It’s late again and all I want to do is to sit by the fire with a cup of sweet tea. The foxing hours are upon us and the polecat is still on the loose but the hens are safely tucked up in their beds, safe for another night at least. And you are more than welcome to sit in the chair opposite me. It’s old but comfortable and when the embers die down please use the blanket that’s folded on the side. I think tonight, I shall play my guitar and sing a wee song my father taught me a long time ago. It’s called Streets of London. But before that, I shall tell you why I chose this song.

      This evening I saw an old woman lying lifeless on the cold, wet road. She had just been hit by a car. I quickly reassured her that help was on the way. She was thin and poorly dressed. Someone nearby said she roams the streets day and night and is always alone. I was heartbroken! Staring down at this woman, some mothers child, I wondered who she was and where she’d come from. Her name she could not tell me. And now, in the comfort of my home, I remembered the song that tells a story about loneliness and people, just like the woman who now lies on a hospital bed, alone!

       Close your eyes and listen to the lyrics. Picture the old lady and pray for her if you will.....

Have you seen the old man 
In the closed-down market 
Kicking up the paper, 
with his worn out shoes? 
In his eyes you see no pride 
Hand held loosely at his side
Yesterday's paper telling yesterday's news 

So how can you tell me you're lonely, 
And say for you that the sun don't shine? 
Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London 
I'll show you something to make you change your mind 

Have you seen the old girl 
Who walks the streets of London 
Dirt in her hair and her clothes in rags? 
She's no time for talking, 
She just keeps right on walking 
Carrying her home in two carrier bags. 

Chorus

In the all night cafe
At a quarter past eleven, 
Same old man is sitting there on his own 
Looking at the world 
Over the rim of his tea-cup, 
Each tea last an hour 
Then he wanders home alone

Chorus

And have you seen the old man 
Outside the seaman's mission 
Memory fading with 
The medal ribbons that he wears. 
In our winter city, 
The rain cries a little pity 
For one more forgotten hero 
And a world that doesn't care 

Do you know any lonely people? Make one phone call! Write one letter! A few words can make all the difference!

There is something about shopping in the wild for food. Eating for free, my father used to call it. From a young age, he taught me how to survive on food from the hedgerows. I often wonder if what I ate was meant to be eaten! But here I am to tell the tale.

     Quite often we would sit by an open fire outdoors, upon which a heavy saucepan sat, with something or another boiling away, usually nettles or rosehips. This was often followed by a bowlful of blackberries and the leaves (quite edible) or gorse flowers, red clover flowers and sticky grass. Sometimes we'de boil up cleavers, goose grass (galium aparine) which were also quite appetising.

     My father would catch a fish or collect cockles or a crab, sometimes a bowl of prawns and shrimps and we would have a feast. All for free, and cooked on a fire on the beach.

      Looking back on those carefree days of eating for free whist my head was permanently in a book full of adventure, there is no wonder I turned out a free spirit. I can hardly resist anything growing wild that is edible and a stories full of mystery! But one should invest in a good reference book if you’re not sure of what it is that you can eat. Take for example mushrooms. These can vary enormously, from toadstools to the delicious girolles (yellow-orange mushrooms) so be careful what you eat.

       During the summer months, my father would make a salad of hawthorn leaves, hedge sorrel and hedge mustard, sprinkled with the gorse flowers and marigolds. I can’t say that I liked everything he gave me, and sometimes I would fill my pockets with leaves I couldn’t eat, not to disappoint him. He made such an effort to teach me how to survive in the world.

       And so it is, that I am happiest roaming through woods or along the beach near our home for waifs and strays.

To feed their children, Nicrphorus the investigator and his wife, excavates the soil beneath dead bodies so that they sink into the ground and drop into their pantry. However, these undertakers will always examine the condition of the carcass before the burial takes place.

     These unsuspecting grave diggers (Saxton beetles) have bulbous orange-tipped antennae’s that are sensitive to the decaying bodies of small birds and mammals and they will fly a mile or so to find carrion before carrying out their gruesome task.

     Despite their gory lifestyle, Mrs Nicrphorus is a good mother and will lay her eggs beside the decaying flesh so her young can feed on it for a whole year. She will also stay with them the entire time.

     Just recently, whilst out walking, I bumped into Nicrophorus the investigator and asked him what on earth was he carrying on his back. He told me that the tiny cheeky mites hitch a lift on his body because they know he will take them to a supply of food and somewhere where they can also lay their eggs.

      What a strange and wonderful world we live in. And to think, we have grave diggers and body snatchers right on our doorstep!

At the tender age of sixteen, Patrick was kidnapped by Irish pirates and taken from his home in England 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. 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!

You can always smell the bread cooking in our home for waifs and strays.  It was the same in my 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. 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.

      The other day, 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.