I often wonder why some old houses came to be abandoned. On The Gower Peninsular in South Wales, there are many such places and each of them has its own story to tell.

     As a child, I travelled to school on a double decker bus, via many miles of country lanes. During the entire journey, which lasted an hour, I hardly spoke a word as I stared out of the window at the wonder of it all.

     Sometimes, weather depending, the rickety old bus would take us over the old red sandstone ridge, or better known as the backbone of Gower, manoeuvring its way around the wild ponies, sheep and cattle. A spectacular sight was King Arthur’s Stone, standing defiantly on top of the Bryn.  Many years ago, during the Bronze Age, this ancient land was used for ceremonies and rituals. I often wished for the bus to break down (which it often did) so I could run free through the bracken and search for the hidden wildlife.

      And from the hilly downs to the flat marshlands where cockle pickers were already hard at work, the bus would pass by my favourite place. It was just a lane, nothing particularly special but it was where the ancient cottage stood, alone and abandoned! Its old stone walls arched inwards, clinging to the tile less roof. I would stare at the rooks and envy their position in the hollow of the ivy clad chimney. 'I will own you one day,' I used to say,  but as time went on I imagined the house to be resting not abandoned and I hoped it would stay that way.   

       Five times a week for almost five years I made that journey and each time I saw something different as well as the cottage. It's what kept me alive, I often thought rather dramatically. It made going to school so much easier. And I came to see that the cottage was far from lonely, in fact I was probably lonelier! With each passing season, came birds, animals and plants to keep it company and warm. I kept a diary so I would never forget. You see, even in those ‘olden’ days, my head was full to overflowing with ideas and curiosity. And that old house still stands today and is a home for the many waifs and strays that take shelter in its crumbling walls. 'Do not look at me sadly,' it cries, 'I am only resting!'

       Ironically, all these years later, my kind and unassuming husband and I live within walking distance of that ‘resting house’ and I sigh each time I see it. No, not because it makes me sad but because its presence comforts me.

There was plenty of work to be done at our home for waifs and strays today, besides a late shift on the ward.

     Golden leaves were dragged off the pond and heaps more from around the garden. Compost bins were turned and emptied onto the vegetable patch where the winter vegetables continue to thrive.  Hedges were cut and the remainder of the trees were pruned. The magnolia tree was cut in late summer as healing is quicker then. This also applies to walnut trees.  

      In the quiet garden, the hens and the wild birds competed for the remainder of the grapes which hung in bunches over the wall. Their scraggly bodies are the result of moulting. This can be quite alarming for those who are not used to it. Feathers are scattered over the ground and the girls strut about unaware of their scraggly appearance. This is the time they also stop laying albeit temporarily. You see, their feathers are 85% protein and their eggs just the same, so it is just too much for the hen to produce feathers as well as eggs. But we love them just as much!  

       There have been no more sightings of the polecat or the ferret in the woodshed so hopefully they have found a new home and are in good health. However, we will continue to keep a watchful eye.

       It’s the end of the day and I’m sitting in front of the log fire drinking a cup of sweet tea. As strange as it seems, I’m too tired to sleep! My head is full of thoughts and ideas as well as reflection. So I shall wait until the embers fade before climbing the wooden hill to bed! After all, it is later than we think!

Here is a small fact- you are going to die!

This was the beginning of the film we watched with friends this evening, at the village community centre. The Book Thief, written by Markus Zusak, was narrated by death and brought tears to my eyes and half the people watching.

     This heart rendering tale takes place in a village in Bavaria during Nazi Germany. Liesel, a book loving child is sent to live with foster parents who are hiding a young Jewish boy. The story is hers and the people around her. As bombs fall, Liesel buries her head in the books she borrows. I won’t give the story away but would highly recommend it.         

“I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.”
― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

“People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spot blues. Murky darkness. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.”
― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

It’s back! Whether she is a Jill (female) or a hob (male) this young ferret has to go!

     From time to time, polecats and ferrets visit our home for waifs and strays. I always know they are there, by their scent. They stink! And this particular fellow has taken up residence in our log store. I could smell him long before I saw him and only hope there wasn’t a business (group) of ferrets hiding out of sight. As cute as they seem, especially kits (under a year old) ferrets are not a good idea to have with hens.

      And so the day has began by trying to catch the wee mite before he starves to death or worse still, makes a meal out of one of our girls. A horrid thought! You see, ferrets have become domesticated and have no idea how to survive in the wild so we will take him to the small animal hospital in the woods to see how he is doing as they do tend to suffer from extreme health problems.

      This crepuscular creature sleeps 14–18 hours a day and wakes around dawn and dusk.  So I guess we will have to coax him into a box with plenty of tasty food. Hopefully, with as little stress as possible as they react, just like skunks when frightened.

       However, these small animals, when excited, can perform a war dance, known as the weasel war dance. They do a series of frenzied sideway hops and are quite oblivious to the things they bump into and at the same time they make clucking sounds known as dooking. Excitement has taken over! It is an invitation to join in and play.

        I will let you know how we get on as soon as there is some news.

Long before the Romans came to Britain, three Iron Age forts were built on top of a hill near the home for waifs and strays. You see, I stumbled upon this amazing piece of history when out walking with my kind and unassuming husband, just the other day. 

     The open heathland known as Hardings Down in Gower, South Wales, overlooks gentle sloping fields that roll downwards to the sea. As we reached the summit of the hill on that wonderful summer’s morning it was difficult to imagine those days so long ago, when battles as well as farming, were a way of life.

     We stood on the grassy banks with ditches below, the ditches that were dug to protect the people and animals within the fort walls. It was an eerie thought but fascinating at the same time and a feeling of gratitude swept over me. How lucky was I to be standing there, 2,000 years later, without the fear of regular gruesome battles? I did not have to witness the heads of the enemies being taking from them in battle to prevent their souls from returning to this world. You see, the Celts were superstitious people and believed in the afterlife.  

       I wondered about the Celts that lived where I stood, so many years ago. Were they constantly worried about being attacked? Was it true what the Romans said when they eventually arrived? Were the Welsh war-mad and quick to battle? And did they fight naked, exposing their tattooed bodies? Perhaps so! Whether this is true or not, I remain (and always will be) proud to be Welsh! Also, remember too, that the Romans would not have wished to describe the natives favourably, now would they?

            They were hard times undoubtedly, but at least they had discovered a new metal called iron so their tools and weapons were stronger than ever. But there was also merriment to be had in the shape of a pint which they made from barley they grew on their land.

             And so the place where we stood, on Hardings down, on a sunny day in the year 2014, filled me with curiosity and I will continue to search the area for evidence of life in times that for me, one who has the most vivid of imaginations, is almost unimaginable.