ANOTHER VOICE
The sort of camelid that makes girls lie back and think of Bolivia
MATTHEW PARRIS
They don't make llama boxes, so we went to fetch Knap last Wednesday with a horse box: too large and it smelt of horse, but Knap did not object. He took a mellow view, as of much else.
I should explain. In my Derbyshire field reside two young lady llamas, Llesley and Imp. They are independent girls, forage mostly for themselves and will not do as they are told. Would not, for example, fall for a boy llama called Rupert last summer, though that had been my plan. Imp refused to look at him, and spat. Llesley was reluc- tantly 'covered' but threw the foetus long before term. Rupert left woebegone. So it seemed best to get a young male of our own. That was what my friend Mara thought and, as it is she who cares for the llamas, I — just an absentee llama-lord, the sort who looks in at the weekend, peers over the gates, inquires 'how are my girls?' in a proprietorial sort of way and returns indoors for a whisky — complied. Mara consulted the Camelids Chronicle and set out for Berkshire to visit a breeder with a young 'entire' male for sale. I love these tweedy expressions, 'covered' and `entire'. Like Moliere's bourgeois gentle- man, so delighted to learn that he has been speaking prose all his life, I thrilled, when told, to the discovery that I was entire, and always have been. Mara returned ecstatic. Knap was beauti- ful, and an ideal stud. Mara then departed on a llama-fanciers' package tour of Peru, leaving me to fetch Knap. Why `Knap'? Apparently his mother's life was saved by a brilliant vet, and her grateful owner decided to name the lucky llama's subsequent offspring after him. Happily his name was not Higginbottom but Simon Knap, so one baby became Simon, another Simone, leaving 'ICnap' for my own intend- ed purchase. Or so the exotically named Ordell Safran explained. This friendly but deter- mined American lady, who keeps horses and llamas near Windsor, greeted my arrival with mixed feelings. She had almost changed her mind about parting with Knap, such were his qualities. He was an affable chap, she said, a fine figure of a llama, a paragon among camelids, and only slightly vain. She called him over. Other llamas peered over their stable doors for a glimpse of this prodigy. 'He hasn't mated yet,' said Ordell, `but I feel confident of his performance. Male llamas rarely let you down, though I did have one' — she stared reproachfully across at the occupant of an adjacent pad- dock — 'who just wasn't interested.' In the paddock a fluffy chocolate-brown creature was prancing around, rearing on his hindlegs, doing twirls and basking in the attention. He and I exchanged a knowing glance. I could have told Ordell. You can spot them a mile off.
Knapp trotted up for inspection. He was nicely coloured, his front half almost white, soft browns and caramels on rump and hindlegs. But what immediately struck me about this young man was his bearing. Big black eyes, proud, confident glance and slightly Roman nose suggested a sure-fire hit with the ladies. How much of a hit, and how sure-fire, we were to discover.
Some early hint was provided as we led him past a stableful of camelid females of assorted sizes and colours. All crowded to the door and stretched their necks over, jostling for the best vantage point from which to ogle the passing Knap, A llama cannot actually say pfivoahi but that is what their glances implied.
I had anticipated problems with the horse box — Llesley and Imp sense imme- diately where you want them and go else- where — but Knap was led happily up the ramp into his compartment, then amused himself by ducking under a horse-proof bar and choosing a different compartment, with more straw. 'He'll soon be still,' said Ordell. `Once you're on the motorway he'll lie down. Oh how we'll miss him.'
I didn't tell her that I'd never towed an animal in a horse box before. Climbing into the driver's seat, I adopted a confident expression and pulled away very gently. Ordell looked near to tears to see him go. `Write to me or phone,' she called — for a stupid moment I thought she was speaking to Knap — 'and let me know how he takes to Derbyshire.' Off we drove.
Knap did not lie down. He spent the whole trip standing, staring out of the back at amazed motorists. Against their head- lights in my rear-view mirror I could see the silhouette of his head. His huge upstanding ears, curled inquisitively forward like ques- tion-marks, were framed in a halo of soft, illuminated fur. He looked most interested in the M40, and equally interested in the M42. At the park at Warwick services where we left him (to fetch a hamburger) we returned to find him studying the articu- lated lorries.
We reached Derbyshire at midnight. I was worried that, once released from the horse box, Knap might play up — but no: he trotted gently down the ramp on his hal- ter-rope, ate a handful of goat-mixture, looked approvingly at the hills and valleys (`Berkshire's flat; they hate it,' my friend Jane had told me) and retired to the pad- dock where I decided he should sleep alone. We bade him good night, his first in a new home. Tomorrow the girls.
At first light Llesley and Imp were at the edge of their field, looking down the hill towards Knap. Llamas' eyesight is acute, and they had spotted him and stared, motionless. He stared back. It was time they met. So after breakfast I opened the paddock gate and approached Knap holding the rope. He walked straight up to me, proffered his head-collar, then padded softly behind (llamas have no hooves) as we walked to the girls' field. In he went, Llesley and Imp standing coyly in the corner, some way off but all attention. Tara, our zeppelin-shaped orphan lamb who thinks she is a llama, began protect- ing the maidens, head down and ready to butt. The maidens looked strangely disin- clined to be protected. It seemed best to leave them to make friends in their own time.
I returned later. There was a strange sound from the field. Imp stood alone, some way off. Tara paced about, dis- traught. Llesley was semi-recumbent on the grass. Astride her, Knap, who wore an expression of intense concentration, was making a weird and continuous grizzling noise, between a growl and a gargle, and dribbling profusely. Llesley ...well, no doubt her mama had advised her to grit her teeth and think of Bolivia. She stared into the middle distance with an unin- volved look, as if to say, 'Is there much more of this?' (I hear that with humans, too, it is often thus.) Poor Tara tried to head-butt Knap, who was perfectly indif- ferent to this ovine assault.
I rang Ordell. 'How is he?' she enquired. `Happy,' I said. 'Maybe the happiest he's ever been.'
Matthew Parris is parliamentary sketchwriter and a columnist of the Times.
Previous page
