I call him Jester Jack purely because of his acrobatic displays whilst diving and turning in strong winds. And coming from a family of ‘circus cousins’ I’m quite sure that this Jackdaw (Corvus monedula) would easily get a job in the Big Top!

     I spotted this young bird with its pale eyes, trying to catch a bit of sun. He appeared totally oblivious to me taking a picture of him or perhaps he really is a show off and was just a wee bit dramatic.

     Known for their ‘nimble thieving claws’ these sociable birds cannot resist shiny objects, perhaps that is why they are called Jack, a name traditionally used when referring to a thief or a rogue.  

      Not that long ago, just as I lit the fire at our home for waifs and strays, I heard a squawking and flapping noise coming from up the chimney. Faster than you could say ‘fireman’ I beat out the fire and forced the chimney pipe off the stove to discover nothing more than a very lucky-to-be-alive Jack the Jester!

       Perhaps that should be a lesson to him!

As a young child, my mother often put a pomegranate in my sock that hung at the end of my bed on Christmas Eve. And today, I still associate this autumn colored fruit with Christmas and my dear mother.

     Thought to have originated somewhere between Egypt and the Himalayas, the pomegranate is now widely cultivated throughout Southern Europe, Middle East, tropical Africa, Arizona and the Indian Subcontinent, Latin America, central Asia and Caucasus. Also, in Afghanistan, Kandahar is famous for its high quality pomegranate.

      The pomegranate got its name from the Medieval Latin pomum ‘apple’ and granatum ‘seeded’. And if you cut the fruit in half, you will indeed see that it is made up of 200 to 1400 seeds, embedded in a spongy, white, astringent membrane.

      There are all sorts of remedies found in this ‘Christmas fruit’ including, treating hemorrhoids, gum bleeds and a tonic for the heart and throat. But for me, I prefer to make a jelly from juice and the recipe is as follows:-

Pomegranate Jelly
3 1/2 cups pomegranate juice, fresh, frozen and thawed, or bottled
1/4 cup lemon juice
1 package (2 ounces) powdered pectin
4 1/2 cups sugar
 6 half-pint canning jars.
Combine pomegranate juice, lemon juice, and pectin in a 4 or 5 quart pot. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, stirring constantly. Stir in sugar until well blended. Return to a boil and continue boiling, uncovered, stirring occasionally for 2 minutes. Remove jelly from heat. Let stand a minute to allow foam to form then carefully skim it off. Pour hot jelly quickly into hot jars, filling to within about 1/4 inch of tops.
Cool jars in a dark place.

Come and sit down in my kitchen and I'll make us a cup of tea! There's some homemade bread and jam, just help yourself! Oh, you can hang your coat up, on the hook beside the fire.....

...............

     I’m not quite sure what it is about tea (a cup of tea especially) but it appears to bring such comfort to the human kind. My dear and unassuming husband is the exception as he has never drank a cup of tea in his life...very strange!

     At our home for waifs and strays, the kettle rarely gets cold. There is always someone popping in for something or another, or just for a chat. I always switch the kettle on even before they are seated. And if I am busy, then the visitor will usually carry out the task automatically. It seems that this is a very Welsh thing to do.

     It is almost as if everything dissolves in the steam that evaporates into you face...no worries, no stress, all washed away in a moments connection with the tea...If only it were that simple!

     But for awhile, tea does seem to comfort people.  It feels easier to talk perhaps, with ones hands wrapped around a hot cup or mug. Tea shops are becoming quite popular. I often meet up with friends and family in a tea shop by the sea...just the thought of it makes me feel warm inside. No matter how far I roam, I will always look forward to a cup of tea at the other end.

     There are so many types of teas today, far too many to mention here but I’m sure many of you would have tried at least one or two or even more. Just writing about it makes me want to put the kettle on...just wait a moment please!

     Watching the steam come from the kettle, even before I fill the teapot (we still use a teapot at our home for waifs and strays)makes me feel trapped in its spell....not a bad feeling, even if only for awhile!

     Below is a poem I discovered and written by a woman called Naomi Shihab Nye...enjoy!

The Tray by Naomi Shihab Nye
Even on a sorrowing day
the little white cups without handles
would appear
filled with steaming hot tea
in a circle on the tray,
and whatever we were able
to say or not say,
the tray would be passed,
we would sip
in silence,
it was another way
lips could be speaking together,

opening on the hot rim,

swallowing in unison.

I left home at 15 (that is the time when my dear, eccentric father also left to marry for the secone time) but we both went our separate ways, and by the time I was twenty three, I had travelled many miles and lived a thousand lives. My footprints are embedded in land across the globe. It is no wonder that my head is spinning with tales to tell.

      For some time, I lived amongst the Makah Indians in the wilds of the Pacific. It was here I fished amongst the great orcas in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Bartering with the Indians became a way of life; a life which I knew was totally illegal. I soon began to change and looked at everything in a completely different way. One couldn’t help but to do this, especially as I was so young and already felt I had lived a lifetime.

       I played music in mountains more spectacular than those found in Switzerland (though I have been there also and they are indeed magnificent). I have done things perhaps I shouldn’t have done and risked my life a million times. My feet, though small, have worn out many shoes through trekking places less travelled.And my heart is engrained with enough stories to fill a thousand books. It’s no wonder I have little trouble finding tales to write for you on these quiet nights...but I do need to finish my books.      

       Remember, whatever it is you are longing to do you, writing a book, travelling, a different way of cooking, visiting friends you haven’t seen for ages, painting, you must find a way to fit that piece of missing jigsaw into your life picture. It is as simple as that. You see, it is indeed later than you think!

Many tales ago I wrote about the Adirindack Mountains, Up State New York. A place that is very dear to me and a place where I took shelter when I was a lost and confused teenager, a long way from my home in Wales. As a storm raged around my life, I took refuge in the mountains amongst the wildlife, rivers and lakes. That storm has long since left me but a chance meeting with an old friend made me think about those mountains once again. I sought out the tale and here it is once more.....

There is a place in my heart that will always be forever wild, just like the Adirondack Mountains, Up State New York. This is where I lived for a short time, many, many summers ago.

     This 6 million acre wilderness with its 3,000 lakes and 30,000 miles of streams and rivers has made a footprint in my heart to last my lifetime. Perhaps it is the way in which it rebels against all attempts to train it that appeals to me. I certainly feel one with nature when I am there, despite knowing that these spectacular mountains are home to the black bear.

      They roam through the forests, hunting for berries and nuts.  These big black eating machines prowl around the lakes, rivers and streams, searching for small mammals and the white–tailed deer fawn.

       Ursus americanus, as they are otherwise known, symbolize how wild this wilderness is. Let it remain forever wild.

A Poem to the Adirondacks

“The Poet of the Dusk”
John Shalhoub

Adirondacks, hills and valleys,
Are you listening?
Your splendor awes my spirit.
You grapple with the skies and the stars
My love lives in the shadow of your rocks.
Moving with soft winds by day
Attending to the whispers of my soul.
Your crown creeps into my dreaming soul.
Your crown reflects my love,
As I pass in waking dream through your forests
Of towering trees with murmuring tongues,
I salute your splendor,
And glorify the Maker,
Who bids me peace.
I stand dumb before you,
And speak to your soul in beautiful silence,
While the leaves play the music
To the clouds, mountains, hills, and valleys.
My love lives in your majesty
On the boughs of your spruces,
In every breeze across your face,
Through the ever greenness of your cloak,
Into the brightness of your winter blanket.
Beyond my tears, I rejoice
You are a refuge for my heart.
Adirondacks, are you listening