I was surprised to see that almost all the vegetables we grew last year had been eaten up...by myself, my kind and unassuming husband and, I thought, by some nameless little creature. This wasn’t particularly strange, but it was rather odd, that the dark store shed was littered with bits of straw from the boxes.

     It isn’t easy growing lots of vegetables, enough to store through the winter, but it is so rewarding. We often leave the carrots and swedes in the ground, protected by a layer of straw. And I love the smell of the sleeping apples and hanging onions in the shed. There is such an earthiness about the whole thing. However, I do moan about it at times.

     Today, I asked my kind and unassuming husband what he would like for lunch and he just disappeared without replying. How odd, I thought, but he soon returned, with a handful of last year’s vegetables, looking and smelling as fresh as when we picked them. He said he would like nothing better than homemade soup and some seeded bread, also homemade. I set about cooking. There weren’t enough onions, so I strolled over to the store shed. And just as well.

      How on earth he managed to stay all winter without being traced, I will never know. But a rather full hedgehog scurried passed me as if in a hurry to get somewhere. Out, I suspect!

       Thank heavens our garden for waifs and strays has many safe houses for the many visitors that come. But I do wish they would tidy up after themselves!

        The soup and the bread were delicious! Just as well I made enough for an army, as we had more visitors (the two legged kind) and a wonderful afternoon followed.

 DIGGING by Edward Thomas,

To-day I think
Only with scents, - scents dead leaves yield,
And bracken, and wild carrot's seed,
And the square mustard field;

Odours that rise
When the spade wounds the root of tree,
Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed,
Rhubarb or celery;

The smoke's smell, too,
Flowing from where a bonfire burns
The dead, the waste, the dangerous,
And all to sweetness turns.

It is enough
To smell, to crumble the dark earth,
While the robin sings over again
Sad songs of Autumn mirth."

The house for waifs and strays was hive of activity all day. The hens watched with curiosity, the comings and goings of many strange people and some not so strange. Though I have to say, most people are strange that visit us but in a nice way of course. Anyway, in all the chaos nobody, including myself, noticed that something was different. Something had changed in the garden.

     There were many hands on deck, repairing and painting the old boat. There was a lot of laughter and a few silly jokes here and there. Cups of tea were ordered and delivered, and fresh egg sandwiches were eagerly devoured. And all the time, the sun shone! And all the time we still hadn’t noticed.

     I planted a few sunflower seeds in pots, as these are my kind and unassuming husband’s favourite 'happy faces' and the hens love the seeds when the heads go over. I watched for a moment, our friends at work. How lucky were we? I thought.

     Above the table, where I later stood potting up some geraniums, the wisteria hung from the pergola. Unopened flowers would soon become a beautifully scented, palate of purple, a heaven for vulnerable young birds. I turned and looked towards the pond. It looked different somehow.

     ‘There is something different about our garden,’ I said to my kind and unassuming husband. He stopped what he was doing and looked around. Then before he could say anything, I ran down to the pond in excitement. The leaves of the beech hedge had unfolded, revealing an enormous expanse of greenery. Bliss for birds. I smiled. But how on earth had I missed it?

       I couldn’t have wished to be anywhere else at that moment. I had it all.  But who knows what tomorrow will bring. I will probably dream of The Lake District, or Greece or perhaps dear old Ireland. But for the moment, I was happy to be in the garden at our home for waifs and strays.

       It is late now, and I have slipped a few logs on the fire and when I finish my tale for today, I will curl up with a book. Tomorrow is another day, without plans. But I can almost guarantee that every minute will be accounted for, just as always. Whether it’s digging in the allotment, or painting a shed or a boat, or cleaning out the hens, or just walking on the beach, we will certainly make the most of it.

‘It’s later than you think my friends, so enjoy the time you’ve been given.’

In the garden of our home for waifs and strays, was a small old shed that had seen better days.

      It’s been there a long time and had served its purpose, I told my kind and unassuming husband, who says that everything must have a purpose in order to thrive, and in many ways, this is true. But this particular day, he told me that the shed had lacked attention and could be restored with a bit of work and some imagination. That’s easy, I thought. Whilst he is the clever one, I had oozes of imagination.

     As I thought about the wee shed, I remembered my father once saying that although he had retired, he still needed a purpose to get up every day. He had worked hard all of his life and wasn’t prepared to sit in a room and wait for his last breath to come. So he took up oil painting.

     As many of you know, at least, those that have read my stories, my father was an eccentric and clever man. He was certainly not your average dad. He loved animals over humans and I can quite often see why. I remember the time he bought me a pony, a wild little thing that was restless in the stable built especially for him. My father slept with that pony every night, until it settled down. Well that’s the type of man my dad was.

      So, my father had a purpose and I noticed the change in him. His eyes sparkled when he showed me his work and he spoke with a newly discovered enthusiasm. Thinking of this purpose in life brought me back to the shed. What purpose did it need? It was far too small for a tool shed. Too small to store anything in, like animal feed or firewood. So I went to have a closer look.

      My kind and unassuming husband had already repaired the roof and replaced some wood here and there. I often wonder if he is related to Mary Poppins!

        It didn’t take long to empty the shed and discover that Jake and Jako had become squatters. I could also see that a hedgehog or two had slept there all winter. And there were abandoned cobwebs where life once thrived. How could I possibly take this away from them? So now I too, had a purpose...to convince my kind and unassuming husband to let me turn it into another home for waifs and strays. As predicted, he agreed.

        I found an old tin of purple paint and set to work.  Yes, I could have used it for many things, but what better purpose was there, than another home for Jako, Jake and all the other waifs and strays?      

And to Jake and Jako and all the other guests...please clean up after you!

One day I went to the shop to buy milk and came home with a goat called Billie! I had no idea what I was going to do with Billie, but I assumed it would all fall into place. I was wrong.

     My kind and unassuming husband was very surprised when I opened the gate to our home for waifs and strays with a goat in tow. The bearded animal snorted when he saw the garden. Heaven, he must have thought, a Billie Goats Heaven.

     I was a very kind but assuming wife, my husband said, to think that we could easily accommodate this animal that had one eye on the washing line and another on our prized allotment. But Billie was here to stay, at least for the time being.

     He didn’t make friends easily, which was probably due to his horns. These  had the potential to toss an unsuspecting person into the air. And they certainly scared many of our friends away.

     And he escaped, once or twice, could have been more but I hate to think about it. Oh, the trouble it caused. We thought that Gilbert the Great was a handful, but Billie the Goat beat him hands down.

     ‘A goat can live for twenty or more years,’ a friend told me kindly, ‘but I suggest you don’t tell your kind and unassuming husband that.’

    ‘He’s probably not far off old age,’ I replied and instantly felt sorry for poor Billie.      

     I knew we couldn’t keep Billie indefinitely, our home for waifs and strays just wasn’t right for him.

      ‘We could rent him out,’ I said jokingly, to my kind and unassuming husband many months later. ‘Someone must need a natural lawnmower.’

      He shook his head and said that Billie deserved somewhere permanent. I agreed.

       It was after Billie got into the allotment, that we sought a new home for him. I asked Tom the Egg (he really did exist) if he would put some posters around the villages and off he went, on his new bicycle.

       Within two days, someone called and asked all about Billie. What he looked like, colour, size etc. When I had given them a full description, they asked if they could come to see him straight away.

        Well, what a surprise. Billie found a new home on the stage. He was to star in a play which was running for another four nights, then live the rest of his days on a farm close by.

        I have often been to visit Billie and delighted to write, that he is a happily retired acting goat.

 Goodnight Billie! I often wonder where you came from.

After a long winters slumber, Mr Triturus-Newt and many of his amphibian friends were preparing for their annual vacation to the pond for waifs and strays. Mr Triturus-Newt (his scientific name of course) was hoping to find a wife at the courtship dance.

       The amphibian trail arrived at the pond just as the sun was setting.  Mr Triturus-Newt was quickly disappointed by the hoards of amphibians that had gathered at the 5* holiday resort. The place had gone mad, he thought sullenly. He didn’t stand a chance of finding a wife with so much competition.

        They were greeted by the pompous water boatmen that rowed through the water with their noses in the air. ‘Horrid little creatures,’ Mr Triturus-Newt moaned. ‘They think they own the place!’

         A diving beetle zoomed into the pond, right in front of Mr Triturus-Newt and almost sank him to the ground. He spluttered and coughed and almost choked had it not been for a beautiful young newt that pushed him to the surface.

        ‘Thank you,’ he said breathlessly, ‘you saved my life!’

        ‘I had no choice,’ replied the young Newt, ‘you fell on my tail!’ And with that she scarpered.

        Poor My Triturus-Newt, what was supposed to be a wondered holiday, was turning out to be his worst nightmare.

        He made his way slowly around the pond, trying hard to avoid the party goers, though he knew if he wanted to find a wife, then he had to join in.

        The dancing began and so did the whipping, waving and fanning of tails. Mr Triturus-Newt just shook his head in disgust. No way was he going to do that. He would go without a wife if that was the case. But then something happened that made him change his mind.

          As Mr Triturus-Newt was about to go to bed, he saw a beastly dragonfly larvae, zoning in on the very newt that saved his life. ‘Nasty thing,’ he thought and acted very quickly. He saved the beautiful young newt from being attacked.

          ‘You saved my life,’ she said coyly.

          ‘Let’s dance!’ said a very happy Mr Triturus-Newt.