherited quite a few of his less attractive characteristics that I'm not so quick to admit to and definitely don't intend to broadcast.

He was no saint, my father, definitely not, but as an adult I can understand the reasons behind many things that happened in the past: can understand how complex relationships are. As a spouse and parent I know how easy it is to get things wrong, how difficult it is to get them right. And how one can only hope to do one's best hampered as we all are to some extent with emotional baggage, economic constraints or conflicting characters. It may be obvious why there are many mixed up people in this world but, equally, it's quite amazing there are so many well rounded, happy and successful ones!

And I loved – love - him because he was my Dad: for tickling me when I was a tot till I begged him to stop, for his interest in my interests when I was a teen, for - when the chips were down as a young adult - saying the right thing at the right time which made me feel that I had his respect and support. And I admire his love of life, his humour and his charm. I'm having trouble putting this into the past tense, aren't I: I still feel he's here, or there, at 'home', sitting beside Mum watching the television.

A parent's love for their child is unconditional – it should be, it usually is – and a child's love for their parent is often the same. I know mine is. I knew my Dad's faults but I loved him in spite of them; sometimes because of them. And I shall miss him forever.

Lucy

The Birds Have Flown

Christmas is over and all the birds have flown: literally in one case - to Banff - the rest off to Brighton or Bournemouth (a naturally occuring bit of alliteration is always fun). But there are still one or two parties to extend the holiday for another few days and keep the festive spirit flowing. And amazingly (everything considered) we've had a good one: no family crises, no ruined dinner, everyone in good cheer.

Christmas for me always begins in a very measured, organized way - with a list. Four weeks prior to Christmas I've seventy per cent of the presents and have bought the cards. 1st of December, have ordered the bird and the ham. By the 7th of the month have been to my first celebration of the season and look forward with pleasure to this happy time of year. This year I read that fir trees will be in short supply so - uncharacteristically - buy one early and store it in a water butt in the garden. I am relaxed and in control: smug in other words. But smugness (as everyone knows) comes before a fall.

More work than I bargained for in the depth of winter (two gardens to design) keeps me busy Monday to Friday; not a chance to start The New Book now before Christmas - must have been mad to think I could. Am beginning to feel just the teensiest bit stressed: still have not even written my cards and the last day of second-class post has just passed. Still do not have those last few difficult presents or, more correctly, presents for difficult people - the sort who either have no hobbies or no humour but who do have (sickeningly) 'everything' else. I do a one-stop pressie-shop and buy everyone the same: tough. Re-write the list.

Seven days before the holiday I finish writing my cards but it will have to be first-class post now - fortunately the cards read 'Seasons Greetings' so if they don't arrive until New Year I can pretend it was intentional. At about this time I usually decide to restore my good cheer by decorating the tree; I put on my naff Christmas music and pour myself an equally sad Sherry (but on ice and large). This tree is eight foot high and I cover it (very tastefully of course) with all the decorations we've built up over the years. The moth-eaten, mice-nibbled ones are reluctantly replaced by orphaned new ones found in pre-sale bins.

This year the decking operation is very successful because I've finally cracked the tree light problem - that complete out-of-all-proportion flap that occurs when, the day before Christmas, they fail to light up and at midnight I'm still trying (very grumpily) to find the dud bulb. I simply bought a completely new set of 100 lights: no joins, no dud bulbs, no tangles. They light the first time (its a miracle) and I'm not at all guilty about the sets of 20's in the roof; the mice are welcome to them.

I realise what a traditionalist I've become when - in very mellow mood now - I view my finished art-work (or is it an installation). The decorations are all made of wood, raffia or felt in red, white or green; dangling glass crystals refract the white lights and the golden garlands very prettily and little bunches of cinnamon tied with tartan ribbon smell gloriously wintery. Damage limitation has also been taken into consideration - anything fluffy or edible is hung out of reach of Freddie, the dog (it used to be small children but times move on).

Best Beloved says it looks grand and I allow myself at least 24 hours to bask in the reflected glory before pure panic sets in. Five days to go and ten of us for Christmas and I haven't wrapped any presents, done the food shop, made the soup, the stuffings (gave up making the cake and the pud when I realised that the supermarkets did it better than me) or the beds. Re-write the list. Best Beloved sees it and now, beginning to panic a bit himself, agrees to drive me to the market so I don't have to struggle with the lack of car parking as well as having to lug all the pot plants, fresh flowers, vegs and fruit on my own (is this where I've been going wrong, I wonder).

Bedrooms are miraculously tidied by stuffing all extraneous clutter into cardboard boxes which are piled at the bottom of our bed: its like going to sleep in a dungeon. Beds are inexpertly made, bathrooms speed-cleaned. Re-write the list. I'm hoping that Princess, First Born, Fruit of My Womb, will be able to help me with the table. Best Beloved has still not got the logs in and I know that he's sneakily waiting for the Prodigal to return and do it for him. Neither of our wishes are granted. Don't Panic (try not to nag), it will be all right on the night.

As usual, two days before Christmas we plan to gather the festive ivy but, horror of horrors, remember that we cut it all down off the old brick wall in the summer. It was great for the wildlife but not so good for the wall. And the wall looks tons better but ..... A desperate trawl through a little spinney, up tree trunks, in hedges and over sheds produces enough for the purpose and we pile it on a sheet where it trips everyone up as they go out the back door. Freddie helps by re-distributing it all over the lawn.

On the night (Christmas Eve), parents arrive just as I'm drying my hair: I will now have a very startled-hair look for the big day. Father has forgotten the spare batteries for his hearing-aid, Mother has forgotton her ear-plugs. They drink their cup of tea as I hastily arrange the ivy on the mantlepiece underneath my favourite painting. Mother supervises, "No, dear, put it really high in the middle, yes, up more, more, that's better - such an improvement on that picture". As everyone else arrives, Freddie eats his first Christmas decoration.

But heigh-ho, Christmas is over now.
Onwards and Upwards - just like the birds.
Here's to a Happy and Fruitful New Year!
See you then, Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com