Remember the days when the sun used to shine? Remember when it used to get so hot we didn’t know what to do with ourselves? Well here’s a cat who knows what to do.

     Just look at him! He belongs to my kind and unassuming husband who has seriously spoilt him, so much so, he thinks he's human. Not that humans hang round inside bird houses (well none that I know of anyway) but they do have the tendency to do daft things.

     ‘You’re far too big for that!’ I remember shouting at him when I looked out of the window and saw him hanging there....but he was far too hot and pleased with himself to even look up at me. Thankfully, there were no birds feeding on the table at the time.

      This is the same cat (Lupin) who gets off the 4 o’clock bed at exactly that time and waits by the gate for his daddy...my kind (and far too soft) and unassuming husband. They have a language all of their own and one I have no intention of learning. It sounds worse than that of the auctioneer who took great enjoyment in watching me bid against myself and sold me cockerels instead of egg laying hens!

      However, I will give the three of them this.....they have all have made me laugh. They have given me things to talk about and I will talk about them for a long time to come.

      But for future reference dear Lupin, you will be in the doghouse if you climb up the birdhouse every again!

I just had to stop the car and look at it.

     ‘Good morning you hairy cow,’ I said as I grabbed my camera and opened the door. There wasn’t much of a response, just a glare.

      'No offence,' I continued bravely, 'you are rather beautiful...really!'

     They’ve been on the moors near our home for waifs and strays for a few years now and yet every time I see them it’s like seeing them for the first time. They fascinate me with their thick double layer of orange hair and horns so long they could pin a full grown man to the wall. But I wasn’t afraid, despite its eyes boring into mine.

       Just a few metres away were a herd of wild ponies and cobs, though many are just left untamed until mature enough to be broken in. Like the cows, they graze on brambles and gorse on one of the most beautiful places on earth.

       I noticed sheep with their newly born lambs close by and for awhile, I was mesmerised by the picture it all made. A cry above made me look up...it was a red kite, its wings the colour of autumn fuelled my imagination. I knew in an instant what I would be painting when I arrived home.

Our home for waifs and strays is full of items I have bought from Jumbles sales and charity shops. My kind and unassuming husband does not share my love for this particular pastime and sighs every time he sees the car pull up at the end of a jumble trip.

      ‘They will come in handy,’ I say to him as I unload the treasures from the boot. He usually nods in a sort of pacifying way. Sometimes, he is pleasantly surprised and his smile is genuine with a good hint of interest. I do my best to find things he would like, such as old usable tools and classic car magazines.  

        As a child, my mother often took me to the village jumble sale. I remember the stampede of people that crowded into the small church hall seeking a bargain. It was a frightening experience and I often hid beneath the tables which were piled high with clothes, books and bric-a-brac.

     It was those times beneath the tables, that I discovered my love for books. There were endless amounts to choose from but Enid Blyton’s famous five were my favourite. And although I was very young, I could read them quite well. By the time I was eight, I was writing my own adventures stories to read to my dolls.

     Those old books are still with me and sit on the shelves at our home for waifs and strays. And I still add to them every time I go to a jumble sale.

     Jumble sales were once a big part of village life and still are where I live in Wales. It is a great way to raise money for charities and one can have hours of fun picking up amazing bargains.

     When people come to visit our home for waifs and strays, there is always a story to tell about many of the items that I bought at a charity shop or a jumble sale.  

We recently had friends from America come to stay at our home for waifs and strays. It was their first time in Wales so, of course, I wanted to give them a Welsh experience. So I started with a good old, stomach filling breakfast which consisted of cockles, laverbread and Welsh bacon.

      Whilst my kind and unassuming husband tucked into his daily bowl of shredded wheat, our American friends, viewed their plates suspiciously.

       As a child my father taught us how to collect this edible seaweed called laver which clings to rocks around the coast of Britain and East Coast of Ireland, where it is known a slake. We would wash it thoroughly to remove the sand then boil it for hours and hours. I remember thinking how soul destroying it was to see the pile of laver we took hours to collect, boil down to just a small mound. But I have to agree with Richard Burton, that laverbread is a Welshman’s caviar. This I told our friends, who decided that Mr Burton couldn’t possibly be wrong so tucked in. I have added a great recipe belonging to the hairy bikers....why not give it a try? I mustn’t forget to add, that our American friends enjoyed their breakfast and a long walk across Rhossili Bay.

Cockles, laverbread and Welsh bacon

Ingredients

225g/8oz ready-prepared laverbread (available in cans from online

shops)

50g/2oz oatmeal

freshly ground white pepper, to taste

225g/8oz picked cockle meat, cooked

25g/1oz butter

1 leek, finely chopped

50g/2oz bacon fat

8 smoked bacon rashers, fried until crisp, to serve

Preparation method

1. In a bowl, mix together the laverbread and oatmeal until well

combined. Season, to taste, with freshly ground white pepper and set

aside for 20 minutes.

2. Melt the butter in a frying pan until foaming, then add the leek and fry

for 3-4 minutes, or until softened. Add the picked cockle meat and

cook for a further 1-2 minutes, or until heated through.

3. With damp hands, pinch off pieces of the laverbread mixture and roll

into golf ball-sized balls. Flatten the balls slightly to make small

patties.

4. In a separate pan, heat the bacon fat over a medium heat. Fry the

laverbread patties, in small batches, for 2-3 minutes on both sides or

until golden-brown all over.

5. To serve, divide the laverbread patties among four serving plates

and spoon over the cockles and leeks. Top each serving with two

rashers of crisp bacon.

less than 30 mins

preparation time

10 to 30 mins

cooking time

Serves 4

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Our home for waifs and strays began with just two hens, Hilda and Henrietta. Unlike all the other hens that we would soon rescue from a battery farm, they were picked out from hundreds of other hens at an auction.

     It was held in a large barn in the country and my kind and unassuming husband and I had no experience at all of how it worked. The outcome was expensive but we still laugh about it.

     The enormous barn was stacked with cages three high in places and filled with every kind of poultry imaginable (to myself) plus an amazing amount of rabbits, guinea pigs and farming equipment.

     The noise and the smell were breathtaking....in more ways than one.

Well, we chose our girls, two beautiful buff Orpington’s and waited for the bidding to start.

      My heart was racing and I could hardly control my excitement. I remember asking a young farmer if he thought I had made the right choice and he readily agreed. ‘Great layers,’ he said smiling. So I felt satisfied with my decision.

     Then it started. The barn was swarming with people and I was totally unprepared for the buzz that swept through the building taking me with it. It also took my kind and unassuming husband for he was nowhere to be seen.

     It was soon time to bid for the hens though I still couldn’t fathom out how it worked. For a start, the auctioneer was talking so fast (a load of mumble jumble) I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. So, I kept putting up my hand. I was determined to take those hens home. Then the man put up his hand and stopping the auction, he looked at me with a sort of smirk on his face.

    ‘Are you with the gentleman over there?’ he asked and everyone stared in my direction. I stretched up and looked at the man in question. It was indeed my missing but kind and unassuming husband. I nodded happily and waved to him.

    ‘Thought so,’ said the auctioneer rolling his eyes, ‘lucky for you, you just out bid him and yourself, so the Buff’s are yours. Number please!’

     So not only did I pay way over the top for the hens, whilst bidding against my dear and unassuming husband, I actually bid against myself. It seemed as if everyone, including my cross but still dear and unassuming husband, watched as I handed over my number to the auctioneer who smiled and winked at me. I just wanted the ground to swallow me up!

     Anyway, it didn’t end there. Far from it!

     With our new girls settled in a place that would soon become our home for waifs and strays, we waited eagerly for lovely fresh eggs we were told would arrive. But we waited and waited and waited. They seemed to make strange noises as if they were trying to force an egg out but nothing. So I decided to follow the instructions in my new ‘how to keep hens’ guide book.

     It went something like this.....

     "Place your hen under your arm like a rugby ball. Bottom should be facing upwards, at you."

     "Inspect vent to see if an egg is visible and if so try and release it without breaking the shell."

     Well I did as the book said but there was no sign of an egg.

     "Put on rubber glove and lubricate a finger with vaseline."

     Ugh! I know I'm a nurse, but I didn't relish this investigation.

     "There may be a lot of trapped wind so don’t look directly at the vent."

     This last piece of advice sent me right to the second option.....

     "Hold hen like a rugby ball over a bowl of hot water. Bottoms should be held over the steam."

     This I did, one at a time, being careful not to burn their delicate bodies.

Hold this position for a good few minutes for their muscles to relax so the egg (if there is an egg) could easily pass through the vent.

     Nothing happened!

     So I put the traumatised girls back in their run with lots of treats and decided to let nature take its course....which, to my utter surprise, it did!

     No, there was no egg. There never would be. You see, we had a visitor later that day who kindly informed me that Hilda and Henrietta were cockerels...that explained everything!

     So poor Hilda became Harry and Henrietta became Henry...and they lived happily ever after! I hope they have forgiven me.