PUFF ADDER FAT…A MEDICINE PERSCRIBED BY A COUNTRY DOCTOR
Underberg in Natal was where I first learnt to fly fish for trout but it was more than that for me…it was a rather a type of fairy tale land made up with many tales and stories.
It was a place of old world characters that fitted in with the atmosphere of trout fishing, guinea fowl and partridge hunting…very English (or Scottish) country life in my youth. It was the days of the Connemara Black, the Teal and Green , Invicta and Hardy’s Favourite, birdshot and Purdey shotguns but much more than that…we caught too many trout and shot guinea fowl and redwing partridge and this activity was very laid back…it did not have the commercialism and intensity that encompasses the sport or hobby or whatever you want to call it today…it belonged to the country squire or old money and there was little if any of yuppie or new money attraction that it has today. That’s not implying that it was not in any way without its challenges but done simply in another way and characters it attracted were of a more specific breed. The deerstalker and tweed jacket type who enjoyed the English style of fur and feather land. The traditionists and purists but it was far from boring as it was a way of life that attracted characters of wit and charm... I think I’m being very honest but I preferred it that way.
Maurice Taylor was one of them. Maurice and Wilmer were the parents of my school buddies Bruce and Garth and they ran a guest farm in Underberg called Dunraven. This farm was bordered by a good and productive stretch of the Umzimkulu River. Dear old uncle Maurice was not a farmer but the best story teller I’ve ever met…he entertained guests at the farm from morning to night. He was an imitator of note and should have been on the stage…we all loved Maurice and he attracted people to the farm because he entertained them and I’m sure that he saw himself as the entertainer of the guests…and that’s how he viewed his usefulness.
Maurice tells the story of when his son, Bruce developed a rather ugly pimple (or growth)
on his nose so he took him into Underberg to visit the local doctor, Doc Wilson that ran his surgery from his house, called Clouds just on the outskirts of Underberg.
Ol’ Doc Wilson as he was fondly known diagnosed the ailment and prescribed some ointment that was to be applied daily.
This was done but without any result.
Maurice was told by his old induna on the farm that he knows how to cure it…he told Maurice that he must find a puff adder, kill it and take out the fat and boil it and apply it to Bruce’s nose. Obviously Maurice was a bit skeptical to this form of sorcery but in desperation he decided to try this remedy out. Puff adders were quite plentiful and it was without much effort that this was done.
After a week the bump or cyst completely disappeared much to every ones astonishment.
Later in the same week Bruce and his dad bumped into Doc Wilson in the village and seeing Bruce healed of this infirmity said …”Maurice, I told you this ointment is good…I see it has done the job!”
Maurice related to Doc Wilson that this indeed was not the case and that the ointment did absolutely nothing but that boiled puff-adder fat had been applied with instant success.
Dr Wilson was astounded in disbelief and replied with some sarcastic reply…what a lot of nonsense.
A few weeks later Maurice had some minor ailment and went into Dr Wilson’s surgery for some attention and advice. While he was waiting for the doctor, he noticed a rather scruffy bottle on the shelf and asked doctor Wilson.” what on earth is that?”
Doctor Wilson, sheepishly replied…”Puff Adder Fat!”
Give that man a Bells…my dear old friend Alistair
I first met Alistair in the bar at the old Hohenhort Hotel in Constanta/Wynberg. Alistair had an aristocratic air about him and fitted in well with the surroundings of that old hotel. It was a popular watering hole on the hot summer afternoons in the Cape, where the shaded grand old oaks offered shade and relief from both the scorching heat and was a refuge from the city’s bustle and suburbia (and sometimes more than not the south easter).
Alistair was always well dressed with impeccable taste and had a voice like the cricket commentator of old, the late Charles Fortune. Alistair was no dandy or snob. Indeed he was both a ladies man and a man’s man. He had been married before and had 2 charming son’s that later went on to be very successful in London, one a stock broker and other a professional in some field I cannot quite remember. He was engaged at that time to a handsome and attractive woman, Annette Galbraith. Annette was a sporty type and when she was young was a well-known in show jumping and was around with Gonda Butters later Beatrix. Annette had been married to John Galbraith, an accountant, owner of a stud farm in Mooi River, called Regent Stud (named after their beloved stallion Regent Street) which I was told was acquired after outbidding Omar Sharif at the Paris sales auction of young thorough-breds. They also owned a horse that was a winner in those days called Chichester. In fact, I think there is a street in Kenilworth area with this name. Annette also enjoyed fly fishing for trout.
Alistair was born and raised in Scotland in the beautiful town of Inverness. I believe they are known for there good English, a strange paradox to those Scots that are born in other cities and towns.
Alistair was not a good fisherman…but a great fishing buddy. He was extremely witty, considerate and courteous. He delighted in the days spent on the Western Cape streams, bringing out a bottle, occasionally of the finest Chivas Regal or Dimple Haig and more often than not a Bells at the end of a days fishing as the sun starting setting. Never before…this was taboo to him. Once he forgot the ice and water to go with his whiskey. We had fished the upper Berg in some forest reserve before it was messed up. I had caught a few small brown trout; nothing over 11 inches and one brook trout…a rarity today…I do not think there’s any left.
Aha, says Alistair this calls for a slightly premature celebration…oh dash it, I forgot the ice and water and with that scoops his whiskey glass into the Berg Stream. As he pours his Bell’s into the glass and takes a sip…he announces a fitting tribute…Hmm not bad water…here’s to the brook trout, Berg River and Bell’s whiskey…a touch of illiteration.
There was never a dull moment with Alistair…yes one of the best joke tellers when the occasion allowed it. He was not given to long speeches…was apt and to the point.
The occasion, was important to him, even tea time…11 am and 4pm it was time for tea…he never got in the way and boiled the river water over a fire in an old battered kettle, calling me…” time for tea old chap.”
Alistair, Annette and I (I was not married then) spent a lovely holiday at Dunraven in Underberg. Sadly my old school friend Bruce Taylor had been killed in a motor accident some years back whilst coming back from a polo match in East Griqualand. Alistair and Annette fell in love with Underberg and whilst holidaying there on this trip went around to various estate agents, hunting for the ideal country cottage or home.
Sadly this never materialized, Annette and Alistair parted for reasons that I was never told, she got seriously ill not long after that…she continued to stay in touch with me and my very good friend Veronique. Alistair decided to return to England to be near his sons. He had a sister that was married to a doctor and they lived close to the Alphen Hotel. I tried to get in touch some years ago but had no reply. Both must be dead by now.
So every time I catch a brown trout in a stream and there is some liquid refreshment at hand with the name of Bells, I fill the glass with stream water from the Bushman’s add the medicine and give a toast to Alistair…this time… to the Bushmens, Brown trout and Bell’s.
