Many years before Christ was born and even before the Great Flood, when Britain was still attached to Europe, a young man lived and hunted the barren moors and deep valleys in the wilds of Paviland, a place that would one day be known as the Gower Coast in South Wales.

     He fished in the river that would one day become the Bristol Channel and lived in a cave, surviving on roots, berries and reindeer.  And although he died in his early twenties, this seemingly ordinary young man would hold the interest of the world in his hands forever more.  You see, someone found him, buried in a shallow grave, some 33,000 years later.

       Not far from our home for waifs and strays, is this famous cave, known as Paviland,  which is easily recognized from the sea but extremely difficult to get to by foot. However, in 1823, long before my kind and unassuming husband and I were born, the Reverend William Buckland, a paleontologist, found the remains of the young man in the cave, behind the skull of a large mammoth, during an archaeological dig.

       As daylight poured down the chimney, some 20metres above the chamber where the young man lay, the Reverend made a discovery that would become one of the World’s most important archaeological finds.  

       The Reverend also noted the red staining of the bones, made by the natural earth pigment, (red ochre) which was sprinkled on the young man at his burial. He also saw the small pile of perforated seashell necklaces and immediately assumed the skeleton to be a woman. Probably a witch, he thought, or a Roman prostitute. So the misidentification led to the young man being called, ‘The Red Lady of Paviland’ which remains today.

     There has been much debate regarding the young man’s final resting place, as at present, he is resting at a university in Oxford. I for one, think he should return to his spiritual home in Wales. Perhaps not the magical shamanic site where he was found but certainly let him rest in the area where he was well respected and respect should still remain.

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Although I enjoy living by the sea, I am happiest when wondering through the woods around our home for waifs and strays. Just closing my eyes and thinking about trees can bring my blood pressure down to below normal. I can see the roots, anchored to the ground and the tree stretching upwards as if holding up the sky. Everything connected!  And I am always amazed that some have the strength to live for thousands of years. Incredible! I cannot help but feel emotional as I walk through the oak woods of Wales. This brings to mind the words of William Blake....

"The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way.  Some see Nature all ridicule and deformity, and some scarce see Nature at all.  But to the eyes of the man of imagination, Nature is Imagination itself."
-  William Blake, 1799, The Letters

     If you look at the picture, you will see the trees I stumbled upon after a storm. The earth had been washed away, leaving the knotted and twisted roots exposed. But still determined to survive! And they will, for a long time to come! 

     ‘God is a fine artist,’ my father once told me. I was always thought that this was a strange thing for an atheist to say. But, I never said anything, of course, for I knew that deep down, his love and respect for all animals and nature was God enough for him.

      All kinds of birds fly through the great oaks of Wales. But for me, I love to hear the owl at nightfall, when the torch is out and we sit beside a campfire and smell the damp air in silence.       

      In West Africa, the Oubangui people plant a tree each time a child is born. As the tree grows, so does the child but they believe that same child’s health will be at risk if the tree ceases to thrive. From time to time, gifts are left by the tree and when the child becomes adult and dies, the Oubangui people believe that their spirit lives on in the tree.

     I think, just like the Oubangui people think, that I too would not thrive without trees....nobody would!

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!

‘I am Vicugna Pacos,’ said the quirky creature staring at me from the other side of the hedge. ‘Not the beast of burden you probably take me for!’

    ‘I do not take you for anything,’ I replied innocently, taken back a tad by a talking alpaca.

    ‘Well that’s ok then,’ Vicugna Pacos sniffed and walked towards me. ‘What is it with you humans that you need to stop and take photos of me when I’m obviously not up to it?’

     I stretched me neck forward and was about to take a photo, when I stopped. ‘What is wrong with you?’ I asked. ‘Why do you look at me like that?’ The alpaca had eyes as large as jar lids.

     ‘You are wearing the wool of one of my relatives,’ he said. ‘I am delighted!’ But even his delight didn’t seem to please him, as he hummed and hawed like a human with indigestion.

     I laughed as I ran my hand over the silky sweater I was wearing. ‘Well, why on earth are you so sulky and making strange noises?’ I said. ‘Your fur is flame resistant and hypoallergenic, how amazing is that?’ But Vicugna Pacos was not impressed with such information and pouted like a spoilt child and continued to hum and haw. You see, alpacas do this when they are stressed.

      ‘That is why!’ Vicugna Pacos tossed his pretty head in the direction of another, much younger, alpaca. ‘My cousin! His mother is having a terrible time potty training him!’

      ‘Ah,’ I nodded my head, ‘I understand!’ You see readers; alpacas share one bathroom, to keep the table clean, so to speak! But it was quite obvious that the new addition to the family was having difficulty understanding this task and indeed, as I stood there talking to his cousin, he opened his bowels right there in front of us.

      ‘Disgusting child!’ cried Vicugna Pacos and turned his head skywards.

      I thought about this for a moment then suddenly, ‘I have it!’ I said to Vicugna Pacos, ‘is the child hungry?’ But without waiting for an answer, I dropped an apple I had in my pocket, into the pile of alpaca dung. ‘There,’ I said to the offending youngster, ‘a delicious apple for your tea!’

      Vicugna Pacos watched in amazement as his young cousin sniffed at the apple and tried to retrieve it from the hot smelling mulch. But the apple stuck hard and fast to the setting dung.

      Hardly able to contain my laughter, I threw another apple, which I had been saving for mykind and unassuming husband, into the field where the grass was clean and untouched and watched the youngster eagerly retrieve it. Needless to say, his potty training days were over and Vicugna Pacos posed for me without complaint!  

Many tales ago I wrote about the Adirindack Mountains, Up State New York. A place where I took shelter when I was a lost and confused teenager, a long way from my home in Wales. As a storm raged around my life, I took refuge in the mountains amongst the wildlife, rivers and lakes. That storm has long since left me but a chance meeting with an old friend made me think about those mountains once again. I sought out the tale and here it is once more.....

There is a place in my heart that will always be forever wild, just like the Adirondack Mountains, Up State New York. This is where I lived for a short time, many, many summers ago.

     This 6 million acre wilderness with its 3,000 lakes and 30,000 miles of streams and rivers has made a footprint in my heart to last my lifetime. Perhaps it is the way in which it rebels against all attempts to train it that appeals to me. I certainly feel one with nature when I am there, despite knowing that these spectacular mountains are home to the black bear.

      They roam through the forests, hunting for berries and nuts.  These big black eating machines prowl around the lakes, rivers and streams, searching for small mammals and the white–tailed deer fawn.

       Ursus americanus, as they are otherwise known, symbolize how wild this wilderness is. Let it remain forever wild.

A Poem to the Adirondacks

“The Poet of the Dusk”
John Shalhoub

Adirondacks, hills and valleys,
Are you listening?
Your splendor awes my spirit.
You grapple with the skies and the stars
My love lives in the shadow of your rocks.
Moving with soft winds by day
Attending to the whispers of my soul.
Your crown creeps into my dreaming soul.
Your crown reflects my love,
As I pass in waking dream through your forests
Of towering trees with murmuring tongues,
I salute your splendor,
And glorify the Maker,
Who bids me peace.
I stand dumb before you,
And speak to your soul in beautiful silence,
While the leaves play the music
To the clouds, mountains, hills, and valleys.
My love lives in your majesty
On the boughs of your spruces,
In every breeze across your face,
Through the ever greenness of your cloak,
Into the brightness of your winter blanket.
Beyond my tears, I rejoice
You are a refuge for my heart.
Adirondacks, are you listening