Princess Aspersa lives in the garden at the home for waifs and strays. Helix aspersa is her scientific name but she much prefers to be called Princess. She parades about in her yellow shell with a spiral of ribbony brown. Like all snails, Princess Aspersa longed to find her prince.

     Down in the pond, beneath a lily pad, lives General Stagnalis. Now General Stagnalis (his scientific name of course) is a handsome pond snail but a bit of a lad and always on the lookout for a beautiful maiden.

     One day, last summer to be exact, the princess was resting in the shade at the edge of the pond. General Stagnalis had a sharp eye and spotted her, the minute he came up for air. She was different, he thought, like nothing he had ever seen before.

      Princess Aspersa was quick to spot the general too, but she turned her head as soon as he looked her way. Her heart beat faster than a downpour of rain and she tapped her foot nervously.

      ‘Hello,’ said a strange voice that did not come from the handsome snail in the pond. ‘I’m Prince Helix, at your service!’

      Princess Aspersa turned her head and gasped. There in front of her was the prince of her dreams. She blushed and fluttered her long eye lashes. But remembering the handsome snail in the pond, she turned back to see him still watching her. It was typical, she thought, not just one suitable partner but two had to turn up at the same time.

       The general saw what was happening and panicked. He wanted the princess more than he wanted anything else before. He swam to the edge of the pond and began to crawl towards the princess.

       ‘Come with me,’ said the general to the princess. ‘I have a beautiful home beneath the lily pad.’

       The poor princess did not know what to do.

       ‘Ah, I see you have your sights on the general,’ said the prince. ‘It’s a pity we cannot live beneath the water, just as he cannot live above it. His loss is my gain!’

       Princess Aspersa, kissed General Stagnalis on his head and told him to go back into the water where he was safe.

       ‘I would rather die than live without you,’ said the general.

       ‘Don’t be ridicules,’ said the prince, ‘why would you want to die when you have many princesses in your own pond?’

       The general thought about this and turned to the pond where a group of beautiful pond snails called to him. He stuck his chest out proudly and bid the princess farewell.

       The princess sighed. It was easy, she thought, as she did not have to choose between the general and the prince.

       Prince Helix and Princess Aspersa, left the pond for the castle under the shed. And they lived happily ever after.

I looked out of the window today and saw a most inspiring sight.

     There were a few birds, jackdaws, magpies, sparrows, all collecting bits of twigs to build their nests. But what really caught my eye, was a blackbird. She was obviously new to the game for she struggled to get it right (I know that she is female because she is a sort of brownish colour). Now I have discovered that Turdus Merula is Latin for blackbird so let’s call her Mrs Merula!

      Mrs Merula had managed to collect a sizable bundle of scrappy bits and pleased with herself, zoomed up in the air. But no sooner had she zoomed up when she zoomed straight back down, still clinging onto her bundle. Well actually, she was pulled down by a piece of grass that was still attached to the ground.

      Poor Mrs Merula, she was determined to take that piece of grass with her, so she tried again. But once more, she was pulled to the ground. Her eyes were wide and her tiny heart must have been beating like crazy. But she continued to persevere as I watched helplessly. Of course, I wanted to run out and snip the stubborn piece of grass but I knew that it would be a waste of time.

      I could empathise with Mrs Merula, as I too have often struggled to do something or another and sheer determination (or bloody mindedness) has forced me to persevere. This often brought results but at other times has got the better of me. It’s knowing when to push yourself that little bit harder or stopping before going too far.

     Well, Mrs Merula knew when to stop and cut her losses. She secured her bundle (minus the grass) and took off in a flash to a nearby tree.

     Well done Mrs Merula, I look forward to seeing you with your family, in the near future.

It’s foxing hour, the time of day when foxes go about their business. And although they are not my favourite of animals, I have great respect for them. However, my kind and unassuming husband would beg to differ!

     Walking along the cliff paths or on the moors, near our home for waifs and strays, I often come across foxholes and shiver. Not the foxholes that were dug by soldiers during wartime, but it's the four legged kind that worry me where our hens are concerned. And when, in the dark of night, I hear their shrill call, I always pray it is the barn owl and not the dreaded fox. You see, when one is half asleep, the sounds seem quite similar. Remember, it is the tawny owl that hoots.

      The fox will dig holes to raise their young and as a part of their behaviour. Quite often they dig for about a metre and leave it! I guess it is a good form of exercise if nothing else!

     When the fluffy grey-brown cubs are born, they are fed by their mums for about four weeks. By then, their fur begins to turn red. About this time, aunts and uncle foxes will bring solid food to the den plus a variety of old toys, shoes and gloves. Evidence of these have been found when the dens are abandoned.

     After about seven weeks the family will most likely change homes. This is probably due to it being too small, filthy, or perhaps someone or something has frightened them off.  But around three or four months, when autumn is upon them, some of the young will start to look for a home of their own. It is also the time when I hear their cries the most!  However, what is quite interesting is that the vixens (females) will often stay with their mother to help raise the next litter. Quite a loyalty, I would say!

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!

I found a box of wooden toys, hidden away in the attic. It brought back so many memories of watching my father making them.

     They began their lives as a block of ordinary wood. ‘This is perfect for making toys as it doesn’t break easily and doesn’t contain harsh chemicals,’ my father told me. ‘And the great thing is they will still be around long after you have finished playing with them.’ And they are!

      I can still smell the wood my father took hours and even days to chisel and shape. He would sit at his bench and smooth the timber, like I would smooth the cat. And all the while, he chewed on his old pipe, probably one he had made himself.

      Sometimes he would let me have a go and sometimes it would end in tears.

      ‘You’re too heavy handed,’ he used to tell me and then he would spend hours talking about when it was once a tree. He would sit there and smooth the wood almost as if he was sorry it had been cut down. Which wouldn’t surprise me!

      At the age of ten I knew the names of all the trees in the woods around us and I was taught how to respect them. I remember the story of the Wishing Tree, where people hung ribbons and rags from the branches in the hope that good luck would follow. And the World tree, with its roots in the earth and its branches stretching up to the sky, uniting them together.

       I would sit and listen, my hands tucked in my lap, as my father talked about trees. He talked about folklore and religion and how, in Burma, the Talein will pray to the tree before cutting it down and in Africa, a woodman will place a fresh sprig on the tree before raising his axe.

      These stories were told in the perfect setting of my father’s workshop, tucked away in a forest. Watching him make me a whistle or a doll from wood was like watching him perform magic!