‘OK Jako, so who’s your friend?’

No sooner do we get rid of Jako (in the field) when a friend of his turns up! Slightly larger and more, well, worldly looking. If you get what I mean!

     ‘You’re not welcome here!’ I pointed a finger at him, while shinning a torch on the bemused creature. ‘Indeed, this is a home for waifs and strays,’ I continue kindly, ‘ but it is also home to three fat cats, two of whom, are sitting here waiting to meet you!’ I didn’t add that their tails were wagging impatiently and that they were licking their lips.

      The very young rat/mouse whatever, stared back at me from a gap between two cupboards.

      My kind and unassuming husband appeared with a bucket. As clever as he is, I didn’t except him to be able to catch Jako’s friend in such a thing, so I went in search for something far more suitable.

     ‘You had better remove those potential predators,’ I shouted as I went, ‘before Jako becomes friendless!’

      After much toing and froing, we eventually catch Jako’s friend.....in the bucket. My kind and unassuming husband looked very pleased with himself and rightly so.

      Once again, we strolled over to the field and let the animal go. It hesitated, to our surprise.

       ‘Go on!’ I shouted, ‘Jako is waiting for you!’Its nose twitched and its ears pricked up and off it went.

       ‘Jake!’ I said to my kind and unassuming husband. ‘We will call him Jake! Be off with you Jake, it’s later than you think!’

Since the death of her surrogate mother, young Twilight has become quite a madam!  

     Many of you will remember her story, of how she would climb on her mother’s back and be carried around the garden..... until she was too big of course! Well since her mother died (probably of a broken back, only joking!) Twilight is often to be found on our kitchen door step. She waits for the door to open then swoosh’s in like she owns the place. She knows full well where the grapes are kept and the cat’s food.

     Well yesterday, I didn’t see her on the step and it rained and rained all day. By the time I did see her, the poor hen looked like a drowned rat.

     ‘That is what you get for being greedy, young lady!’ I said, quickly scooping her up in my arms. ‘Let me give you a cwtch!’ I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her. To all those who have no idea what ‘cwtch’ means, it’s Welsh for a cuddle or safe place.

     As I child, I always went to my grandmother for a cwtch. This was easy to do as she lived with us.  I remember she kept an old welsh  blanket over the arm of her chair and together we would snuggle beneath it. She would sing a song in Welsh, called Myfanwy. I remember only too well the last time we cwtched beneath that shawl and giggled because I was really too big. I told her I was leaving home but I would be back one day. Despite being just 15 years old, I said I had to go! And just once more I wanted her to sing me our favourite song....some of it went like this.....

          Myfanwy, may you spend your lifetime, beneath the midday sunshine’s glow, and on your cheeks O may the roses, dance for a hundred years or so. Forget now all the words of promise you made to one who loved you well, give me your hand my sweet Myfanwy, but one last time to say ‘farewell’

       It was many years later before I returned home and thankfully my grandmother was still alive.

       So I cwtched my dear drenched hen in my arms and sang Myfanwy to her.....in welsh of course!

       To those who would like to hear this wonderful song, please search .....

       Myfanwy - Neath Choir (Welsh-English Lyrics) on You Tube.

Doesn’t time fly?

     Although I get up early every single day of the week, there still doesn’t seem to be enough hours in a day. Just a few moments ago I glanced at the library of books we have at our home for waifs and strays and  wondered if I would ever get the time to look at them let alone read them. I also wondered if I would ever see my own book, sitting on the shelf staring back at me.

       I have been a ‘writer’ ever since my tiny fingers touched a pen. I was once told by my teacher that I had the most vivid imagination of any child he had taught in thirty years. I was offended at the time and very embarrassed but I have looked back over the years and smiled at his remark. He was probably right you know. In fact, he was dead right! It is that imagination that saved me from despair....many times.

       I have written many books, some complete, some not and some just desperately waiting to escape onto paper. I have won writing competitions and published articles and short stories.....but I’m still waiting on that book...the one I keep a space for on the shelf at our home for waifs and strays.

      I left home at 15 (that is the time when my dear, eccentric father also left) and by the time I was 23, I had lived a thousand lives. My footprints are embedded in virgin land across the globe. It is no wonder that my head is spinning with tales to tell.

      For some time, I lived amongst the Makah Indians in the wilds of the Pacific. It was here I fished amongst the great orcas in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Bartering with the Indians became a way of life; a life which I knew was totally illegal. I soon began to change and looked at everything in a completely different way. One couldn’t help but to do this, especially as I was so young and already felt I had lived a lifetime.

     I played music in mountains more spectacular than those found in Switzerland (though I have been there also and they are indeed magnificent). I have done things perhaps I shouldn’t have done and risked my life a million times. My feet, though small, have walked many miles in places less travelled and my heart is engrained with enough stories to fill a thousand books. It’s no wonder I have little trouble finding tales to tell to you each evening...but I do need to finish my books.

      So what is one supposed to do with so many words and so little time?

      Well I have thought about this and can only come up with this answer....Whatever it is you are longing to do you, writing a book, travelling, a different way of cooking, visiting friends you haven’t seen for ages, painting...whatever it is, you must find a way to fit that piece of missing jigsaw into your life picture. It is as simple as that. You see, my dear friends, it is indeed, later than you think!

You can always smell the bread cooking in our home for waifs and strays.  It was the same in our home, as a child. When my father wasn’t blowing up the place with his experiments, he would spend much of the time in the kitchen. His speciality was bread and brawn (a jelly made from pigs head) which ultimately traumatised me but fascinated my brother. Well I hasten to add that just like the tickling of an unsuspecting trout, I never participated in the eating of an animal that had ended its days as a blob of jelly on our kitchen table.

     However, I get great pleasure in making bread and my kind and unassuming husband gets pleasure in eating the many varieties that turn out on the rack.  Even the birds enjoy the scraps that are left over...if they are lucky!

     Sometimes, I will make butter and jams to go with the bread but for that, I have to be in the right mood.

      Today, I decided to make beetroot bread. Yes, I know what you are thinking...and yes, it is pink! Pretty and also good for lowering blood pressure. 

      I used this recipe by Anca Moore...Why not have a go and let me know how you get on! Good luck!

Ingredients:

• 150ml warm water
• 15g (1tbs) dried yeast
• 1tsp sugar
• 2-3 raw beetroot
• 120ml milk
• 600g strong bread white flour
• 30g olive oil
• 2 tsp salt

Method:

1. Reactivate the yeast in the warm water mixed with sugar (as per the product's instructions) or use fast action dried yeast
2. Peel the beetroot (you might want to use gloves if you don't like your hands getting red, but it will come off quite easily anyway). 
3. Once peeled, cut them in quarters/chunks and put them in a food processor together with the milk. Mix until there are no big bits of beetroot and the texture is smooth
4. In a big bowl mix the flour and salt. Add the yeast, beetroot mixture and olive oil and start bringing the dough together.
5. Knead the bread on a clean surface for about 10 minutes. 
6. Put the dough in a big bowl and cover with a lightly oiled clingfilm and leave it in a warm place for about an hour or until doubled in size .
7. Prepare a tray (I used a pizza tray, but not the one with holes)
8. Knock the dough back, remove from the bowl and shape into a round . Put in in the prepared tray, cover with the lightly oiled clingfilm and leave it to rise for another 30-45 minutes.
9. Preheat the oven to 180 degrees.

10. Make a cross on the top of the dough with a sharp knife and bake it in the oven for 35-40 minutes. It is done when the crust is crispy and it sounds hollow when tapped.

11. Allow the bread to completely cool on a cooling wrack before slicing it.

It is really lovely served with butter and cheese (especially goat's cheese) and salad.

The most amazing present my kind and unassuming husband ever bought me...was an old campervan. I can’t remember ever being so excited...over a material item! But come to think of it, I seem to get excited over many things.

     This old campervan has brought us many happy memories and hours and hours of fun. Our happy van, we call it. We have travelled as far as the Lake District in the north, and Lands End, in the south. Scotland and Ireland are next...can’t wait! But as a child, our holidays were just a wee bit different.

      I grew up in an area of outstanding natural beauty so my parents saw no need to go anywhere else for our holidays. We spent a lot of time wild camping, in the valley close by our home. We would carry our very old tent, pots and pans, down through the woods to the river. We never had sleeping bags or pillows, so as soon as the tent was up, we would gather arms full of grass to sleep on and then set off to catch our supper. My father taught us how to catch trout, by tickling their tummies. This is not something I cared for nor had the patients for and I would wonder off to pick the wild leaves to eat with the fish.

      I can remember how it felt, lying there in the darkness, listening to the owls all around us. Somewhere in the distance a farm dog would howl and I imagined that wolves were about to attack. My father always fuelled my imagination by agreeing that these wild creatures certainly existed and quiet often we would try to track them down.

      The campfires were my favourite, watching my father rub sticks together until they sparked. This always fascinated me but again, I had no desire to do this myself. Perhaps I was a lazy child, I don’t think so, I like to think my creative abilities lay somewhere else.

      When the supper had been eaten and the embers of the fire still glowed, my father would play his harmonica....those moments were the most memorable of all my childhood.

       The best things in life are free, or they certainly were, when I was a child.