The music that comes from our hedge every day of the year is breathtaking. This is no exaggeration.

     Ask anyone in our village, ‘where have all the birds gone?’ and they will promptly reply, ‘in the hedge that surrounds the home for waifs and strays!’     

     I once tried to count them (very roughly of course) and gave up when I reached four hundred. There were many, many more than that. Even my kind and unassuming husband is amazed at the amount of tiny heads that peep out from the hedge when they think we aren’t looking...but we always are!

     This incredible choir of birds, consists of chaffinch, goldfinch, coal tit, magpie, thrush, sparrows, black birds, robin, wood pigeon, ring necked doves, seagulls, crows, buzzard, sparrow hawk and the wonderful red kite...and others that visit from time to time. How lucky are we?

      I will endeavour to record them one day soon, so you can hear them for yourselves.

      How wonderful it is to be woken by our very own choir, every morning....and to go to sleep, knowing they are still there, somewhere in our hedge.

We have many Irish friends and family, who come to stay at our home for waifs and strays, and indeed, my great grandparents were from Ireland. To you all....Happy Saint Patricks Day!

     So who was Patrick? He was the son of a wealthy family who lived in Roman Britain, during the fourth century. His father was a deacon and his Grandfather was a Priest in the Christian church.

     At the tender age of 16, Patrick was kidnapped by Irish Pirates and taken to Ireland. For the next six years, he was forced into slavery and turned to religion in his despair. He only managed to escape when he heard God’s voice telling him what to do. Once free, he made his way back to his family in England. But many years later, after becoming a priest himself, he returned to Ireland. He had a dream that he would one day convert them to Christianity.

     Patrick soon became Saint Patrick, one of Ireland’s most popular Saints. He died on March 17^th 461 at the site where he built his first church.

     Like many people, Patrick followed his heart. It wasn’t an easy path he chose or followed. Life isn’t like that. But he was determined and his faith helped him achieve his goal. I believe if we have faith in oursevles, we can achieve many things. Remember in tales past, that the road less travelled is the road with stones, as yet, unturned!

Before going to bed this evening and before deciding what I would write a tale about, I walked down to the pond and watched the reflection of the moon in the still water.

     A watery moon, I thought.  A moon shrouded in mystery.

     There was something magical about standing alone in the garden of our home from waifs and strays, especially when the village was fast asleep. Even my kind and unassuming husband was nowhere to be seen. There was just me and the moon.

     I stood there for a few moments just meditating; I suppose you could call it. Is there anybody out there? I wonder. Are we alone in the universe? I doubt it...I doubt it very much.

     But for tonight, I wanted it to be just me and the moon.....the watery moon at that. The same moon that lighted the garden path and shone on the slug that slithered by my feet....We were no longer alone!  It was Slip the Slug...I knew it was him as I caught him earlier, making his way across the living room carpet. He was long and fat and pale in colour....it was definitely Slip! For those who haven’t followed the bedtime tales, Slip is a slug who has been living in the house for weeks....until now!

     I let Slip go by and looked back at the moon. The air was chilly and fresh. I pulled my scarf around my shoulders. Something moved in the pond...a frog...many frogs...gliding effortlessly in the water. Something scurried in the hedge, a mouse perhaps, maybe Jako had come back. Anyway, we were not alone, we never would be...I’ve changed my mind, I wouldn’t want to be alone with the moon!

I’m not quite sure what it is about tea (a cup of tea especially) but it appears to bring such comfort to the human kind. My dear and unassuming husband is the exception as he has never drank a cup of tea in his life...very strange!

     At our home for waifs and strays, the kettle rarely gets cold. There is always someone popping in for something or another, or just for a chat. I always switch the kettle on even before they are seated. And if I am busy, then the visitor will usually carry out the task automatically. It seems that this is a very Welsh thing to do.

     It is almost as if everything dissolves in the steam that evaporates into you face...no worries, no stress, all washed away in a moments connection with the tea...If only it were that simple!

     But for awhile, tea does seem to comfort people.  It feels easier to talk perhaps, with ones hands wrapped around a hot cup or mug. Tea shops are becoming quite popular. I often meet up with friends and family in a tea shop by the sea...just the thought of it makes me feel warm inside. No matter how far I roam, I will always look forward to a cup of tea at the other end.

     There are so many types of teas today, far too many to mention here but I’m sure many of you would have tried at least one or two or even more. Just writing about it makes me want to put the kettle on...just wait a moment please!

     Watching the steam come from the kettle, even before I fill the teapot (we still use a teapot at our home for waifs and strays)makes me feel trapped in its spell....not a bad feeling, even if only for awhile!

     Below is a poem I discovered and written by a woman called Naomi Shihab Nye...enjoy!

The Tray by Naomi Shihab Nye
Even on a sorrowing day
the little white cups without handles
would appear
filled with steaming hot tea
in a circle on the tray,
and whatever we were able
to say or not say,
the tray would be passed,
we would sip
in silence,
it was another way
lips could be speaking together,

opening on the hot rim,

swallowing in unison.

‘It’s dead!’ said my kind and unassuming husband, as I walked into the room.

     I looked down at the lifeless creature on the floor, gently touching it with my toes...I had socks on at the time. It certainly looked at if the cat had done a good job of killing the poor mite. But then its foot twitched!

     ‘It’s playing dead!’ I said and began to clear the room of its enemies, three wilful cats just desperate to play. In an instant, I called him Jako!

     Now being the clever and unassuming husband that he is, a plastic milk bottle soon appeared with the side cut open like a door.

     ‘What a clever idea,’ I said to him and picked up the now lifeless Jako and placed him inside on a clean piece of kitchen towel.

    We put the makeshift hospital in a safe place and went about our evening chores.

    An hour later, I checked on Jako to discover he lived to tell the tale and was sitting up looking at me. We eyeballed each other for a minute or two (he was very cute) then decided it was safe to let him go.

    My kind and unassuming husband and I carried Jako (who was still in the milk bottle) to the field across the road. As usual it was a pleasure to watch an animal we thought would die, run free. It didn’t look back, they hardly ever do. I wondered if he realised that we had saved him.

    A little tip for Jako, it’s later than you think! Keep your tiny ears up and never trust a cat...even if it just wants to play!