Just Another Day In Paradiseby David W.

ANOTHER "GREAT BOTTLE DIGGING STORY" FROM THE PAGES OF

ANTIQUE BOTTLE AND GLASS COLLECTOR MAGAZINE

THE MAGAZINE OF THE ANTIQUE BOTTLE COLLECTING HOBBY

I’m really not much of a talker. Usually, I’m the type who is content to sit quietly at a party and just watch, slightly amused at the lengths people will go to have a good time. On occasion, however, I have been coaxed into telling a story or two about my many experiences.
It was at a small gathering of acquaintances that I was drawn out of my normal solitude by a young man who expressed a common passion for collecting antique glass bottles. After discussing such subjects as color and form, the conversation turned to stories of the hunt, always the favorite topic of any true enthusiast.


Old House (Photograph by David W. Knight Jr. © 2003). The old house on the estate as it looks today	Mountain Mist (Photograph by David W. Knight Jr. ©2003) A view from the high mountains

Encouraged by his interest, I began to relate the particulars of a recent exploit, unmindful of a knot of bystanders who had picked up on the fact that a tale of something more than passing cocktail chatter had begun to unfold.

Photograph of the seal on the three-piece-mold bottle found at the old estate (Photograph by David W. Knight Sr.).

I was living on one of those flyspeck islands of the Caribbean at the time: a place of indescribable beauty, but very little stimulation. Life was casual there; my days were filled with beaches, bars, and simple pleasures. Whenever things got dull, it was my habit to strike out into the island’s lonely interior to explore the long-forgotten remains of old colonial-period plantations, which lay scattered throughout the rugged back lands and high mountains.

The motive for these excursions was, of course, the search for old bottles, and the results were nearly always rewarding. Adding to the pleasure of this pursuit was the fact that due to the small size of the island, even the most remote sites could be accessed in a brisk half-day hike, making it possible to return to the comforts of home by nightfall -- often a bit tired and achey, I’ll admit, but always filled with delight from the adventure of the day. On one particular occasion, my friend Big John and I, accompanied by Kopi -- a boarder collie mix with pinto marking that had been my constant hiking companion since she was pup -- had ventured out to investigate the ruins of an old coffee estate located deep in the mountains. I had been told that there we would find a place that few people had visited since the plantation’s abandonment over a century before. At first the age-old cart road that led to the estate was fairly clear, but as we penetrated the mountains and began to gain altitude it quickly deteriorated: first, to a footpath; then, to a narrow track; and finally, to a barely-distinguishable trace. The mountainsides in this area were steep, and over the years the trail had simply eroded away. In some places, it had completely slid down a slope, leaving nothing more than a precipice where even the tropical vegetation seemed to cling for dear life. As we entered into the higher elevations a thick fog engulfed us and a persistent rain began to fall.

The squat patent and P. F. Haering ribbon seal found on the old estate (Photograph by David W. Knight Sr.).

Undaunted, we pressed on, but it was soon evident that our route was becoming untenable. The red-clay soil was now thoroughly saturated.

With every step we ran the risk of sliding off the face of the mountain and going the way of the old cart road. Through a break in the trees we were able to observe our destination, a misty ridge top about three or four miles ahead. It was time to make a decision: should we cautiously crawl onward at a snail's pace, facing danger with every move; or, should we climb down to the valley floor, where we could proceed up the stream bed without risk of falling to our deaths? The choice, we agreed, was a simple one: following the watercourse was the better option. We boldly began our descent. Almost instantly we found ourselves traveling at an alarming rate of speed, dragging rotten branches and small saplings with us as we struggled for a handhold, our feet creating avalanches of mud and rock as we slid out of control. Suddenly I heard a sharp yelp off to one side. Turning in the direction of the noise I caught sight of Kopi as she whirled end-over-end, gained her footing for an instant, then fell into a series of barrel rolls and disappeared into the thick undergrowth. It was then that the hard rubber sole of John’s work boot smacked me on the side of the head.

Dundas of Glasgow bottle dug by Kopi on the old estate (Photograph by David W. Knight Sr.).

Clothes and fur soaked to the bone, our bodies scratched, bruised, and mud caked, we finally came to rest in a heap at the base of the slope. Relieved to be back on somewhat level ground, it took us a few moments to gain our wits and realize that a new and potentially more dangerous obstacle now confronted us. Apparently it had been raining much harder in the high mountains than we had realized.

The normally tranquil stream bed at the floor of the valley had been transformed into a thundering torrent. Aghast, we watched as the thick muddy water swirled high above the banks, sweeping away with it everything that lay in its path.
We had started out at dawn. And, despite what seemed to be endless struggles, the day was still young. In our youthful optimism the sky did seem to be clearing a bit, so with the vision of rare black-glass prizes fixed squarely in our minds we pressed onward. The going was slow. Kopi stayed well up slope of the rushing water, nimbly leaping from rock to tree-base pushing off just as the small dam of dirt and stones created by her paw prints deteriorated into sliding mud. John and I made our way through the heavy bush a few feet above the flood line. The river below swept by so fast that it distorted our senses, at times making it difficult to determine whether we were traveling backwards or forwards.

About midday the sky started to clear and brilliant rays of tropical light began to filter down through the canopy of kapok and monkey-pistol trees. At the head of the valley we rested. The flooding river had now diminished to a vigorous stream fed only by the immediate upland watershed. The sun was high and hot; the land was draining quickly. We swore that we preferred the rain and set out to seek a more temperate elevation.
At about 1500 feet we crested the ridge and moments later the rotting shingles and rusted roofs of the old estate appeared out of the dense vegetation. The air here was considerably cooler; a welcome breeze wafted down off the high peaks above us. We threw off our packs and collapsed on the crumbling marble steps of the once-grand entranceway to the estate’s main house. Kopi, catching the scent of wild boar, charged off into the bush to follow her ancestral instincts. Laying comfortably on my pack I felt a cold drop of liquid land squarely on my forehead; moments later, the rain returned with a vengeance.
Dryness, as we all know, is a relative thing. After scurrying about a bit, we finally found a degree of shelter under the sagging ceiling boards of the house’s great-room. Kopi returned panting, vapors rising from her coat like steam. In spite of our calls and whistles she elected to stay on the stoop only half out of the rain, bothered by the rustling wings and high-pitched shrieks of the bats who were the new residents of the estate. For a good while we sat in silence, unwilling to compete with the elements for each-other's attentions.
Around 1:30 the rain abated and we were able to begin our search. The first step in bottle collecting on one of those old plantations was always to locate the cookhouse. From there, it was a simple matter of finding the waste dump, which was usually the nearest cliff or steep drop downwind of the bake-oven. This site was no exception, and the area turned out to be a veritable gold mine.
Glass, stoneware and porcelain shards lay strewn everywhere; brass, pewter and iron artifacts protruded from the ground as if reaching out to be saved. We stood awestruck!
As I slowly gathered my thoughts I looked over and saw Kopi frantically digging, her tail-end high in the air, her head already well below ground, clods of damp earth flying in every direction. Then, suddenly she stopped. Resting back on her haunches she thrust her nose toward the sky and let out a long-low howl that echoed throughout the mountains. That was Kopi’s usual signal; she had uncovered our first whole bottle: a fine cream-colored stoneware made by Dundas of Glasgow. I rushed eagerly to join in the hunt.
By the end of the day we found that our biggest problem was deciding which bottles to take with us, and which ones to leave behind to come back for another day. There were far too many to safely carry in our backpacks. Although it was always easier going back down the mountains, the trail ahead was rough and conditions were still quite slippery. Sitting on a low fieldstone wall I laid my finds out before me. I figured I could fit at least six bottles in my pack wrapped tightly in the old beach towel that I carried along on my hunts. Beyond that, the two outside pouches of the pack could each hold a number of smaller bottles, or one full sized bottle each.


Group shot of the bottles found on the old estate (Photograph by David W. Knight Sr.).	David Knight Jr. (age about 6 yrs.) with a Dutch gin jug found at the old estate (Photograph by David W. Knight Sr.).

I was tempted to stuff a few bottles in my pockets, but thought better of it considering the likelihood of falling and smashing them with bloody results -- I had already made that mistake once.
The first bottle I packed was Kopi’s Dundas, while it wasn’t the most desirable bottle of the group, any dog-found bottle is a keeper on bragging rights alone. Next came a beautifully crude, squat black-glass cylinder (port type) with amazing luster -- hands down the oldest and most perfect example of this type I ever encountered. A heavy dark-black champagne with a sheared lip and open pontil set in a deep kick-up came after that, followed by a pair of delicate flared lip case gins. The last to go into the pack was a tall, pale-green, three-piece-mold cylinder with an applied seal on the shoulder that read "Jean Renaud, Bordeaux, 1846." In one of the outside pouches on the pack I placed a perfect, dark-amber, P. F. Haering ribbon-seal wrapped in thatch-palm frond for padding -- the best of four ribbon seals we found that day.

In the other pouch I stuffed a nice, emerald-green, three-piece-mold stubby with "PATENT" embossed across the shoulder, as well as two smaller bottles: a thin, square bodied medicine with a flared lip and broken pontil; and, a tiny burst-lip ink.
As I rose to sling on my pack I looked up at John who was standing on a rock outcropping at the edge of the ridge admiring the view. In addition to the contents of his overstuffed backpack, I was surprised to see that he had decided to carry another treasured artifact along with him: a finely turned mahogany bedpost some eight-feet long and about as heavy as a bag of bricks. Well, we didn’t call him Big John for nothing. Shaking my head, I gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder and we headed down hill.
The rain had once again begun to fall, but this time it settled into a light, misty drizzle. We were amazed to find how quickly the runoff from the mountains turned the stream bed back into a rushing torrent. The sun had already begun to set by the time we reached the point where we had descended from the mountainside earlier in the day. Making a quick decision, we chose not to struggle back up the hill to the old cart trail, but to continue down the swollen river. Neither one of us was quite sure where this route would take us, although John expressed great confidence that we would end up somewhere in the area of the old hot springs at the edge of town -- we didn’t.
No matter though, you really can’t get lost on an island: all rivers eventually lead you to the sea.

Note: "Mountain Mist and Old House" © 2003 David W. Knight Jr., all rights reserved.

David W. Knight Jr. allows limited use of the photographs "Mountain Mist and Old House" to AB&GC Magazine to accompany the article Just Another Day In Paradise by David W. Knight Sr.

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