‘Slow down and take time to smell the roses!’ my father often said to me and as an unstoppable teenager, I remember pointing out to him that we didn’t have any roses growing in our garden.

     Many summers came and went before I knew what my father meant and that it had nothing at all to do with roses or indeed any other flowers. And I still haven’t taken his advice, well, not as much as I should.

     Early this morning I strolled down to the pond with a cup of sweet tea in one hand and my camera in the other. The birds were awake well ahead of me and were singing enthusiastically in the hedge. 

     A delicate blue sky rose high above the quiet village with an unexpected promise of sunshine. So I sat on the old bench besides the still water and sipped my sweet tea.

     I noticed the roses had opened and their delicate pink heads stretched down to the pond like a waterfall bouquet. It was then I remembered my father’s words, ‘slow down and take time to smell the roses!’

     During the years I spent travelling, I discovered what my father actually meant.  Life is meant to be savoured, not devoured without experiencing the sight, the sound, the taste, the smell and the touch. And if that includes taking time to smell the roses, then indeed you must lean over the bush, being mindful that no bee will sting your nose, and smell that heavenly scent.

      Here in the garden at our home for waifs and strays, it is easy to relax and take time out, to smell the roses or watch the hens or listen to the humming bees in the foxgloves but life goes on, on the other side of the gate. Just remember, that we can all find a moment during the day to ‘slow down and take time to smell the roses, whatever form that might be!

“What day is it?"
It's today," squeaked Piglet.
My favorite day," said Pooh.”
― A.A. Milne

Mr Troglodytidae, or Mr Troglody for short, is nothing less than a polygamous Wren, in short, a womanising bird.

       You can hear him even if you can’t see him and I can tell you that he will be trembling as he sings to all his potential partners. All this activity goes on in the dense hedges that surrounds the home for waifs and strays.

       This tiny, pugnacious ball of fluff, dressed in drably coloured clothes, will flit and flirt with as many female balls of fluff as he can, sometimes, as many as thirty but usually around twelve. He masterfully builds a range of cave-like nests then lets each female choose which one they prefer to lay their eggs. Once chosen, the female gets to decorate it with her own feathers. Soon after, she will lay around five to eight, tiny white eggs which are covered in reddish spots.

        To give him his due, Mr Troglody is a hands on father and despite having many partners, he will work tirelessly to feed his young. He sings as he darts from nest to nest.....proud to be a polygamous bird!

Hello reader, you might have read the story of Featherpin, further down the line. She was the one I ran back and rescued from the battery farm just as they were about to close the door and kill 300,000 hens. She was the one who had ‘given up’ and lay down, all bloodied, on the iron bars. Her eyes were closed and no movement did she make. Had Sandwich (another meatless hen) not brought my attention to her, I too would have thought she was dead and left her there. But as the story went, I saw Featherpin and placed her inside my jacket. Together, along with a car full of scrawny, featherless hens, I took them to our home for waifs and strays.

     Well that was about seven years ago now, and although I don’t want to give the wonderful, magical, in-between years away, as it's in a book I'm working on, I can tell you a little about what is happening now.

      Featherpin, the weakest of all those rescued hens, has outlived them all.

Oh yes, she has a tale to tell, a very special tale, but it is I who will have to tell it, for time has caught up with her and she’s taken to her bed.

       It is quite funny in a strange sort of way and terribly sad in another that she has got us just where she wants us and we wait on her hand and foot, as they say! She sits in her very cosy nest while we feed her all the luxuries a hen could wish for. It is a good way to disguise any medicines she needs. Then perhaps, she will take a wee stroll around the inside pen, the one that is slightly heated for the purpose of elderly ladies such as her ladyship!

       But we owe her this at the very least. She has brought us so much joy over the past, however many years and supplied us with endless, tasty eggs, rich in colour and rich in taste. We have laughed so many times at her antics and there is no doubt we have cried equally as much, especially in those harrowing weeks after her rescue.

        So what has helped her live so long? I’m not quite sure but she is a very curious little hen and has overcome enormous difficulties in the beginning. She looked death in the face and although she didn’t know that sunshine and freedom awaited her outside her cell, her tiny heart kept beating, I felt it later, when I carried her to safety inside my jacket. She wanted to live and I willed her to live and I still do......until the moment comes and I have to let her go.

‘Skies alive, it’s Apus apus!’ These sooty brown birds that were around at the time of the Romans, swoop through the streets faster than boy racers!

     Better known as swifts, it is easy to see how they’re one of the fastest birds in the world. You will never see them perched on wires as they only stop for a rain check when nesting or feeding their young.

     For just three months of the year, they pay a flying visit to Britain but the rest of the time they shoot around Africa, taking sips of water as they fly over lakes and rivers, bathing in the falling rain as they go.

     Just the other day, my kind and unassuming husband and I watched in amazement, as these crazy birds flew low and at terrific speed, in and around us, through the street where we were strolling. We had to duck now and then to avoid a potential hit by these gregarious creatures that were hunting airborne spiders and flying insects.

     For a wee while, we watched them and were amazed at their looks and their behaviour. They have long, scythe-like wings and a short, forked tail. Their four toes are arranged in twos and point outwards just like a koala. They scream excitedly as they swoop like mini spaceships through alleyways and streets where they nest in the eves and gables.

      I discovered later that these quintessential birds live to an average age of five and a half year’s though a bird found dying in Oxford, was found to be still in existence sixteen years after being ringed. It had flown over fourteen million miles, the equivalent to flying to the moon and back eight times.

     Preferring a life of flying to resting, these birds are unique in their ability to stay airborne for days at a time. They only land to feed their young or to roost. We were lucky to capture two of their young peeping out of their nest, searching for their next meal.

Being a total teetotaller, I was the only one to-day not sampling the delights of various wines, grown on the beautiful Pembrokeshire Coast in Wales. Whilst my friends were absorbed in the blends of grapes and fruits, I was  absorbed in the process of how it all ended up in a bottle.  

     Madeleine d’Angevine and Seyval Blanc are just two of the white grape vines I could see, as I strolled through the rain drenched fields to where these acclimatised vines grow in abundance. The only red vines were the Triomph d’Alsace, growing on the gentle, south facing, slopes.

     If the sun had been shining it would have been easy to imagine that I was strolling through the vineyards of France or Italy with the rich green rolling hills in the background and chickens running at my feet. A bouquet of scents pervaded through the air as my coat brushed against the hedgerow confusing my senses. I had to remind myself that I was in Wales, on a typical summer’s day, walking in the rain through a vineyard.

     I noted several rows of willow whips, planted as a windbreak on the northern boundary. This, I guess was to produce a better meso-climate to protect the vines. The owners had worked hard to produce such an amazing place one would normally expect to find in Italy or France, but I couldn’t imagine a more perfect place for a vineyard than here in beautiful Wales.