One moon lit evening, at our home for waifs and strays, I looked out of the window and saw two white rabbits playing on the lawn.

     ‘Two white rabbits!’ I shouted to my kind and unassuming husband. ‘There are two white rabbits playing on the lawn in the dark.’

     My kind and unassuming husband stood beside me and looked out at the garden. But the rabbits must have seen us and ran away.

     ‘They were there a moment ago,’ I said running to the door with a torch. I could see them in the moonlight. But there was no sign of the ghost rabbits.

      ‘They were there a moment ago,' I said as I entered the kitchen, ‘two of them, pure white!’

      My kind and unassuming husband smiled kindly and went back to his study.

      By the following morning, I had forgotten all about the rabbits until I went to let the hens out. I was walking past the pond when I spotted not two but three pure white rabbits running around the fruit trees. I could hardly believe my eyes.

       I walked quickly back to the house and shouted to my kind and unassuming husband.

       ‘Come quickly,’ I said excitedly. ‘There are three white rabbits down by the pond.’

        As you can guess, by the time he emerged, the rabbits had disappeared. I was beginning to think I had imagined the whole thing. And so was my kind and unassuming husband, even though he didn’t say as much.

        That night I was ready with my camera. I stood in the window of our home for waifs and strays and waited. I was about to give up after two hours, then I saw them. I quickly snapped a few photo’s as proof that they weren’t a figment of my imagination and they weren’t ghost rabbits but real fluffy white bunnies. I shouted to my kind and unassuming husband yet again. This time he also saw them and was as baffled as I was. Where on earth had they come from?

        They came every day for the next few weeks and every day they dug up our allotment and ate our flowers. We had no idea who they belonged too. So we caught them (which proved to be an easy task) and placed them in our chicken hospital which is a large wooded house with a long run.

          ‘What shall we do with them?’ I asked my kind and unassuming husband.

          Being the practical one, he said that we should place an advert in the village shop.

          No-one came forward and a week later, we discovered that our three white rabbits had become....thirteen! As we peered into a small nest, we counted ten furless heads. We were speechless! Nothing at our home for waifs and strays shocked us anymore, but things like this never ceased to amaze us.

           ‘I guess word must have got around that this is the home for waifs and strays!’ I smiled at my kind and unassuming husband. ‘Better start building yet another run!’

The day began and ended with a glorious sun and a list full of chores. It also began and ended with a house full of people who had come to visit. But in the middle of it all, was a day to remember.

      ‘Let’s go on a picnic!’ I said, kicking off my wellies before entering the kitchen. ‘The hens are fed and watered and so are all the plants.’

       Everyone smiled and agreed. Even my kind and unassuming husband, who had a list full of jobs, nodded his head.

       ‘A boat trip,’ I suggested excitedly, ‘around our beautiful Gower coast to Worms Head.’

       So it was settled and soon we had packed a picnic enough to feed  the hens for a week. It seems that everyone that comes to visit us at our home for waifs and strays develops an enormous appetite, even the people who eat very little prior to their visit.

        I could see the worried look on my kind and unassuming husbands face and reassured him that there wasn’t enough food to sink the boat. So off we set to our mooring.

        We chugged along the spectacular Gower coast where the fields roll down to meet the cliff edge. The sea below was as calm as a millpond and above was a sky speckled with seagulls. A perfect day for a picnic!

        I pointed out old and new landmarks, including the tallest building in Wales. This is situated in Swansea Marina and has a restaurant on the top floor. From here, you can see for many miles.

       Passing by the village of Mumbles we saw the new lifeboat station at the end of the pier. Ironically, the coastguard station which is built into the rocks close by is due to close in 2015, despite being one of the busiest in the UK.

         We waved to Phil the Fish as he passed by on his trawler. The smell of his catch caught the attention of the gulls that stalked him eagerly. I covered my nose with my hand as the smell was rather fishy!     

          Passing Caswell Bay, Langland Bay, Pwll Du Bay and Hunts Bay, brought back memories. These white sandy beaches I had played on with my father during the long summer evenings when I was a child. There were caves, hundreds of them, cut into the rugged cliffs which lined this beautiful coastline, down as far as Rhossili. And, of course, there was Worms Head, our picnic destination.

          Streching out from the land and rising up from the Atlantic Ocean, this huge rock emerges (in my opinion) like a gigantic turtle. However, my kind and unassuming husband does not agree with me and says it is just like its namesake, a worms head. I cannot see it myself but everyone is entitled to their own opinion.

          So we turned off the engine and anchored. Out came the picnic and everyone settled down happily to eat. Me, well I just couldn’t resist yet another photo opportunity. Even the smell of home baked bread filled with cheese and pickles couldn’t tempt me away. And then I saw what I had come for, a seal.  

          It emerged gracefully from the water and held my gaze for just a brief moment. But that moment was enough.

          We chugged back in silence, watching the late afternoon sun glisten on the water. For me, there could never be a more perfect place to live!

‘I don’t want to eat snails,’ said Hywel Hog, ‘I’m a vegetarian!’

      ‘You must eat up,’ said Mrs Erinaceus (this is Latin for hedgehog), ‘before the winter comes.’

       Hywel Hog moaned and groaned just like all children when they don’t want to eat their food.

       ‘Eat, eat, eat,’ he said, playing with a snail that was put in front of him. ‘But I don’t like snails!’

       ‘All hoglets eat snails,’ his mother replied. ‘Now eat up!’

       ‘I’m a vegetarian,’ said Hywel Hog and pushed the snail away.

       Now Mrs Erinaceus knew that unless Hywel Hog ate his food, he wouldn’t survive until the spring. She was a very worried mother.

       But the young hoglet would not eat his food and he got thinner and thinner. It was almost time to hibernate and Mrs. Erinaceus knew that her young son would die if he didn’t eat soon. She tried everything she could think of, worms, beetles and slugs, but nothing worked. Hywel Hog refused everything that contained meat.

        ‘I’m a vegetarian,’ he kept saying, over and over again. ‘I don’t want anything to have to die for me!’

        Although Mrs Erinaceus thought that this was a very sweet thing for her son to say, it wasn’t helping matters and the days became colder and colder and Hywel Hog got thinner and thinner. Then one evening, a very strange thing happened.

         They were wondering about in the garden of the home for waifs and strays, when the door of the house opened and someone came out. Young Hywel Hog and his mother watched from the shadows as the lady put down a dish of something that smelt delicious. They watched closely, as she went back into the house and closed the door.

          ‘You stay here,’ said Mrs Erinaceus, ‘while I see if it is safe.’ And she scurried across the yard to where the delicious smell was coming from. Her little heart raced and she prayed that the food would be suitable for Hywel Hog.

           ‘Come,’ she called softly to her son, ‘I think you will like it! It doesn’t smell like meat.’

           Little Hywel Hog hurried over to his mother and sniffed at the food in front of him.

           ‘It’s delicious!’ he said excitedly and gobbled it all down. Mrs Erinaceus sighed a huge relief.

           Every night they went to the yard and waited for the door to open and the food to be left. And every night until it was time to hibernate, the young hoglet gobbled it all up.They never once saw the lady smiling at them from the kitchen window.

     It’s been a long day travelling back from St Davids and making stops along the way. Each stop was like a tiny adventure, finding treasures for our home for waifs and strays.

    By the time we arrived back, the old campervan was packed with all sorts of strange things. Some were required items like bales of straw, hen feed, bird feed etc but then there were plants (many of them) and rickety old chairs which I will paint, to brighten up the kitchen and a basket for logs. And last but not least, was the item I found hardest to bypass my kind and unassuming husband. This was a large wooden box, once used for someone travelling to India, many, many years ago probably more than that!

     ‘I have many boxes, I know,’ I said to my kind and unassuming husband who was standing in the shop shaking his head, ‘but I haven’t got a box that can tell a story like this.’

     He made it quite clear that the box couldn’t talk. He was also curious as to how I would know what stories it could tell?

     I huffed and puffed just like a Welsh dragon does and told him about the life he had missed by not having an imagination. I instantly regretted saying that, because my kind and unassuming husband really does have an imagination, but not one as stretchy as mine.

      Anyway, I explained that the old box had survived the years (100 or more) and that the mystery was engrained, like the initials, in the old wood. I added that it had also travelled more than most people and in a boat that no longer existed. We just had to have it! But he still wasn’t convinced. I had to try harder.

      ‘I can write about it in tonight’s tale.’ I said excitedly.

      That seemed to do the trick. The box was loaded on the camper and now sits in the kitchen, waiting for a more permanent place in our home for waifs and strays.

       Thank you my kind, kind, patient and kind and unassuming husband, for understanding the importance of a very special box in which I will keep our very special memories! Breakfast in bed for you tomorrow, consisting of a freshly laid egg or two on freshly baked bread! Oh, and thank you for that old milk churn you said I couldn’t have because it wouldn’t fit in anyway.....It’s being delivered next week!

Today’s tale is coming from Britain’s smallest city, St Davids in Pembrokeshire. Made a city in the 16th centuary but lost this status in 1888. However, Queen Elizabeth restored this in 1994.

     Anyway, enough history for the moment, what started off as a day out has ended with a sleep over in our old campervan. Thankfully, we have friends who wanted a sleep over at our home for waifs and strays, so everyone is cared for.

      So I settle down to write, as my kind and unassuming husband fights with the cooker to muster up some kind of evening meal.  Judging by the sound and smell of things it is something rather tasty out of a tin. But enough of that! Let me tell you a little about where we are.

      I am looking across the sea, so rich in nutrients that it attracts whales, dolphins, seals, porpoise and so much more. There is such an abundance of wildlife on and around the necklace of tiny islands which I can see from our old campervan. The beaches are sandy and beautiful, just like the Gower Coast where we live and the coastal paths lead to many curious coves and caves and ancient churches.

      My attention is brought back to the ‘kitchen’ where the cooker is now off and the plates are full of..... well, I’m not quite sure, but it smells rather yummy. So I had better end this rather unusual tale from the campervan from the home for waifs and strays and sample the local cuisine? Then off to find an old pub in which we can talk about our day and what adventure to go on next.