As a child I always wanted to live in a lighthouse, a lighthouse on an island with a small boat and plenty of food. I used to imagine my father as the lighthouse keeper and I would write and paint all day and perhaps, cook and clean. There would be no need for school as my father knew everything.

     By the time I was ten, I still hadn't seen an island, let alone a lighthouse, but I was ever hopeful. When I asked my father if we could leave grandmother’s house to live on our own island, he nodded his head thoughtfully, with his pipe in his mouth. The pipe he had made himself.

     ‘You had an island when you were a little boy,’ I said to him, ‘could we live there?'

     ‘That was a long time ago,’ he said to me. ‘The old house with its lake and its island belongs to someone else now.’

      I never asked my father about living in a lighthouse for another whole year. Then on my eleventh birthday he took me for my first ever, grown-up  restaurant. As I sat by the window looking out at the sea, I saw it! A magical island with a lighthouse! My island!

      ‘Look daddy!’ I was so excited, more excited than being in a proper restaurant. ‘There’s my island!’

      The summer after my first meal in a proper restaurant, my father took me to that island to see the lighthouse. In some ways it spoilt my illusion of living in a lighthouse on an island with a boat and plenty of food. But I will always have the memory of what it felt like to have a father who understood me.

       Just recently, my kind and unassuming husband took me for a meal in the highest restaurant in Wales. As I sat looking out across the bay, I saw in the distance the island of my dreams, the same island I saw on my eleventh birthday. I reached for my camera and once again I relived the memory.

Mr Tyto lived with his wife in an old derelict farmhouse near the home for waifs and strays.  They were happy barn owls until one day a storm came and Mr Tyto went missing.

      Mrs Tyto was very upset and kept peeping out the broken roof to see if he was coming home. But all Mrs Tyto saw was flashes of light across the sky and big fat drops of rain fell on her face.

      ‘Oh I wish he hadn’t gone hunting on a night like this,’ she  cried and turned to look at her four babies huddled together in the corner of the nest. Their white heart shaped faces peered up at her. They needed feeding but the cupboard was bare.

      The little barn owls began to make hissing and chittering sounds as they talked to each other. They never hooted like the tawny owls.

       ‘Keep the noise down!’ said their mother. But they were tired and hungry and soon began to squabble.

       With each flash of lightening and each roll of thunder, Mrs Tyto shivered and wished the storm would end.

        Meanwhile, not very far away, Mr Tyto was sheltering in the garden of the home for waifs and strays. There was no way to get a message to his wife, informing her that he was safe and well, so he pulled a wing over his head and tried to get some sleep. It was a long night for both Mr and Mrs Tyto. The hungry and exhausted babies slept, which was a great relief for their mother.  

         As if by magic, the storm passed and Mrs Tyto stretched open her wings to greet the sun. Just as she was about to close them, she saw her husband flying silently home and she almost cried. Well she would have cried had it not been for her hissing babies. So she laughed instead as Mr Tyto wrapped his wings around them all.

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!

One day, I looked out of the window 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 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.

     Bravo! Mrs Merula! 

‘Shall we climb a mountain?’ I asked my kind and unassuming husband, not that long ago, ‘a very big mountain, the highest in Wales.’

     At first, he wasn’t so keen. He had heard about the dangers of climbing Mount Snowdon. Almost every year, it claims the lives of about ten people and many more are injured. But we decided that we were both in need of a challenge.

      Leaving our home for waifs and strays, even for a day, is a challenge in itself. We have to arrange animal sitters around the clock. But we are very fortunate that many of our friends are only too willing to help us out. So we set off for a weekend away in our faithful old camper.

     The rugged landscape of Snowdonia in North Wales is nothing less than impressive. These mountain ranges, the result of volcanoes from the Ordovician period, are the highest peaks south of the Scottish Highlands.

      As my kind and unassuming husband and I climbed the strenuous path, we were constantly in awe of the magnificent scenery that surrounded us. From the sculptured crests above us, to the shimmering lakes below, it was nothing short of a miracle. And the air! I thought nothing could be as sweet as my sweet tea, but this was sweeter.         

       Standing proudly at the top, we repeated the mantra, ‘Getting to the top is optional, getting down is mandatory,’ over and over again. We were exhilarated.

        That evening, in the shadow of the mountains, we sat with friends around a campfire. As our supper slowly cooked, we sang, we talked and we laughed. And eventually, we slept.

        First thing the following morning, I said to my kind and unassuming husband, ‘Let’s climb Ben Nevis!’

        I’m still waiting for the reply!