Just like the tale of A Chicken called Sandwich over on my ‘small page’, we once had a sheep called Sandwich too.

I found Sandwich (named because there was more meat on a sandwich than on the poor lamb) in a field, close to death. It was obvious that he couldn’t walk though he did try to stand. I went to tell the farmer, but was told he had died that morning. The family informed me that they would see to the lamb straight away. I trusted this would happen, but a gut feeling told me to check on this the following day. Sandwich was still there and still suffering.

     So I went to the farm again and told them about the lamb.

     ‘I will take the lamb myself if that would help you!’ I said to the obviously grieving family.

     ‘Take it!’ was the reply and so that’s exactly what I did.

     Without even consulting my kind and unassuming husband, I carefully laid the tiny lamb on the front seat of my car and drove home. I didn’t stop to consider what I would do with it, apart from taking it to the vets for a check up.

      Back at our home for waifs and strays, we were greeted by three fat cats and a curious husband.

      ‘I have something on my front seat that is very precious,’ I said seriously, ‘and there was nothing I could do but to bring it home.’

      My kind and unassuming husband opened the door and stared at the little lamb sleeping contentedly on my coat. He picked him up gently and without questions, carried him into the house.

      ‘We have to take him to the vet,’ I said, so I went inside and called him.

      With the help and advice from the vet on the phone, Sandwich soon had a bottle of proper lamb’s milk and a lot of love. He looked at us and bleated whilst his black woolly tail wagged. He couldn’t walk but I took it that he was feeling a lot better.

      But later that day, the vet x-rayed poor Sandwich and we learnt that his back was broken, probably hit by a car. We decided to let Sandwich stay in this world until the following morning, with the help of pain relief, so that he would know what love and kindness was before being put to sleep.

      Although Sandwich lived such a short while, even the daffodils lived longer, he died peacefully, knowing someone cared.

‘Why are you in a mood?’

‘You’re standing in my space!’

‘What space?’

‘My rock!’

‘Why can’t we share?’

‘Because it’s time for us to go our separate ways!’

‘But I don’t want to be separate.’

‘Mother says it’s time. We might be twins, but we have to get a life! Our own life!’

‘But we’re family.’

Exactly!’

‘But I thought families were supposed to stick together.’

‘And so they should.’

‘So can I live on this rock with you?’

‘No!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s my space!’

‘Don’t you love me anymore?’

‘That’s a stupid question.’

‘If you love me then you’d let me live on this rock with you.’

‘No!

‘But I don’t want to live on my own.’

‘And I do!’

‘Can I live on the next rock?’

‘If you must!’

‘Can I visit you every day?’

‘Of course!’

‘Ok, I’ll give it a try.’

Days later.

‘How’s it going on your new rock?’

‘It’s ok! Not as bad as I thought! You were right after all!’

‘I see you have visitors already.’

‘They’re girls!’

‘Can I come over?’

‘No!’

‘Why not?’

‘This is my space!’

‘We’re supposed to be family.’

‘Exactly!’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You should give me some space!’

 Moments later, the young bird relented.

'OK, you can join us, but you must go back to your own rock later!'

And they all lived happily ever after!

Believing that a tidal island on the Gower Coast was a sleeping dragon, the Vikings, during their invasion, named it Wurm.These days, this famously photographed island, shaped like a giant sea-serpent, is known as Worm’s Head, and it is another place I love to roam about on.

     My kind and unassuming husband and I can often be seen crossing the rocky causeway that connects the island to the mainland. However, one has to be extremely careful of the tide as many people and animals have drowned here.

     This incredible piece of land, a mile long with a height of 150 feet in parts, is home to the grey seal, peregrine falcons, choughs, razorbills and guillemots, kittiwakes and gulls, shags and cormorants. Fulmars can be seen gliding like angels over the waves and on occasions, we have seen puffins off the end of the island. In late summer you might be lucky enough to see scoters, an all black duck and so much more.

     So despite the harsh conditions during winter months, this incredible island has something quite unique, in order to attract such an abundance of wildlife.

      Dylan Thomas often visited the island and once made the mistake of falling asleep and was cut off by the tide. These are a few of the words he wrote about his adventure:

I stayed on that Worm from dusk to midnight, sitting on that top grass, frightened to go further in because of the rats and because of things I am ashamed to be frightened of. Then the tips of the reef began to poke out of the water and, perilously, I climbed along them to the shore.     

      This dragon of an island has pleased many people with its beauty and strangeness. For me though, it always reminds me of my father. As a little girl, he took me to the island in search of crabs. I made such a fuss when he found one, he never took me again. We did, however, go home with a bucket full of shells and tiny stones made shiny by the sea.

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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You can always smell the bread cooking in our home for waifs and strays.  It was the same in my home, as a child. When my father wasn’t blowing up the place with his experiments, he would spend much of the time in the kitchen. His speciality was bread and brawn (a jelly made from pigs head) which ultimately traumatised me but fascinated my brother. Well I hasten to add that just like the tickling of an unsuspecting trout, I never participated in the eating of an animal that had ended its days as a blob of jelly on our kitchen table.

     However, I get great pleasure in making bread and my kind and unassuming husband gets pleasure in eating the many varieties that turn out on the rack.  Even the birds enjoy the scraps that are left over, if they are lucky!

     Sometimes, I will make butter and jams to go with the bread but for that, I have to be in the right mood.

      The other day, I decided to make beetroot bread. Yes, I know what you are thinking and yes, it is pink! Pretty and also good for lowering blood pressure. 

      I used this recipe by Anca Moore...Why not have a go and let me know how you get on! Good luck!

Ingredients:

• 150ml warm water
• 15g (1tbs) dried yeast
• 1tsp sugar
• 2-3 raw beetroot
• 120ml milk
• 600g strong bread white flour
• 30g olive oil
• 2 tsp salt

Method:

1. Reactivate the yeast in the warm water mixed with sugar (as per the product's instructions) or use fast action dried yeast
2. Peel the beetroot (you might want to use gloves if you don't like your hands getting red, but it will come off quite easily anyway). 
3. Once peeled, cut them in quarters/chunks and put them in a food processor together with the milk. Mix until there are no big bits of beetroot and the texture is smooth
4. In a big bowl mix the flour and salt. Add the yeast, beetroot mixture and olive oil and start bringing the dough together.
5. Knead the bread on a clean surface for about 10 minutes. 
6. Put the dough in a big bowl and cover with a lightly oiled clingfilm and leave it in a warm place for about an hour or until doubled in size .
7. Prepare a tray (I used a pizza tray, but not the one with holes)
8. Knock the dough back, remove from the bowl and shape into a round . Put in in the prepared tray, cover with the lightly oiled clingfilm and leave it to rise for another 30-45 minutes.
9. Preheat the oven to 180 degrees.

10. Make a cross on the top of the dough with a sharp knife and bake it in the oven for 35-40 minutes. It is done when the crust is crispy and it sounds hollow when tapped.

11. Allow the bread to completely cool on a cooling wrack before slicing it.

It is really lovely served with butter and cheese (especially goat's cheese) and salad.