Monday 18th November, 1936 A room with a view! Actually I am writing from the same bivouac shelter, pitched nearly five miles West and two miles higher than our previous camp. No more pineapple brandy though, and Maria has had to say farewell to her typewriter for awhile. Strictly speaking she could have taken it, but it was that or two days’ weight of food supplies and she grimly swapped it for tins of Maconochie. We must be eating up a lot of the supply of those old tins, plus eliminating the occasional leaking or bloated one we throw out strictly uneaten. Beryl suggests as there are already charities raising funds for the Deserving Poor, we collect the tainted cans for the Undeserving ones. Being a third-year has its hectic moments, in fact a lot of them. Miss Wildford cycled up just at dorm, blew her whistle and told us we had eight hours to shift camp over to the top of Mount Kiribatori. Ten thousand feet to climb with our packs on! We would not be returning to Songmark to pick up supplies first, so she suggested we start jogging. Naturally, those of us who had dug in had to refill them first “so no cubs fall in”. Considering there is a thirty-foot cliff just next door, any cub who gets this far should be careful about falling off things and into things. Not being allowed to return to our rooms meant not resupplying with anything including money. Suddenly we had water taxis to pay for, and a lot of I.O.U’s were written to Molly especially by those of us who had been spending their ready cash on her pineapple brandy. I had just enough shells with me for the return fare, and Helen retrieved a brass cartridge case of small change she had buried near the ferry dock for such emergencies. Beryl was generously offering to lend money, but we know her interest rates. Saint T’s might or might not have economics on the timetable but that school certainly teaches a lot about aggressive financing – Ada Cronstein says if it was on the American East coast, it would be called a Poison Ivy League school. I was quite grateful not to have a deep den to refill and replace all the turf exactly as we found it; naturally Miss Wildford stood over the trench owners and let nobody start out till their part of the camp was restored. About a quarter of us joined me in the first rush down to the docks leaving the rest shovelling earth and probably cursing in a ladylike manner. There was no hot breadfruit mash for breakfast either; once landed on Main Island we persuaded our fastest runner, Li Han, to sprint ahead at top speed to the Polynesian village with our remaining money and arrange some food while we followed up carrying her pack between us. So we had fruits and roast fish to munch along the way; in some cases the villagers sold us their breakfasts hot off their own hearths. They have time to cook another one, unlike us, and tourist shells are hard to come by this time of year. It is a good thing I have climbed up to the peak before, as the proper route is not one that looks obvious nor is it marked on the map. Bear far South of the village, cross over to the far side of the ridge and only then pick up the path that zig-zags up the steep but practicable West side of the mountain. We had not been here since Professor Schiller and G-U-U made the first ascent of the sheer Eastern face, with most of their pitons invisibly sabotaged. I never did discover if anyone found out who did that. Similarly, someone tried to explosively sabotage those ether drums Professor Kurt von Mecklenburg und Soweiter was using for his composting power station; I never found out about that either. Mr. Sapohatan tells us what we need to know and no more, as is reasonable. Maria suspects his rival Doctor Maranowski, but he is still in business and his methane pits bubbling away; had he been implicated I think the Althing would have revoked his license at the very least. However fast we travel around here, our Tutors are always well ahead of us. We found Miss Blande sitting in a comfy hoop tent with her stopwatch and notebook ready to time us arriving. She also had one of her gentleman friends for company; that Spontoonie Great Dane who we met in the lifeboat exercises. I think some of us were rather disappointed when they took down their tent and departed as the last of us arrived; of course that “shadow-play” with the tent wall and lantern last time was the sort of accident one never sees twice, and they could have no idea it was visible to us. I think. The summit of Mount Kiribatori is very nice to rest on for an hour on a hot day while looking at the tour-boats far below, but it is rather forbidding to spend the night on. There is the consolation that we do not have to be in class an hour later, unlike our previous camp. Maria turned up in the last bunch of us having just filled in her dugout; she hauled her entrenching tool up the ten thousand foot climb and we all learned some new Italian words when she discovered there is about two inches of soil covering solid rock here. Digging into the summit is a matter for dynamite, not spades. I had noted Miss Blande’s tent was the mountain sort that is held down with stones along the groundsheet, not tent pegs. It was an impressive evening, and decidedly chilly as the sun went down. Two degrees colder with every thousand feet climbed, is the rule – and it was hardly tropical by the coast. Just our luck to have clear skies; admittedly it might have been a howling gale with us worrying about getting blown over the edge in the night, but no doubt that is being saved up for another time. Still, we prepared for anything and carefully weighed our shelters down. Molly suggested that a parachute would be a useful precaution – anyone running full speed off the edge of the cliff probably would get enough time to properly open one. As if anyone will ever try a stunt like that! It is as insane as jumping off a bridge, unless in despair at having found the title deeds to it Beryl sold you are not worth the sixpenny revenue stamp. Still, it is a very different experience (more’s the pity) from my first trip up here with Jirry nearly two years ago. Then, a Pandanus palm windbreak and some very welcome company was quite enough to keep warm. It is a great relief to know that in a month I will be Tailfast once again, and be able to proudly comb that marking into my fur for all to see and the significant folk to recognise. Cold Maconochie stew for supper; we are allowed fires but are camped a thousand feet above the tree line and nobody really wanted to make the return trip. It is proving a useful lesson in how much things weigh; having hauled everything two miles vertically in a day over very rough tracks and narrow forest trails, one quite grudges the weight of every empty tin. Irma Bundt and a few others had the bright idea of leaving their inessential kit down in the Polynesian village to be picked up later. Of course, there are some things one cannot leave lying around. It must be a worry for stags who live in places where native rituals really work and actual body samples such as shed fur and claw trimmings can be made use of; I can imagine he has to weight any unwanted shed antlers with rocks and drop them in the middle of the Nimitz Sea. Which Molly would think rather a waste. Wednesday 20th November, 1936 Back to Songmark, after two windswept nights camping at an altitude my dear Flying Flea could never reach. In fact I had the opportunity to test that today, as we were all flying again and every aircraft was busy. After half an hour we noticed we no longer had the skies to ourselves; ten biplane fighters came up to fly a creditable formation about three hundred yards off our port wingtips. It was Father Dominicus’ girls, the 'Ave Argentum', showing us their form. I could see Molly just ahead of me making a strange gesture in the empty air behind the windscreen – I was trying to recall which rude one she was using, when I suddenly recognised it from that Great War film “The Medium Parade” by Howard Huge. If our dear Tutors had equipped the Tiger Moths with machine-guns, Molly was cocking the guns ready for action. Of course we are honour bound not to do anything unfriendly or dangerous; the reputation of Songmark has to be upheld (and despite some of the roughnecks we attract, on paper at least we are an aeronautical school for Young Ladies.) So we kept to our formation and our piece of the sky, knowing the eyes of our Tutors were on us from the control tower. I doubt we have anything to fear directly from the Ave Argentum; they do not seem the sort who would go in for sabotage even through third-parties hired for the job. But as for setting us up to be tripped up by our own actions – that seems more likely. Maria has told us much about the Jesuits, who have as slippery a persuasive or coercive technique of making an opponent stumble with her own momentum as any Sumo wrestler. I was quite glad to land and leave the skies to our rivals. It is unnervingly like our encounters in the skies West of Vostok last Christmas; every day the Vostok and Soviet air forces patrol their sides of the invisible frontier, the giant bombers and airships flying racetrack patterns at their holding points with weapons primed. There is going to be an accident one of these days; someone will not notice the changing wind blowing them over the frontier, or a paw will slip on the trigger. All in all, it is just as well Father Dominicus had the surplus ex-French “Armee d’Air” biplanes disarmed. Molly has wistfully speculated they still have the propeller equipped with interrupter gear for machine-guns and imagined restoring them to their original state. All very well, as Helen pointed out, until one considers who they are liable to be aiming at. On our return to Songmark, Miss Devinski called us all together and I could see her ears pressed right down. For half a minute we all wondered silently what we had done (Beryl looked angelically innocent; she is good at that) and sighed in relief when she snapped out that we had been issued a “friendly challenge” at an aerobatics contest with our rivals. Father Dominicus had publicly announced the challenge via the Spontoon Mirror, before asking our Tutors about it. Rather a clever move, when one considers it. If they lose, they have a whole swarm of reasons handy – the disruption of moving to the far side of the globe, unfamiliar weather, new aircraft and everything. They have little to lose by losing, unlike us, and it would look just as bad if we refused to compete. Miss Devinski wrinkled her snout and read the details of the challenge, which certainly seem fair to me. Three pilots from each school, to be judged on their aerobatic feats by the Schneider Trophy committee – an impartial bunch who are probably itching for some action this time of year, having rested since the August “Speed Week” and with so long to wait till the 1937 racing season starts up. A lot of tails and ears went up as we realised it is surely a job for third-years, namely us! Even more challenging, is the fact that the Ave Argentum put even their first-year students into aerobatics as soon as they have mastered the basics. It is flashy, good for impressing the crowds, no help at all in running a successful Adventuring career (barnstormers are ten a penny anyway) and a major factor in the original Spanish school casualty rate. So they are wisely playing to their strengths. Well! I would bet a month’s allowance that Adele is one of our team, but there are two others to be chosen. Calling for volunteers would be fairly pointless, as we would all jump at the chance; even Maria is very happy to play along. Miss Devinski dismissed us, assuring us that we would meet the challenge head-on. I am certainly up for it, given the chance. Being beaten would be awfully embarrassing though. Maria is very keen to write up the competition for her own journalism course; her Uncle started off in papers. Of course, these were not quite like the Daily Elele. She has a photograph of him sitting at his desk with a large black flag on the wall embroidered with skulls and daggers; on the desk is his traditional glass of milk (hot in Winter, cold in Summer), a loaded pistol and three grenades. When other newspapers argued with him he did not sue them but duelled the editors – although it may say something about other Italian newspaper editors that five of them accepted. *  The disadvantage to our Tutors of our camp on Mount Kiribatori is we can hardly attend classes at Songmark as well; at least the North Coast camp was only half an hour away. Our next piece of hardship will be even nearer home, and both more and less comfortable. No digging in for Maria this time; we are going to be living in and around our aircraft on the airstrip! This is something Miss Blande assures us all Adventuresses have to do at some stage, whether to keep guard on the aircraft or through lack of accommodation elsewhere. I doubt it will be as easy as unrolling a sleeping bag in the back of the Junkers 86. As ever, we are not being told how long this part of the course will last – it certainly encourages us to make thorough preparation, as we may be out till the end of term. We had an hour to work on our shelters, and the crank handles of the sewing machines never stopped turning. This could actually be another career possibility; Eriksson’s’ Outdoors on Casino Island sell equipment but do not design and it themselves. It is something to think about. Of course, you would need a public record of impressive expeditions before your name on the label really meant anything; next to someone like Captain Spalding the African explorer we would have no chance. Thinking of our careers talks, Beryl is looking very pleased with herself. She has been saying for awhile that her most artistically satisfying career would be to travel around the world causing Mysteries, but the profitability looked uncertain. Now she says she has worked that part out, but she is not telling anyone (except our Tutors, who are a hard act to impress.) Still, it is better than her other idea of founding an Academy teaching the daughters of international fugitives from justice how to outwit the police. “Antipol” was her suggested title for the establishment; something short, catchy and sure to appeal to those whose main enemy is Interpol. The Ave Argentum say that is what Songmark already is. Memo to myself: it cannot be denied we do have folk such as Beryl, Molly and Red Dorm onboard. It is a good thing I was brought up to be law-abiding, or I would start wondering if we could put their undoubted bad talents to good use, pointing that direction. Molly has not quite given up on being a Good Girl, but says she would rather do something well than badly, and she would not be good at it. * (Editor’s note: quite true. Some people would rather pay the fee of a doctor rather than a lawyer.) Friday 22nd November, 1936 A busy time of things! The first and second-years are probably cursing us for taking all the flight time on the Tiger Moths; we are practicing our aerobatics before the Tutors decide who will go up against our rivals. Adele, for certain – unless she is off injured again. In Spontoon, they may have some rather unusual insurance claims. Can one get insurance against being cursed? Adele is the second person I have come across with the problem, so there should be some customers. We have been guarding our aircraft round the clock, sleeping under the wings. Runways and hangar floors are jolly hard, and we almost wish we were back on Mount Kiribatori where there was at least some turf under our bedrolls. There is the advantage that we are back for meals again, and hot showers and bathrooms are within range. One thing the Adventure books never mention is how useful a shovel is especially for a protracted stay; by the second morning on the peak Maria had almost stopped cursing having carried it all the way up. Another good thing about living on the airfield is the chance to scavenge for spare parts. The old compressor on that waste oil blowtorch Jasbir’s dorm built for heating our baths breathed its last this week, so we are reduced to bathing in pairs. That is, one bathes, one furiously pumps at a manual blower! This is awfully hard work, and by the time one is finished at the pump one needs another bath. Rather rough on anyone who just had one and then starts pumping the stove blower for a dorm-mate; this might go on all day if we had the spare time. Whoever gets the electrical system working again, we have voted to award a bottle of Nootnops Blue.  Despite everything, we are managing to have some fun. Being on the airfield, Mahanish’s is five minutes walk away and as we are “patrolling” one or two of us at a time can extend our patrol to cover it. I cannot see Miss Devinski being really convinced by the cover story of us pursuing suspicious characters, but happily we have not had to explain it to her yet. And the food there is an awful lot better than we generally get at Songmark. Molly is experimenting in her free time (what we have of it) with her new self-heating cans. They have to be cheap and effective; grains of coral rock calcined to quicklime shows more promise than the fine powder she started off with. Everything else she has tried is either too dear or too nasty – the test with potassium oxide blew the can up and scattered boiling caustic sludge everywhere. Not something I want in my tent or cockpit. Madeleine X is actually rather good at aerobatics, having flown solidly for years before staring at Songmark. She tends to hold up French style and élan beyond all else; one can do something perfectly well and still have her look down her snout for lack of refinement. I reminded her that it was French style and élan that had their troops starting the Great War in bright red trousers, with the (more expensive) officers also clad in white gloves just to be really conspicuous. Still, they had not been up against anything but spears in a generation. We had just digested the unpleasant lessons of the Boer War by then and dressed our troops in khaki, and the field-grey clad Germans were presumably just naturally efficient. Molly and I went out as usual to Song Sodas, where Mr. Sabass “signed us off” as proof against ordinary hypnosis and opined there was nothing more he could do for us. We asked Miss Blande why nobody else is getting this treatment, which ought to be jolly useful to an Adventuress as by repute Songmark graduates find themselves in all sorts of tight spots. Her muzzle wrinkled somewhat, and she growled that we should have the sense by now to know why we needed it – and it is not something the average girl should need, let alone a Songmark third-year, having the sense not to get into those situations. I assume they are talking about Lars, though Mr. Sabass had admitted that whatever he could see in me was not hypnotic influence. I reminded Molly to ask Lars about it next time she saw him; by her last report Lars is away on another “Import-Export” mission somewhere far afield. Back to the airfield, to guard our aircraft. For those of us with a head for heights and no tendency to roll around asleep, a favourite perch is on the wing next to the engines of the Junkers 86. As it flies till evening most days the engines are still giving out heat for hours, and the scent of hot oil one soon gets used to. Besides, it makes a good vantage point ten feet up to look out over the airfield in the starlight (there are few night flights this time of year.) Poor Adele was in what everyone thought was the safest possible place, under the aircraft, when she had an unpleasant awakening. The oil purge lines had been checked after the aircraft landed, but there must have been a vapour lock in the pipe. When the engine cooled completely the lock disappeared and the purge pipe started to siphon itself empty around midnight. Guess who was directly underneath. Madeleine X was under the opposite engine but was quite undisturbed – except by Adele, who had about two gallons of used engine oil over everything. Madeleine being notably unsympathetic, it was up to us to lead her back to Songmark looking less like a bunny than like an oiled seagull, and fire up the bathtub with the duty Tutor’s permission. Not exactly the most peaceful night for any of us; it took an hour and three bars of mechanic’s soap before we could even see what colour her fur was again. Definitely, her curse is not wearing out in time, rather it seems to be gaining in experience. Saturday 23rd November, 1936 It never rains but it pours (especially on Spontoon in late November.) Apart from the challenge of the Ave Argentum aerobatics contest next weekend, we read in the Daily Elele that the Althing is sponsoring a “World Nations Day” on December the first, and some of us are sure to be invited to help. Maria says most of the embassies are liable to go along with it, as they have little to do in the off season and all get sent crates full of “information material” to distribute locally. Most of it gets given to schools, though not quite ending up as the subjects for the lessons intended; I have seen some very nice papier-mâché models in the classrooms around here. Helen muttered that it was the Althing’s bright idea to keep all the diplomats busy trying to upstage each other, giving them less time to poke around where they should not. There may be much in that. Still, it should be interesting to see. Spontoonies meet all sorts of tourists and travellers, but mostly they are too interested in the exotic delights of their holiday destination to talk much of home. Except to loudly demand of the Polynesians a cheeseburger/hot dog/cheesecake “that any damn greasy spoon back home could gimme quick as skat.” Still, we had at least one Saturday as normal. Out to the dance classes and a fine skirt-shaking show-time! Mrs. Motorabe was quite impressed by our performance with the “souped-up Orpington dance” (Chicken soup?) we won the prize with, and had us step through the moves at about half speed for the benefit of the other students. There are no patents on hula; you can bring in something new but are expected to share it after getting the benefit. This time of year the Guides are not busy showing the delights of the island to tourists, so they are doing their own “refresher training”. Both male and female guides have to keep in top condition for their various duties, and a morning of shaking a tail at energetic hula is perfect that way. It is how Molly met Lars, after all. For the first time this term, we managed to get to the cinema after dance class and catch a double bill of the Barx Brothers. “Simian Business” was hilarious, with Blotto, Wino, Dipso and the relatively sane Stinko in the jungle being paid to (hopefully) catch a legendary furless ape for the zoo. Molly tells me there was a fifth Barx brother, Narco, who was with them in their vaudeville career but left before they started in films. I believe that; what I do not believe was Beryl’s innocent-sounding comment that all the exotic drugs of the orient were first introduced to Europe by his explorer ancestor Narco Polo. On the way back, I happened to be looking at the Northern tip of Moon Island when there was an alarming sight – a long flame sprang up, easily twenty feet high. A few seconds later there was a muted roar like a blowtorch. It lasted about twenty seconds, and yet the fire and crash boat that is always moored ready with Chief Lodis never moved to investigate. Most odd. The explanation arrived at teatime, when a very excited Meera Singh came in with her fur smelling like a Schneider Trophy aircraft. Those planes drink stranger fuels than high-octane petrol. She came fresh from the Goddard Club, where they have the peculiar notion of turning a rocket upside-down to test it. The idea, she explains, is to measure the thrust and similar vital statistics while on the ground and with sensitive instruments that do not have to be light enough to fly. Once they have it running reliably and know the thrust (they are using a glorified weighbridge) they can start thinking about their engine leaving the ground. I must say, it is rather over-done for fireworks. I can hardly imagine kittens running home from the shops on November the Fifth towing trailers of wood alcohol and red fuming nitric acid to put up a rocket or two. Thinking of celebrations, we returned to find our bath heater fixed! Amazingly, it was one of the first-years we had to thank and quietly award the big bottle of Nootnops Blue. That Cranium Island shrew put the air blower together; it seems she is a compulsive tinkerer who has grave difficulty walking past any mechanism without wanting to improve it. In this case she has … though Jasbir’s dorm have run the new blower very successfully for three baths and confess they still cannot understand exactly how it works. Sunday 24th November, 1936 Quite a scattering of Songmark furs today – Maria off to her Embassy on Casino Island to talk about the coming Exhibition, Adele and Eva off to see Clear-Skies Yakan about Adele’s curse, and Helen, Saffina and me heading back to South Island to see the warrior-priestess. I must say, Gha’ta is a very … distinctive fur. If one calls an amphibian a fur, of course. We met her again on the tip of South Fluke, which is about as far from eavesdroppers as one can get on South Island. There is no cover for two hundred yards, unlike being in three-yard jungle where one never knows who is listening behind a tree. Being a Warrior Priestess is a jolly uncomfortable thing. The nearest equivalent is starting an engine by plugging oneself into the mains; it is a matter of how long one can grimace and take it. Gha’ta explained that there are very few furs who are old in this tradition; not just because it is hazardous (though it is) but it needs youth and strength to handle it. Rather like manning an artillery piece rather than running an engine, there is so much more energy involved if things go wrong. It is part of the tradition that went awfully wrong five hundred years ago. Gha’ta says her mother was at home near Ponape at the time and felt it very clearly. Although she speaks Spontoonie very well, I can tell it is not her birth language. I assume she meant it was tradition that her distant mothers, meaning ancestors, recalled the event. Obviously nobody lives a tenth of that time, however healthy a life they lead. Still, Gha’ta warns us about all the dangers and is very strong on protective rituals. She says we could have handled what we met on Cranium Island now without Saimmi, though that fragment was almost drained of its power. I still shiver thinking about that; from the spot I picked it up I could see a lot of bones of folk who did not have my protections in place. What is on Krupmark and under Sacred Lake will be a lot worse. Although the waters are definitely chilly this time of year, we followed our new teacher out across the lagoon to the reef where there was company waiting. Saffina was most impressed; it is only the second time she has met the Natives of No Island, and Moeli introduced her husband and cub. It must be hard on Moeli to have a child who is “out there” somewhere; though she knows the rest of the family will be looking out for dangers, she is not suited to a permanent life at sea. There was one very puzzling thing; we were chatting about our flying exploits with the water folk, and distinctly got the impression that some of them had already flown themselves, and not as passengers either. How on earth could they fly an aircraft, with legs (or rather flukes) like that? Still, watching the children playing, it reminded me their reflexes are quite amazing and they could probably fly rings round most furs if they only had a suitable aircraft. That is one of the things we definitely do not ask about. Back with Moeli for luncheon at the family longhouse; she is exceedingly fit and tells us she is looking forward to her second cub in the Spring. Certainly she is a model of cheerful Polynesian family life, however non-standard the family is. Anthropomorphologists would give their tails to have swum along with us today. It is always relaxing to stay at the Hoele’toemi longhouse – which might seem odd as nobody could call it peaceful with neighbours, cousins and kittens everywhere. Everyone takes care of the kittens crawling around, making sure they stay out of the poi pots and the fire-pit. Even at meal-times, one might say the youngest kittens dine anywhere available. Moeli evidently believes in letting nothing go to waste. Mrs H is very pleased to hear that Helen and me will be Tailfast next month; she joked that with Saimmi now as High Priestess and Moeli’s family arrangements being as they are, she was getting worried about having grandchildren who could sit in a longhouse with her. Jirry will be back in a few weeks, hurrah! Certainly in time for the holidays, let alone the Solstice. Marti is back already, which meant Helen vanished off with him as soon as the meal was finished. Helen is definitely planning on two more Tailfasts and then becoming Mrs. Helen Hoele’toemi. She jokes she wants to have wet ink on both her Songmark graduation papers and her marriage license. Definitely not as some tourists are presumably doing this time of year, giving the Spontoonie Department of Births, Marriages and Deaths some trade in theoretical marriage licences for lady tourists who have enjoyed the hospitality of the islands with a little too much enthusiasm. Thinking of legal problems, I took the chance to sit down with Mrs H after dinner and ask her advice about my problems with (hopefully NOT) being Lady Allworthy. After all, the title and such is no use to me out here, and I am sure someone back in England would want it. It would be definitely dishonest to touch a penny of the money if I am not going back to earn it; presumably the Allworthy estates have suffered quite enough from having absentee landlords already. I must say, Mrs H is quite a fount of wisdom. She agreed I should do something soon, and came up with a useful name. It seems there are a few old furs remaining who stayed on after the British forces withdrew, without becoming Spontoonie citizens as such. There is the Chief Magistrate, a Judge Poynter, who has a reputation amongst Spontoonies for absolute honesty and is still in office though he must be well over the retirement age for most other professions. Mrs H had some fascinating stories to tell of him, and indeed he should be well aware of my case having been on the expedition that brought Leon Allworthy to justice at last. So in some (perfectly right and proper) ways he is responsible for my predicament, and may be inclined to help. That will have to wait till next weekend, if indeed we have free time then. The flying competition is set for Wednesday, subject to weather conditions. This time of year, it might not clear until Friday. An excellent afternoon, and one of the only occasions we ever get to relax. That is to say, it was strenuous with the Warrior Priestess training and elsewhere for some of us, but nothing like the stresses of Songmark. Helen reappeared as we were getting ready to leave, rubbing her neck-fur but looking utterly relaxed. I think she will cope with domestic life (in between adventures) perfectly well. Back to Songmark to find our Aleutians trip is on the timetable! We are heading out on December 2nd, and returning on the 13th (we hope.) Quite a few tails drooped at the prospect. Still, we will be back before the end of term. I remember seeing how shattered our senior year were last year on their return; that may explain why our tutors are hardening us off slowly as one does with plants before taking them quite out of the hothouse. Spontoon in Winter is a lot warmer than Barsetshire, but one can see why the tourist season finishes in September. next |