Time and tide indeed, waits for no man, that is true! And if did, then many a ship would have been saved, not floundered off the rocky coast of Wales. Many of these ships came to grief off Mumbles head, on the South Gower Coast, not far from our home for waifs and strays.

      Beneath the waves that swirl around the two islands off Mumbles head in Gower, South Wales, lies the mixon shoal sandbank and the underwater reef, known as the cherrystone rock. Between them, they have claimed the lives of many a man and his ship. You see, it is true what they say, that time and tide waits for no man!

      ‘You must always have respect for the sea,’ my father used to tell me, ‘and never underestimate its strenth or dramatize your own!’ And he made sure that I could swim from a very young age.

       And so it was, a lighthouse was built on the outerhead island in 1794 and a lighthouse keeper was paid 18 shillings a week for stocking up the two open coal fires and making his home on the island. But in 1798 the fires were replaced by oil powered lamps and in 1936, the lighthouse keeper himself, was replaced by electricity.

         I once lived in the village of Mumbles and heard many seamans tales. One that sticks in my memory is about two sisters, daughters of the lighthouse keeper, Jennie and Margaret, who saved the lives of two lifeboatmen. The men were on a rescue mission when they were thrown from the lifeboat into the sea so the girls tied their shawls together and risked their lives by wading into the trecherous water to rescue them. I’ve included a poem, by Clement Scott, called The Women of Mumbles Head

Bring novelists your notebook. Bring Dramatists your Pen:
And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men.
It's only the tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead,
Of a terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head.
Maybe you have travelled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south:
Maybe you have friends with the 'natives' that dwell at Oystermouth.
It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way.
And have sailed your yacht in summer, in the blue of Swansea Bay.

Well, it isn't like that in winter when the lighthouse stands alone,
In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone:
It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew and the story-bell tolled, or when
There was news of a wreck, and lifeboat launch'd, and a desperate cry for men.
When in the world did the coxswain shirk? A brave old Salt was he!
Proud to the bone of as four strong lads, as ever had tasted the sea.
Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about the coast twas said,
Had saved some hundred lives apiece - at a shilling or so a head!

So the father launched the lifeboat in the teeth of the tempest's roar,
And he stood like a man at the rudder, with any eye on his boys at the oar.
Out to the wreck went the father! Out to the wreck went the sons!
Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns;
Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors loved,
Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above!
Do you murmur a prayer, my brother, when cosy and safe in bed,
For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head?

It didn't go well with the lifeboat.  'Twas a terrible storm that blew!
And it snapped a rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew;
And then the anchor parted - 'twas a tussle to keep afloat!
But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat.
Then at last on the poor doom'd lifeboat a wave broke mountains high!
'God help us now! ' said the father. 'It's over my lads, good-bye!'
Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves,
But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves.

Up at the lighthouse window two women beheld the storm,
And saw in the boiling breakers a figure - a fighting form,
It might be a grey-haired father, then the women held their breath,
It might be a fair-haired brother who was having a round with death;
It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips
Of the women whose love is life of the men going down to the sea in ships.
They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had heard the worst and more,
Then, kissing each other these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to the shore.

There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand,
Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land.
'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave,
But what are a couple of women with only a man to save?
What are a couple of women?  Well, more than three craven men
Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir - and then
Off went the women's shawls, sir: in a second they're torn and rent,
Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went!

'Come back!' cried the lighthouse keeper, 'For God's sake, girls, come back!'
As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack.
'Come back!' moaned the grey-haired mother as she stood by the angry sea,
'If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me.'
'Come back!' said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale,
'You will drown if you face the breakers!  You will fall if you brave the gale!'
'Come back' said the girls, 'we will not!  Go tell it to all the town,
We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!'

'Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess!  Give one strong clutch of your hand!
Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll drag him safe to land!
Wait for the next wave, darling!  Only a minute more,
And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him safe to shore.'
Up to their arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast,
They caught and saved a brother alive! God bless us! you know the rest—
Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed,
And many a glass was toss'd right off to the' Women of Mumbles Head!'

When people come to stay at our home for waifs and strays they often ask if they can collect their own eggs for breakfast. They come into the house carrying their baskets and almost always ask the same question, 'why are some eggs blue?'

     Quite often we find ourselves giving a talk about eggs over breakfast. People seem fascinated when we tell them to look at the colour of the hens ear lobes to discover the color of their eggs. They have been known to leave their breakfast to check out this fact.

     The truth is the breed of the hen dictates the colour of the egg. It’s genetic. Our Leghorns lay white eggs and the Orpington’s lay brown eggs. The Ameraucana’s lay the all time curious blue eggs and our Warrens lay brown eggs. But they all taste the same...wonderful!

     Other interesting facts we tell our visitors, is that eggs are placed in cartons, large end up to keep the yolk centered and the size of the egg increases as the hen gets older.

      The flavor of the egg depends on the hen’s diet. Here at our home for waifs and strays, their diet is varied and organic where possible. Their free range lifestyle enables them to consume the minerals they need for themselves and their eggs. Needless to say, their yolks are dark, whereas the eggs from a battery farm are lighter.

       The next time you eat an egg, remember that it took 26 hours for the hen to produce it and 20 of those hours were required to form the shell. They certainly earn their keep by laying up to 300 eggs a year. And when their egg laying days are over, they retire and enjoy a hard earned rest at our home for waifs and strays!

Day 68. Lolo has settled in well at our home for waifs and strays. And although I always thought it would be easy to let her go, I was wrong. We’re kindred spirits now and we have certainly bonded as well as any foster family can. It hasn’t been easy training Lolo but it hasn’t been as hard as I first thought. However, we still have a long way to go....given time!

     The phone call came a week or so ago.

     ‘We have a home for Lolo,’

     Silence!

     ‘...on the Sussex coast!’

     ‘So far away,’ my voice was hardly audible, ‘hundreds of miles in fact!’

     ‘It’s a perfect home for Lolo! Retired couple! No cats! No hens! No other pets! She is one lucky dog!’

     Silence!

     Selfish, that’s what I am! A perfect home she said. Our home wasn’t perfect for Lolo but perhaps she was perfect for our home.   

     ‘Have you changed your mind?’ The voice smiled.

     I wasn’t laughing. I was looking down at Lolo who was looking up at me wagging her tail. The sad eyes were often still there but not today, today they sparkled and she stood on her hind legs and reached up at me. She was waiting to go out into the woods. I had my wellies on all prepared with a ball in my free hand and a camera, as always, around my neck. It had become a regular part of training Lolo. A part I loved!

     ‘Would you like more time to think about it?’

     I should let her go, I thought. It would be better for the cats and the hens. I still work part-time at the hospital and have so many commitments. And what about our wildlife pond? The huge mounds of frog spawn have been desecrated by an over excited Lolo who loves to splash about in the water. Oh life would be so much easier without her. Or would it?

     ‘No,’ I heard my voice but didn’t recognise it, ‘I will let her go. When will they come for her?’

      ‘Well if you’re sure, they can travel down in six weeks!’

      ‘Six weeks!’ I still had plenty of time to train Lolo. To walk in the woods! To run on the beach! To sit together on the moors and watch the moon! To teach her how to get along with other dogs! To play my guitar and laugh when she hides under her blanket. I don’t think she likes my kind of music! And time to consider what I will do without her. I didn’t ask for a dog. In fact I never wanted a dog. But now that she is here, I can’t imagine life without her. She’s filled a gap in my life I never realised was there..... And perhaps, just perhaps, there is still time to change my mind!

To-days blog will be dedicated to Saint David, the patron saint of Wales.

     One stormy night in 542 or thereabout, a baby was born called David. What’s so special about that? Well, apart from every baby being special, that wee baby grew up to become a Saint, Dewi Sant, the patron saint of Wales.

      David was the son of Welsh aristocrats, his mother was Saint Non. As he grew, David was said to have preformed many miracles whilst preaching around the country. During one such time, it is reported that the ground rose up to form a hill which enabled David to be seen and heard by everyone. He soon became Saint David, and later, the patron saint of Wales.

     Legend says that during the battle with the Saxons, Saint David ordered his men to wear leeks in their hats, so that they could be distinguished from their enemies.

      He was buried in St David’s cathedral in Pembrokeshire and will always be remembered for this little saying,

 “Do ye the little things in life” (“Gwnewch y pethau bychain mewn bywyd”)

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 pond. 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, this evening was 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, 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.