I’m not quite sure what it is about tea (a cup of sweet tea especially)that can cause the human race to drop everything and pour their hearts out, over its vapours. My kind and unassuming husband is the exception as he has never drank a cup of tea in his entire 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 your 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 a moment!

     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.

Just like the tale of A Chicken called Sandwich over on my ‘small page’, we once had a sheep called Sandwich too.

I found Sandwich (named because there was more meat in a sandwich than on the poor lamb) in a field, close to death. It was obvious that he couldn’t walk though he did try to stand. I went to tell the farmer, but was told he had died that morning. The family informed me that they would see to the lamb straight away. I trusted this would happen, but a gut feeling told me to check on this the following day. Sandwich was still there and still suffering.

     So I went to the farm again and told them about the lamb.

     ‘I will take the lamb myself if that would help you!’ I said to the obviously grieving family.

     ‘Take it!’ was the reply and so that’s exactly what I did.

     Without even consulting my kind and unassuming husband, I carefully laid the tiny lamb on the front seat of my car and drove home. I didn’t stop to consider what I would do with it, apart from taking it to the vets for a check up.

      Back at our home for waifs and strays, we were greeted by three fat cats and a curious husband.

      ‘I have something on my front seat that is very precious,’ I said seriously, ‘and there was nothing I could do but to bring it home.’

      My kind and unassuming husband opened the door and stared at the little lamb sleeping contentedly on my coat. He picked him up gently and without questions, carried him into the house.

      ‘We have to take him to the vet,’ I said, so I went inside and called him.

      With the help and advice from the vet on the phone, Sandwich soon had a bottle of proper lamb’s milk and a lot of love. He looked at us and bleated whilst his woolly tail wagged. He couldn’t walk but I took it that he was feeling a lot better.

      But later that day the vet x-rayed poor Sandwich and we learnt that his back was broken, probably hit by a car. We decided to let Sandwich stay in this world until the following morning, with the help of pain relief, so that he would know what love and kindness was before being put to sleep.

      Although Sandwich lived such a short while, even the daffodils lived longer, he died peacefully, knowing someone cared.

Nothing reminds me of my childhood more than bales of hay. The sight of them in the fields around our home for waifs and strays always makes me heave a peaceful sigh. The freshly cut grass left drying in the sun tells me that summer has arrived again.

     ‘Come down off that tractor!’ my poor father used to shout at me. ‘They don’t need your help with the hay!’ What he was trying to say was, ‘I’m afraid of you falling under its wheels!’ But spending my entire childhood in the country, taught me to take risks!

      I scrumped apples from the farmer’s orchards then ran like a rabbit when he chased me with a gun. I climbed and fell out of trees and rode half wild ponies bare back through the valley and across the beach. There wasn’t a cave I hadn’t entered in the steep cliffs surrounding our home. It was no wonder my father worried.

      But sitting with my comics on a summer’s day, leaning against a bale of hay, was one of my greatest memories of all. Perhaps it was the peacefulness, the simplicity of the time I spent growing up in a child’s paradise.

There is something about shopping in the wild for food. Eating for free, as 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 book 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. The smell of salt in the air helps to revive me when I’m struggling and the touch of the soft earth and the dew on the grass almost always brings me back to life.

In our garden for waifs and strays, you will find a wizards’ tree. Once known as ‘Fid na ndruad’, the rowan tree has been associated with witches and magic. This is probably because of its bright red berries being the right colour for fighting evil. So it is no wonder that people in Wales who once believed this superstition, would often plant a rowan tree in a churchyard to protect against evil. But there is no evil in the garden for waifs and strays, just magic!

      Rowan, or Sorbus aucuparia  (its scientific name) has many uses, from its berries to its wood. The berries are rich in vitamin C and quite edible once cooked. They make wonderful jelly and jams. But be sure you are picking the correct berries.

Rowan Jelly

Ingredients:

• 1 kg Rowan berries, cleaned
• 400 ml Water,
• gelling agent (pectin)

Preparation:

Place the berries in a pan, add the water and cover. Heat to simmering, then cover and let it sit overnight. Strain through a cheesecloth. Follow the instructions on the gelling agent package to make the jelly with the resultant juice. Should make about 1 litre of juice.

     Walking sticks are carved from the rowan trees smooth and silvery grey wood, which is strong and resilient. Spinning wheels and spindles were traditionally made and the bark was used by the Druids as a dye.

        So this incredible small tree that can live to be 200 years old, can sit in our garden for as long as it likes.  Whether or not it has magical powers, it is magical just looking at it.  And a song was also written about it in 1822 by Lady Carolina Nairne (1766-1845) that went like this.....

 Oh rowan tree, oh rowan tree,
Thoul't aye be dear to me.
Entwin'd thou art wi' mony ties,
O' hame and infancy.
Thy leaves were aye the first o spring,
Thy flowr's the simmer's pride:
There was na sic a bonnie tree,
In all the country side.
Oh rowan tree.