Just as dawn breaks or sometime just before, I will lie perfectly still and listen to the birdsong. But at this time of year I listen for that extra sweet voice of the cuckoo and today, she came. I hardly dared to breath, knowing she would soon fly away again to make her home in another’s nest.

     As a child, I remember sneaking out of the house and around the garden on tip toe, searching for the elusive bird. Sometimes my father would see me go, nod his head and wait for my return. But I would always come back disappointed.      

     About the same time as hearing the teasing bird, one may notice cuckoo spit on the stems of chrysanthemums, dahlias, fuchsias, lavender and rosemary. This, my father told me, had nothing at all to do with the cuckoo apart from the fact they arrive at the same time.

     ‘Inside that frothy white liquid, is a froghopper nymph!’ he once told me. ‘Little insects that use the froth to shield themselves from predators, plus it keeps them warm.’ My father loved being able to pass on information such as this, and I soaked up everything he told me.

       I imagined the garden full of beautiful flying frogs with delicate wings. I called them the garden royals.

      As they grew, I could see that their tiny faces resembled that of a frog. Incredible, I thought! I remember thinking that God was a wonderful artist.

      These incredible little creatures and I had something in common. I loved to crawl under the sheets of the bed and read by the light of my torch, and the froghoppers would hold their wings together like a tent over their body and hide from the world. It was to be a lifelong connection.

       So, to the Cuckoo and the Froghopper, I add you to the list of my Garden Royals.

       And to my readers, I have added a poem once read to me by my father........

To the Cuckoo

By William Wordsworth

O blithe New-comer! I have heard,

I hear thee and rejoice.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,

Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass

Thy twofold shout I hear;

From hill to hill it seems to pass,

At once far off, and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale

Of sunshine and of flowers,

Thou bringest unto me a tale

Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days

I listened to; that Cry

Which made me look a thousand ways

In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove

Through woods and on the green;

And thou wert still a hope, a love;

Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;

Can lie upon the plain

And listen, till I do beget

That golden time again.

O blessèd Bird! the earth we pace

Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place;

That is fit home for Thee!

Tom Beynon was Tom the Milks son, Tom the Loaf’s grandson and the dearly departed, Tom the Crop’s great grandson.  No one called him just Tom. They called him Tom Junior in school, even though he was fourteen. Tom was sick of it and decided that it was time to find a name of his own.

     One Saturday morning, as Tom was walking passed the home for waifs and strays, he read a notice posted on a door, set in an old stone wall.  

     Required! Someone to deliver eggs! Apply within, he read. And without thinking, that is exactly what he did.

       Tom held his breath as he lifted the latch and pushed the door open. He had always wondered what was on the other side of the wall, and now he knew. It was like entering another world, another time and there wasn’t another house like it in the entire village of Gusty Gully.

        Taking a deep breath, Tom scanned the garden which sloped down to a pond where a large old summerhouse stood. It was peaceful, despite the chorus of birds and the clucking and cooing of hens. He giggled to see their bottoms up in the air as they drank, like puppets, from the pond. How he wished that he could live in a world like this one and he crossed his fingers behind his back and prayed that the job hadn’t gone.

     ‘Why, you’re Tom the Milk’s son, aren’t you?’ said a friendly lady walking down the path towards him. Tom straightened up and nodded his head. If that’s what it took to get the job, he thought, he would own up to being anyone’s son, even Ed the Bed’s.    

       ‘Have you come about the job?’ she asked, wiping her hands in a piece of cloth. Tom nodded and smiled at the hens that followed her.

       ‘I guess they are the ones that lay the eggs,’ said Tom biting his lip awkwardly. The woman shook her head and waved to a man who was digging the garden.

       ‘This is my husband,’ she said and a kind and unassuming man looked up at them. Tom waved to the man and noticed the large Victorian greenhouse behind him. It was like stepping back in time, he thought.

        So, because he was Tom the Milk’s son, Tom was given the job.

        ‘But how will I deliver the eggs?’ Tom frowned. ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’

        The kind and unassuming man who was also very clever told Tom that a bicycle would be provided and that there would be a carrier for eggs.

     ‘You can start next Saturday,’ said the lady and that is exactly what Tom the Milk’s son did.

     The following week, the kind and unassuming man gave Tom an old fashioned bicycle, with a large woven basket attached to the handlebars. He lifted the lid and showed Tom the eggs, and a list of all the places he had to go. When the lid was closed, Tom had the greatest shock ever. The kind and unassuming man had made a sign and stuck it to the basket. On it was painted a nest of eggs and the words, Tom the Egg.

        Tom could hardly speak. Not only had he got himself a job and a company bike, but he, Tom the Milk’s son, had got a name for himself. Now everyone in Gusty Gully would know him as Tom the Egg!

        And that was just the beginning.

Starting tomorrow

The Gusty Gully Mystery

Set on the Gower Coast in South Wales and not in Antarctica, as the name suggests.

Dear Readers,

 Recently, I have been asked by quite a few people, if I could write some fictional stories and post them on this page. I have thought about this and will give it at try this week. The stories will be a mixture of genres and probably based in and around a fictional village in Gower.

     Tales from our home for waifs and strays will continue in-between and I would like to say a huge thank you to all of my followers. Tonight’s tale is about Featherpin, who was rescued from the battery farm.

Kindest regards

Jill

I stopped the engine and in the dimly lit light, looked down at her lifeless body. Her warm blood, stained my hands as I checked for a heartbeat. She was barely alive but alive nonetheless. Something moved inside my jacket, reminding me that there were others but none as poorly as Featherpin.

         The memories of that night can still evoke fear and anger as well as excitement and relief. It changed my life and the lives of a hundred battery hens.

         Although I was a nurse, nothing had prepared me for the type of nursing some of the hens required. However, Featherpin was my biggest challenge. It was quite obvious that she wanted to survive, simple because she hadn’t died, despite all the odds stacked against her.

          As the summer stretched out, it was soon time to set Featherpin free. My kind and unassuming husband and I watched as she almost tip toed over the grass of her new home. From her safe house, she could see and hear the others, but for the time being, a wire fence protected her. She would need a good coat of feathers to endure the pecking order. And of course, there was also Gilbert the Great.

           Sandwich was a regular visitor to the safe house, and I am sure that she remembered her dear friend Featherpin. After all, they had shared the same cell, in the jail they called the battery farm. By late summer, the two were put together and slowly, they all became one big happy family.

           Although Featherpin lived for just two more summers, they were the best two summers a hen could wish for.

Never to be forgotten.

Boys will be boys, and Gilbert the Great was no exception. In fact, he very often over stepped the mark. You see, Gilbert was a ladies’ man and all the ladies loved Gilbert. Well almost all!

     The posh girls loved Gilbert despite his amorous ways. The raunchy rooster would strut about the yard with his chest out, trying hard to make himself look twice the size and butch.

     Although he was a great protector, Gilbert the Great was actually surplus to requirements. You see, hens do not need a rooster in order to lay eggs but they need one, if a chick was to be born.

     Gilbert the Great would sit on a fence at our home for waifs and strays, and threaten anyone that came near his girls...especially those that were sitting on eggs. I’m sure the poor postman dreaded coming anywhere near the place and often left parcels in a house across the road.  As you can imagine, Gilbert the Great didn’t make us very popular!

       Well as I said, all the girls loved Gilbert, but there were one or two exceptions and Sandwich was one of them. At least, she pretended to have no interest in him at all but she did watch him from a safe distance

        When Sandwich first saw Gilbert, she was pitiful looking, having just arrived from the battery farm, and so Gilbert didn’t pay her much attention, however, he did tend to watch her over the shoulders of the posh girls. And when Sandwich’s feathers returned to full shiny glory, she outshone all the others. In fact, she looked amazing.

         Gilbert the Great saw the transformation and would strut across the yard towards her. He would dance the cockerel waltz, with one wing stretched downwards. This amused our many visitors but certainly not Sandwich, at least, not at first. In fact, they almost came to blows, on many occasions. This, it seemed, only fuelled Gilbert the Greats amorous ways.

          As I watched the love affair develop between Sandwich and Gilbert, I often wondered if she knew that this raunchy rooster had the potential to fulfil her dreams. Remember the egg she craved for, at the battery farm, the one that almost rolled away? I knew then, that Sandwich would make a great mother one day. But whether Gilbert the Great would win her over, you will have to wait and see.....It’s later than you think now, and the house is quiet once again. I can hardly keep my eyes open....Oh no! It’s that strange noise again, coming from Mocha’s old room. Time for Bed!