In a corner of our garden for waifs and strays is a family of mushrooms and toadstools. They have made it their home in and around some rotting wood and we call it Kingdom Fungi.

       Life in Kingdom Fungi is quite laid back and no-one moans about there being little sunlight, which is just as well.

      These colourful Fungi, made up of around 90% of water, contain more potassium in a single Portabella than in a banana! And, they help us in the reduction of cholesterol and blood pressure to name just a few important things. As a family, we often add mushrooms instead of meat, to our meals.

     Like a mycophagist, I often take a basket and collect mushrooms from the woods, just as my father taught me. But some, despite looking like your average mushroom, can be poisonous so care should be taken and hands should always be washed afterwards.

      Some mushrooms glow in the dark (I have never seen them) due to a chemical reaction called bioluminescence which produces a light known as foxfire. Apparently, these fungi have been used as torches in the dark woods.

      Long ago, before the invention of synthetic dyes, Kingdom Fungi were used for dying wool and other natural fibres. Vivid colours were produced from the organic compounds of the mushroom dye. 

     So it’s a fact, that my kind and unassuming husband and I have our very own amazing fungi family living right under our noses. And for me, as I pass by their Kingdom, I cannot help but imagine a world of ‘little people’ living in the shadows. 

When I was a little girl I often ran barefoot across the sandy cliff tops to play in a real castle where fairies and ghosts kept me company. People used to tell my father it wrong to let me play there, as it was cursed by some evil witch. But the warning fell on deaf ears and consequently my imagination became as wild as the child it encompassed.  

      Since the 12^th century, Pennard castle has stood on top of steep cliffs overlooking a valley where a river winds its way through the grooves towards the sea. The natural beauty which surrounds it is home to an abundance of wildlife and if you have the time, it is a magical place to visit.

       And so once more, I trekked across the sand dunes to discover that the magic is still there, within the old stone walls that remain. And so are the fairies and the ghosts, especially during the golden hour of day.  

After a late shift on the ward, it was a welcome relief to open an email from my dear friend who is visiting her family in Athens.  ‘Today felt like Sunday,’ she began, ‘as everyone seemed to have a day off work to go to church and down to the beach for a swim in the not so warm sea.’ For those of you who celebrate the Epiphany, you will know what comes next.

     ‘I woke to hear the church bells ringing and the dogs in the valley barking in harmony, well that’s the poetic side of it, some would say howling or ruder in fact.

     I decided it was time to get up and face the day with my morning cup of (not sweet) tea, well you know how it goes you just can't get going without that cuppa to wake up your senses.

     Determined not to miss the ceremony, I decided to leave the rest of the family and said that I would meet them down at the usual coffee bar where it's the norm to meet up with friends and family over a coffee (tea in our book).

     So I trotted down the hill passing the beautiful orange trees that line the pavements along the way, the sun shining and not a cloud in the sky, however it was a mere 4 degrees centigrade and a chilling feeling through  ones bones.

     Arriving at the church I did not see the activity I thought, had I missed the service?  Venturing towards the church I could see a child running around with her father in the background, but thought no more of it. 

     The doors of the church were open but people were standing outside the doors, as the church was full.  An old lady was in charge of looking after the candles with a heady scent of honey. I realised that the candles were made from bees wax and this has a lovely warmth to the light it gives off.

     I could hear the Priest in the background saying prayers and readings in between the holy chanting, frankincense is wafting around and just when I thought the service was at an end, as people were spilling out into the open, I decided to venture forth and enter the church to see the wonders of what lay inside.  On doing so I felt as if I was against the flow of people so stepped to one side, little did I know that I was now in the line of procession to step to the altar to be blessed by the Priest.  Oh my lord I said to myself, I may have been confirmed and welcome the Holy Communion, but got a little concerned when it was all In Greek. 

      The Priest had the most wonderful robe of blue silk the colour of the sea with golden threads woven in ornate designs.  With a large bunch of basil in one hand and a rather large silver cross in the other, I wondered what I should do. 

       I decided that the best thing was to step aside into the pew and gaze as to the protocol of what goes on, thinking that I could step back into the line.  Much kissing of the cross, and priest’s hand, and a flounce of the bunch of basil on the head of his flock, I decided that I might give it a miss and just look on with the privilege of being able to witness such an occasion and look upon the icons and ornate gold artefacts around.

      However, I did wonder at the fact that when I was waiting to go into this little church, how come there was such a queue of people?  There must have been a few late arrivals or, arriving just at the right time for the blessing. Because, sure as hell I can count, and there were more people than ever, they must have been queuing around at least three blocks!  Ah well by the time we all flowed out of the church the holy water was waiting outside in a silver urn, so that anyone who was not able to attend could take some water back to them.

      Following the rest of the flock, we all gathered by the sea waiting for the Priest to arrive with yet another blessing and waiting for him to throw the cross into the water, where many of the men from the village wait for this ceremonious occasion to dive into the water and retrieve the cross in a bid to become the village hero. 

      And that my friend was the event this morning, finishing up at the coffee shop to meet up with the family. I ordered a cup of sweet tea for you but you didn’t turn up, so I guess those waifs and strays and that kind and unassuming husband of yours, have taken up all your time. The vegetarian menu wasn’t up to scratch so you didn’t miss much in the way of food.......

Thank you my dear friend for that entertaining tale from Greece.

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 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.

     So they dig their 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, thinking about it!

     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!

I don’t do black!

     I wrapped my arms around my black woollen coat, but it made no difference at all. I swear the presence of so much black on top of that welsh hill that overlooked the village of Mumbles, made the cold cling to my shivering body.

     ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ said the vicar, dabbing his nose with a large, white, cotton handkerchief. I swear it was the cold that made his eyes red and the end of his nose blue.

     ‘Black suits you,’ my friend whispered.  I shook my head at the unthinkable thought. How on earth could black suit anyone? Death! It reminded me of death. And as we stood amongst the mourners, watching our dear friend throw a handful of earth on top of her mother’s coffin, I remembered the day I did exactly the same thing, many moons ago.

     She died in my arms you know, my mother! There was very little warning. There one minute, gone the next! Motherless! My whole world changed in seconds.

     Sometime later, (the days rolled into one) I remember standing in the pew, staring at the coffin, my brother was crying. I didn’t cry, not then. I was the lucky one, I was the one that saw her after she had died and knew she wasn’t in the coffin draped with a cloth, suitable for a picnic. You see, I saw them come for her and they all left together. They were happy, I was sure of that and I was also sure that we would meet again one day, when the time is right.

     But here on the hill that separates heaven and the quaint little village of Mumbles, I saw nothing. Felt nothing. I swear it was the cold that did it.

     'Do not bind us with your tears. Set me free and be happy!' Out came the handkerchief again. God, it was cold!

     Later, as I wondered down towards the sea where the pub awaited us with sandwiches and cakes, beer and tea, I stopped at the first charity shop I came to. I handed in my black hat, my black scarf and my black gloves, to the woman behind the counter.

     Smiling, I walked into the pub with my snowy white hat and mittens. The relief was instant. I don’t do black but it wasn’t just the black, it was the cold that did it.