‘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. 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 that time of year again, the time when I dread driving in the rain. Well, I’m probably exaggerating a little (as writer’s often do) but the rain can certainly cause a lot of anxiety in our home for waifs and strays. You see, our pond is home to many, frogs, toads and newts that use it as a yearly breeding ground. And when the wet weather comes at this time of year, it sends a signal to our amphibian friends to return to their breeding home. Preferring to travel in the rain, which prevents them from drying out, our little friends have to cross a road that runs through our village.  I have spent hours (risking life and limb) helping these fascinating creatures to cross to the other side. It is sheer luck that I’m not the one being squished! Well, just recently, I experienced one of those life risking times!

     It took me ages coming home from Marsh Cottage, where I visit on many a Sunday evening. It had rained all day so I knew what to expect. The lane leading up to our village was littered with dead frogs. A painful sight indeed! However, I did manage to help many of these beautiful creatures to cross the road without losing a limb.

     Now, my kind and unassuming husband, who is very clever, has come up with an idea. We will make signs asking people to ‘slow down’ for frogs to cross. Meanwhile, he advised me to contact the environment agency to see if they can help. But because these little friends of ours are not in decline unlike the toads which are now protected, there will be no urgency (I’m guessing) in doing something about it. So this leaves me with no other option, other than the posters, but to start a ‘frog patrol’ to help frogs cross the road so that nature can take  care of the rest.

I don’t do black!

     I wrapped my arms around my black woollen coat, but it made no difference at all. I swear the presence of so much black on top of that welsh hill that overlooked the village of Mumbles, made the cold cling to my shivering body.

     ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ said the vicar, dabbing his nose with a large, white cotton handkerchief. I swear it was the cold that made his eyes red and the end of his nose blue.

     ‘Black suits you,’ my friend whispered.  I shook my head at the unthinkable thought. How on earth could black suit anyone? Death! It reminded me of death. And as we stood amongst the mourners, watching our dear friend throw a handful of earth on top of her mother’s coffin, I remembered the day I did exactly the same thing, many moons ago.

     She died in my arms you know, my mother! There was very little warning. There one minute, gone the next! Motherless! My whole world changed in seconds.

     Sometime later, (the days rolled into one) I remember standing in the pew, staring at the coffin, my brother was crying. I didn’t cry, not then. I was the lucky one, I was the one who saw her after she had died and knew she wasn’t in the coffin draped with a cloth, suitable for a picnic. You see, I saw them come for her and they all left together. They were happy, I was sure of that and one day I will see her again, when the time is right.

     But here on the hill that separates heaven and the quaint little village of Mumbles, I saw nothing. Felt nothing. I swear it was the cold that did it.

     'Do not bind us with your tears. Set me free and be happy!' Out came the handkerchief again. God, it was cold!

     Later, as I wondered down towards the sea where the pub awaited us with sandwiches, cakes, beer and hot tea, I stopped at the first charity shop I came to. I handed in my black hat, my black scarf and my black gloves, to the woman behind the counter.

     Smiling, I walked into the pub with my snowy white hat and mittens. The relief was instant. I don’t do black but it wasn’t just the black, it was the cold that did it.

I wonder how many of us remember the Magpie Song! I certainly do because my father sang it to me so many times when I was a child. He was also very superstitious and if ever he saw just one magpie, he would climb through hedges and over gates in search of another. Thankfully, I’m not that obsessed but I am grateful that it’s two magpies that are building a nest at the bottom of our garden.

     It is true, that every summer for the past few years, the young couple have come to stay at our home for waifs and strays. I am fascinated by the way they build their nest or at least, they built it some time ago and now they have arrived in time to carry out a few repairs before the breeding season begins, as you can see from the photo.

     The nest (or spring home) appears to have a roof and two entrances. It must be very hardy to have survived for so long and in all the wet weather that Wales is known for. Once magpies have paired up, they usually remain within their territory and it’s rare for them to travel further than 10km from where they were hatched.

     ‘Welcome back my dear friends....You’re doing a grand job!’

One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for a secret never to be told.

Eight for a wish,
Nine for a kiss,
Ten for a bird that you won’t want to miss.

Granny used to say I was a ‘wholesome child’ being brought up on her stolen cabbages and scrumped apples. I had a weekly bath in an old iron tub in front of the fire and  I always smelt of carbolic soap! The pantry consisted of dried and fresh herbs, plenty of fruit, lentils and vegetables galore. Potions were sealed in jars and placed out of my reach and there was always a smell of lavender. And in the garden, we had lots of pet rabbits and chickens. These animal friends of mine would die mysteriously on a weekly basis and always when I was out. You know where this story is going and every word is true. But granny was a crafty witch so I never suspected the meat on my plate was Polly, Snowy or Willow. It was years later, when I discovered the truth and was traumatised for life. So if this is what granny meant by wholesome, then I guess I was a wholesome child.

      By the time I was seven, I could steal vegetables from a farmer’s field, as good as any crook. Granny said the farmer had plenty and that he wouldn’t mind us taking some cabbages, potatoes, beetroot, parsnips, carrots and just about anything veggie you can think of. I stole all year round! Thankfully my stealing days ended when my father returned and granny had to go shopping. It was years later, the farmer confessed he knew about the theft and said it amused him to see granny and her friends teaching me how to eat and live well. I was mortified!

       Yesterday, the memories of the stealing fields came flooding back, when someone in passing said I was wholesome! Yes, wholesome! I looked at myself in the mirror and frowned. I am not overweight (but could do with losing a kilo or two!)and my cheeks are not ruddy. My stealing days are over and granny and her friends are long dead. So what is wholesome?

       If being wholesome means stealing from the farmer, then I do not qualify.  But, if wholesome means eating a healthy diet, taking daily exercise and being a positive thinker, then I am in with a chance.  However, I do love chocolate, swear occasionally (my kind and unassuming husband does not swear!) and I sometimes succumb to negativity.  During these times my kind and unassuming husband always fills my cup until it’s half full and reminds me that there are more good people in the world than there are bad. Perhaps my kind and unassuming husband and others like him are more worthy of being called wholesome!