Tropical Tango

Glorious sunshiney day. When I wandered along by the harbour this morning, there was a fishing boat in: two seals were slinking their way across to have a nose around for scraps.

I'm working on a story I've wanted to write ever since I saw this picture:



It's George Bernard Shaw, learning to tango in the gardens of Reid's Palace Hotel, Madeira. It was 1925: the year he would be awarded the Nobel Prize.

On arrival in Madeira, Shaw received news that his closest friend William Archer had died of cancer. A couple of weeks earlier, Archer had written to Shaw of his forthcoming operation:

"I go into a nursing home tomorrow. I feel as fit as a fiddle so I suppose my chances are pretty good. Still, accidents will happen. Though I may sometimes have played the part of all too candid mentor, I have never wavered in my admiration for you, or ceased to feel that the Fates had treated me kindly in
making me your contemporary and friend.
I thank you from the heart for 40 years of good comradeship.
Ever yours, W.A."

Shaw was devastated, and threw himself into writing during his six-week stay at Reid's Palace. But at some point, he decided to take a lesson in tango. And his partner's name was Hope. Miss Hope du Barri.

On leaving, Shaw gave his dance instructor a signed photo, inscribed: 'To the only man who ever taught me anything. GBS'.