Cleaning the garden is much more favourable then cleaning the house! But just like the house, I have a habit of changing things around. The garden never seems to look the same one year to the next and quite often, my kind and unassuming husband (a creature of habit) gets quite exasperated with my ‘uplifting’ projects.  But I cannot help myself! I see things quite differently, one season to the next. So it’s out with a spade, a fork and a pair of wellies. Oh! And a sketch pad too!

     Making a map of the garden is something I have always enjoyed doing. It’s a bit like art work! However, just like a sat nav, my paths around the garden don’t always lead to anywhere in particular. But I do try to make the journey interesting by adding plants that make me smile or herbs that, when I brush past them, release a smell that can only be described as delightful!

     Today, I looked at the compost bins and decided they ought to be moved to an area of the garden where they can’t be seen. However, when I turned to walk back up the garden path, I saw my kind and unassuming husband watching me. He was smiling and shaking his head so I guess I will have to work harder on that one.

      And for those of my readers who would like an update on our home for waifs and strays, here a few. Remember the baby chicks we had? Well they are almost fully grown and chase each other around the garden like excited children. I do think, however, that one is a cockerel and I’m waiting for the day he wakes us up...and the rest of the village!

      All seems quiet in our log store, where last week there was evidence of a polecat or ferret. I guess it’s moved on for the time being, I sigh with relief! And do you remember Miss Broody Pants? Well she is still sitting on an empty nest, wishing and hoping for more young ones. We keep lifting her off and feeding her, but at the first opportunity, she scurries back.

      The tadpoles are gaining their legs and soon the garden will be a hive of activity. The apple trees are full of blossom and so are the pear and the plum trees. The spring cabbage is ready to pick (if the hens have left me any) and the potatoes are all planted.

      So as you can see, life at our home is busy as usual but never too busy that I can't sit by the pond with a cup of sweet tea and just think!

'Daisy,' the vet spoke gently as though speaking to a child, ‘it’s not good little lady,’ he said stroking her head with one finger. ‘You’ve somehow managed to break your hip!’

      My arms tightened around her for I knew what that meant. Dear Daisy, our feathered child, although strong and healthy otherwise, would have to be put to sleep. I asked if I could hold her whilst this was done and it was over quite soon. She was there one minute and gone the next. The world had lost yet another great character and I had lost a great companion.

      ‘I see them like feathered children,’ said the vet sadly and I looked at him and smiled weakly.

      ‘Me too,’ I replied, fighting back the tears.

      Daisy had featured in many of my tales. She was the large white hen that always sat on the kitchen windowsill as I wrote, waiting for her grapes and a cuddle. She was the one who knew everyone and everyone knew her.

      But Daisy was a non-conformist and loved nothing better than to hunt and wonder around the pond at our home for waifs and strays. However, this time of year there is a fence to protect the hundreds of young frogs, (about to land-walk for the first time) from the likes of Daisy. But no fence was going to stop her! And it didn’t! I can only guess that she broke her hip when flying over from one side to the other.

      Back at our home for waifs and strays, Featherpin greets us. Many of you already know Featherpin, she was the first hen we rescued, eight years ago.  Knocking on deaths door at the battery farm, she has outlived all her original friends.  It was wonderful to see her.

                                                 Goodnight Daisy! Until we meet again......

“If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans.” – James Herriot

With only about a year to live (the average age for a wild rabbit) Master Oryctolagus Cuniculus, had to make the most of things. So every day, at the crack of dawn he’d leave his underground burrow via a maze of tunnels, to go to school and learn everything he could.

     Master Oryctolagus (for short) loved history and today was all about the Romans.

     ‘They came to England a long time ago,’ said the teacher, a very stern looking rabbit with lopsided glasses and a twitchy nose, ‘and in their luggage were rabbits!’

     ‘Rabbits?’ said one little kit (baby rabbit). ‘Why did they have rabbits?’

     ‘To eat them of course,’ said the teacher and the little rabbits held their breath. ‘But many years later, the Romans left England and there were no more rabbits.’ The young bunnies breathed again.

      ‘Then the Normans brought them back to England!’ said Master Oryctolagus grinning. ‘And some of them escaped and took over the country!’ All the rabbits laughed. with the exception of the teacher. 

      The teacher frowned and his nose twitched and he was about to say something when a sudden thump came from just outside the door. Now all rabbits know that this is a sign of danger.

     ‘We must be silent and hide in the corner,’ said the teacher so Master Oryctolagus and the kits ran and hid themselves.

     ‘Do you think it’s a fox or a stoat or a buzzard?’ said one wee rabbit.

     ‘Hush!’ whispered the teacher, ‘it could be anything!’

     ‘I hope it’s not a man with a gun,’ thought Master Oryctolagus. That was how his mother died and his father too.

      Without warning, Master Oryctolagus felt something warm on his head and he turned sharply around. It was Fern, the new girl in the burrow. ‘It will be ok,’ she said sweetly and he noticed she had the longest eye lashes he had ever seen. His tummy went all strange and he forgot the danger they were in.

       Moments later they had the all clear. It was nothing more than some innocent people walking by. Not all humans were out to get them. So they settled down to a lunch of grass and plants, topped with some of their faeces which gave them extra nourishment (by the way, this process is known as refection). And all the while, Fern and Master Oryctolagus looked into each other’s eyes.  

      The following morning at dawn, the two young rabbits played in the woodlands before school. They ran and jumped in the air, twisting their bodies and flicking their feet. They were very happy bunnies indeed!

Although known for their violent behaviour, there are many hawks that are quiet and gentle. This particular hawk, fearless and determined, displayed a confident attitude as it hunted above my head recently. Thankfully, I was too big a catch for him, but for the small birds and mammals in the sand dunes where I strolled, there were no particularly good places to hide. In broad daylight too!

      Even though he is not on the top of my most favourite bird list, I have to say, it was a magnificent sight to watch. After flapping his wings rapidly in the air, he used the momentum to glide gracefully and skilfully, above the sand dunes, searching for its prey. Thankfully, I did not witness the results of his hunger game.

       During mating time, the hawk (Accipiter gentilis) will fly with the female, up in the air where they mate before free falling back to earth. Together they build a nest, and together they maintain it and care for their young. Many of the hawk’s species are monogamous and will remain together for the rest of their lives.

Proverb: A hawk kills because it is his nature; a man because it is his pleasure.

Mr Troglodytidae, or Mr Troglody for short, is nothing less than a polygamous Wren. A womanising bird.

       You can hear him even if you can’t see him and I can tell you that he will be trembling as he sings to all his potential partners. All this activity goes on in the dense hedges that surrounds the home for waifs and strays.

       This tiny, pugnacious ball of fluff, dressed in drably coloured clothes, will flit and flirt with as many female balls of fluff as he can, sometimes, as many as thirty but usually around twelve. He masterfully builds a range of cave-like nests then lets each female choose which one they prefer to lay their eggs. Once chosen, the female gets to decorate it with her own feathers. Soon after, she will lay around five to eight, tiny white eggs which are covered in reddish spots.

        To give him his due, Mr Troglody is a hands on father and despite having many partners, he will work tirelessly to feed his young. He sings as he darts from nest to nest.....proud to be a polygamous bird!