Tales of Africa, England and Agatha Christie
Why mystery, nostalgia, and a bygone era still tug at my heart
There’s a particular feeling I get when I watch an old Agatha Christie film especially those set in distant, sun-drenched lands like Egypt. It’s not just the mystery or the glamour, or even the characters in their creased linen suits and gloves. It’s a sense of recognition. Like I’ve been there before, in spirit if not in my imagination. As if I’m watching the echoes of my own family history play out on screen.
When I was a child, visiting my grandfather was like stepping into a museum of wonders. His home was brimming with treasures gathered from Egypt, Kenya and England, intricately carved wooden tables inlaid with bone, ornate screens, and jewelry that held a veiled shimmer of untold stories.
My grandmother, back in UK, kept a home that felt equally filled with memory. Quiet corners and shelves holding things that seemed to whisper of the past. And my mum, though her collection was entirely her own, filled our home with a different kind of magic. A mix of oddities and keepsakes I didn’t always understand, but I loved them all the same. They carried that same feeling - that sense of story, of history, of lives once lived and adventures once taken.
I remember sitting on my mother’s bed while she carefully lifted out each fragile keepsake and placed it in my hands. I’d study it closely, tracing each delicate detail, as she told me its story. Who it once belonged to, what they were like, and the life they might have lived. I didn’t always understand the full picture, but I could feel its importance, as if I were holding a piece of someone’s world.
As I got older, I discovered Agatha Christie, and I’d watch Death on the Nile - and there it was: that world. The heat, the mystery, the elegance and the tonic water. The feeling that perhaps one of my ancestors had once stepped onto a boat just like that, bound for Cairo in the same sort of dress now folded neatly and tucked away in a weathered box at the back of a cupboard, carefully kept by a relative who understood its worth.
That same feeling washes over me whenever I see a handmade lace collar, a beautifully embroidered gown or a detailed wallpaper from another time. It’s not just the artistry, it’s the life layered into it by the efforts of another artist. The whispers of the people who made them, wore them, passed them down. The art of Europe, of England, of Africa - all of it somehow found its way into my childhood imagination and never left.
And now, after time spent living in Africa and Ireland, I find myself back in Australia - not far from where my great-great-grandfather once lived. It’s not quite a return to my roots, because in many ways, my roots stretch across continents. But for now, it feels like home. A gentle pause in a life that’s always been drawn to stories, to movement, to mystery. And maybe, like in the best of tales, it’s the quiet chapters that hold the most meaning.
….. a story from the world of Dianne Stark