Botanical Sanctum

According to last night's dream, there is a secretive botanical garden/ sculpture garden/ arboretum/ wellness centre (I will come up with a name for it) concealed behind high walls in the heart of a non-specified city in Holland. My driving instructor, along with a close, elderly companion of hers who rather resembled a crab apple, were taken there after our lesson was plagued by motorcycle hoodlums. She decided it was time to learn some holistic theory, such as finding one's balance and managing stress levels. I am less interested in the plot of this dream than I am in its extraordinary location, which I am resolved to feature in a novel. The instructor used a keypad to buzz us into the grounds, and once the electronic gates were closed behind us, the noise of the city was immediately subdued.

We followed a winding drive up a slope covered in strange ivy-covered stone sculptures of all shapes and sizes. Many of the sculptures were humanoid in form, but of an abstract design. Some cradled sundials or globes, others stretched out their arms in expressions of lamentation, while still others appeared to cowering, or attempting to shield themselves from harm. More often than not the people would lack definite features, and might have a stone sphere for a head, or else a triangular fin for a limb. Judging by their cracked and dilapidated appearance, along with the festering coils of ivy thrown over them, they had been around for a long time. I would have liked to have studied them at greater length, but we drove on and were soon pulling up into a small car park where we stopped and got out.

We entered a covered terrace where I was made to sit whilst the instructor and Crab apple went off to brew some herbal tea. A bearded groundsman threw me a shifty glance as he pottered about his duties. I saw a disordered array of nurseries, lobelias, and tall, musty shrubs covered in white, cobweb-like filaments. Although evidently well-tended, the plants did not look as healthy as they might have done, and the whole place had the reek of the sepulcher about it. Nearest to me was a metal table covered in potted Venus flytraps (Dionaea muscipula) the size of saucers. Their dark green jaws hung agape, large enough to take in a hand if one should brush unwarily by. When the ladies returned, I remarked to them on the great size of the plants and we conversed on the folly of triggering their jaws to close when trying to cultivate a healthy specimen. Having once owned one myself, I possess such knowledge of their care requirements.

I was made to fill out a privacy protection form, before receiving some instruction on mental balance. A group of Japanese teenage boys engaged in wellness pursuits caused a stone to fly in our direction, which startled the instructor. She reprimanded them, then Crab apple mysteriously withdrew. We indulged in mindful meditation and the flicking of stones in accordance with bodily chakras. Crab apple returned after over an hour's absence, and upon polite inquiry of where she had been, curtly declared that she had been on the toilet. There was then a bizarre gambling exercise on one of the nursery beds, where stashes of real money were used to display 'richness of spirit.' What all of this had to do with driving was beyond me. The instructor then seized my arm and told me we had been compromised and had to leave immediately.

Still confused, I followed her at a brisk jog back to the car. Crab apple followed behind, but fell away as we picked up the pace. When the instructor noticed that Crab apple had stopped, she told me that she must be the betrayer, and that our lives were in grave danger. At the car, a large branch had been shoved through the glass of the driver's window to impede our escape. I pulled it away and we sped off, passing the jungle of macabre statues whose arms seemed to be reaching out for us. "The sanctum is a cult who took in people from all over the city," the instructor explained, "delinquents and social outcasts, all those who need spiritual healing. But this place is old, and has a strict code of conduct." She jumped out at the gate, hastily re-entered the access code, and we were back into the anonymity of the busy city. I was never to learn the dark secret of the sanctum, but something tells me I am fated to return again.

Battle of the Whales

I knew it was only a matter of time before the tremendous and unnerving power of the ocean reclaimed its place in my dreams. Last night it arrived with gusto, providing a marine spectacle unlike anything I have yet experienced. I was with my sisters at a seaside resort, helping the middle sibling scout out a venue for her wedding reception. From the deck of a docked cruise ship, I leaned over the railing into the seething brine and saw a school of common bottlenose dolphins (Tursiops truncatus) gambolling just beneath the surface, their silvery lengths ghosting to and fro. I pointed them out to my sisters, whereupon our attention was then drawn to a much larger animal closer to shore. It was a killer whale (Orcinus orca) grabbing something from the beach and dragging it into the waves, unmistakable with its panda-like white eye patch and towering dorsal fin. This image was no doubt implanted in my mind from a rewatch of David Attenborough's The Trials of Life, of which the killers hunting seals is the signature image.

Before we had time to be suitably impressed by this largest member of the dolphin family, it was suddenly dwarfed by a pair of larger jaws that opened beneath it. The killer whale was scooped up and raised above the surface of the sea, floundering as helplessly as its own prey had been just moments before. The water churned and boiled as the newcomer rose into view, still attempting to swallow the orca. It was a gray whale (Eschrichtius robustus), a medium sized baleen whale once known as the 'devil fish' from their fighting prowess when hunted. Despite being considerably larger than the killer, even this mighty maw was not wide enough to gulp down its formidable prey. The killer whale, undisputed lord of its own domain, was unaccustomed to such rough treatment. What followed was a battle unrivalled in the annals of maritime history

Drawn by the blood, the killer whale's brothers came to his aid. They lunged at the gray whale, tearing out chunks of blubber. Despite the onslaught, the gray was unwilling to let go of its catch, and continued to toss it around like a rag doll, now more out of spite than any hope of consuming it. To balance the scales, more 'devil fish' appeared on the scene, wallowing like leaden submarines, blowholes gushing with hot vapour, churning up the sea with their rage. We stood and watched the battle from comparative safety, until it occurred to me to try and capture this astonishing spectacle. As is usually the case in dreams, my camera was unresponsive, and I failed to obtain any pictures. It was unclear who the victors were, for the ferocity of the fight had turned the water into a boiling cauldron of blood and spume.

South Downs Leisure Centre

 There have been a handful of dreams lately featuring the familiar rundown zoo or aquarium, but none of them quite substantial or coherent enough to write down until last night's. I was driven far out into the countryside by my wife, who wanted to take me to a leisure resort she was in the habit of visiting for business purposes. As we drove through the glistening green hills of the Sussex Downs, I felt a boyish excitement not often experienced these days. The resort appeared, an extensive golf course, a fancy hotel, a fairground, zoo, prehistoric sculpture park, and swimming pool. I read the signs for the attractions in quick succession as we drove by. We were there to play golf, but I would much rather have visited the zoo and model park.

We parked up and entered the resort, removed our shoes, and scraped our bare feet on deposits of chalk that were scattered around. The reason behind this was never explained to me, and I did not ask. In order to reach the golf course, it was necessary to walk by one part of the zoo. My wife strode purposefully on, ignoring the beasts, but I gave each cage a cursory glance. They were arranged in a straight row of identically square, open air compounds, smaller than they should have been and shoddily maintained. It had the look of an underfunded Soviet zoo, or a Victorian menagerie, and the animals were in a poor state of neglect. It was the sort of place that would have been closed down immediately following an inspection.

The first few enclosures housed a number of small, rodent-like mammals I did not have time to identify, followed by specimens of the lesser monkeys. As we walked at a brisk pace, they passed by in a blur, but next came a family of gorillas (Gorilla gorilla), considerably malnourished and squatting on faeces-smeared concrete. The largest, a gangly male, tugged on his upper lip, which showed signs of advanced infection. The following pen had emaciated big cats, and the last in the row held a lone polar bear (Ursus maritimus), its gaunt, mange-ridden body convulsing in a kennel. I tried to point out this last animal to my wife, for it is rare to find polar bears in British zoos, but she was either uninterested or had seen it before.

We then entered a building that acted as an intermediary between the zoo and the funfair. I was horrified to see a grid of holes in the ground, with long snakes rearing ramrod erect from each. I noticed that they were cobras (Naja sp.) of various species, vividly coloured, the tight holes keeping them trapped in position and preventing them from escaping. They rather resembled the beds of garden eels one sees in aquaria, albeit with menacing hoods and flickering forked tongues. When we got too close, one of them lashed out and tried to bite us, but we jumped away at the last second. There was no barrier between the cobras and visitors, another instance of the resort's appalling safety standards. With the zoo behind us, we reached a shabby fairground, my ears filled with furious hisses.

Deer Park

Spring is finally here, and with it a spate of better weather. The sun alone has made a significant difference in lifting my mood. From my seat in the study, I can see the green fields stretching off towards a ramshackle farm with a rusty silo, and beyond that, the land ascends to a wooded rise, at the top of which stands a stately manor, majestically placed among the trees. This very English setting may have gone some way towards last night's dream which took place in a deer park.

I was in a car with my eldest sister, parked in the middle of a broad field. Ahead of us, the field gave way to woods, also on an incline. Gamboling at the edge of this woodland was a large herd of fallow deer (Dama dama). Like most animals in England, the fallow deer is not a native animal. They are thought to have been introduced from Sicily by the Normans, for sporting purposes. Perhaps the Duke might have known? The deer were in a sporting mood themselves, feeling the freshness of spring, and delighting in the vigor of their supple forms. The breeding season was in full fling, as evidenced by the rampant rutting and copulation taking place. The fawns, as yet too young to understand adult behaviour, mimicked their elders nonetheless. They pranced on their hind legs and boxed the air like mad March hare pugilists, an extraordinarily comical sight.

Further up the wooded slope, where the trees grew taller and closer together, I spotted an enormous western red deer (Cervus elaphus) stag, far larger than any deer has a right to be. It kept apart from its more frivolous cousins, aloof and elegant, gracefully picking its path through the trees with its head held high, its massive antlers scraping the tree branches. I tried to point it out to my sister, who was watching the fawns, but by the time she looked it had disappeared. We strained for another glimpse, and all we caught was its immense belly exposed for a few moments. The fallow deer herd moved further up the slope into the woods, causing the red to retreat. They threw themselves onto their backs and rolled around in the leaf litter, kicking their legs in the air. The fawns followed suit, tumbling head over tail down the hill.

After this leaf bath, the herd abandoned the woods and bolted downhill into the field, over to where our car was parked. We frantically wound up the windows, unaccountably worried lest they should stick their tongues inside. A large buck charged by too close, clipping the passenger side wing mirror. They surrounded the car, gazing at us with liquid eyes. I told my sister to back up to give them some space, taking care not to hit any of the fawns behind us. With the car in reverse, the inquisitive herd did not follow us. There was a nerve-jangling growl from outside, and through the window we saw a ferocious tiger (Panthera tigris) fighting a stag. They battled like coded animals in a video game, taking it in turns to land a blow. Eventually the tiger won by swatting the stag's head with its paw, killing it instantly. We drove away from the bloody scene before it had a chance to notice us.

What could this dream signify? A brief enjoyment of Spring and the renewal of life, only to be cut short? Perhaps the tiger was Covid-19?