Two in the bush

.............
We picked our way across thhis slippery and somewhat dangerous terrain until we came to the banks of a small stream that babbled eagerly over its bed of stones wearing a shifting coat of steam, the water being a reasonable ninety-odd degrees.  Crossing this, we made our way further down the valley and suddenly came upon the mud holes, which to me were so fascinating that they kept me absorbed for the next half hour. These pools varied in size: some covered quite large areas, others were only the circumference of a small table, and they varied in colour, some being pale cafe-au-lait and others a rich, dark brown.  The mud in these pools was the the consistency and colour of boiling milk chocolate, and boiling was ecactly what it appeared to be doing.  In actual fact the mud, althrough warm, was not boiling but gave this impression because of the small jets of steam that had to force their way to the surface throught this glutinous mass.  The surface of a pool would be smooth and unblemished, looking good enugh to dip a spoon into and eat; then suddenly this placid surface would be disturbed by a bubble that would form -- a tiny bubble the size a blackbird's egg.  Very slowly this would rise above the surface and grow until it was  the size of  a ping-pong ball or even the size of an orange if the consistency of the mud was thick enough.  Then it would burst, with a curiously loud 'Glup' noise, and form a miniature moon crater which would slowly be absorbed back into the smooth surface of the pool until the next build-up of steam repeated the performance.  In some pools where was pushing through fairly rapidly, you would get little bevies of bubbles, sometimes as many as six or seven, forming in a circle and -- as it were -- singing together.  It reminded me rather of bell-ringing, for the bubbles were not all of the same size and so they made tifferent nises as they burst and, as the steam was coming through at regular intervals, you got the groups of fat bubbles playing tunes: Glop... plip... Glup... plip...Splop... plip... Glug... plish... Splop..plip.. and so on. It was fascinating and I crouched over the mud pools completely absorbed in these bubble orchestras.  I had just found a particularly talented group of seventeen who were playing something so harmonious and complicated that I was convinced it had been written by Bach, and was working out a scheme whereby I could get them to sign a contract so that I could take them back to England to appear at the Festival Hall (perhaps with Sir Malcolm Sargent conducting), when I was brought rudely back to earth by Chris, who appeared out of the mist looking like a slightly distraught Dante.
..............