I recently stumbled across Meg Cox and her father, whilst wondering through the grounds of Tredegar House in Wales. I heard their music first, sweet and catchy, the type my father used to play.

     I hurried through the ancient gardens to where the sound was coming from, passing swans basking in the sunshine besides a lake. Then I saw them, Meg and Dave Cox, father and daughter, sitting outside the music shop where Dave makes beautifully carved instruments.

      Taking a break from their work indoors, the father and daughter musicians sat in the sun with smiles on their faces and their feet tapping to the beats of their music.

       I was quite impressed to discover that Meg was just 13 years old. She was only four when her career in music began and has already appeared at the Royal Albert Hall in London. Also, with her father, this young and greatly talented violinist has been seen playing at many folk and rock festivals throughout the country.

       And so I sat for awhile and listened to the music. I thought once again about my father and the hours he spent teaching me to play the violin. For that, I will be eternally grateful. Not just for is teachings but for bringing music into my life.

The sound of gunfire echoed through the village as I tried to write. Birds panicked and scattered across the sky, squawking and screeching. I could hear the power of their wings and felt their fear. No, I don’t live in a war torn city but a quiet village in a beautiful part of Wales. So what is going on?

     I can only guess that up on the moors people are hunting the grouse, the partridge, ducks, rabbits and other unsuspecting and innocent creatures. I pray for them all, especially the young grouse I wrote about just recently. This little feller has hardly had time to live. Run little bird and hide where the enemy cannot get you.

    I remember a time, when I was a little girl, standing in the garden of our home listening to the sound of gunfire. ‘It’s the pigeon shoot,’ my father said to me and I was too shocked to reply. ‘It will quieten down in a minute,’ he said, ‘while they take a break before collecting the birds.’ I did not wait to hear anymore, but ran to find my brother.

    Together, and on my instructions, my brother and I hid between rows and rows of runner beans, growing in the same field where the men were shooting. I ran back and forth collecting the injured birds and gave them to my brother who ran with them to our barn. We found around eighty wood pigeons and collared doves.

    In the barn (ignoring the shouts of frustration from the gunmen) I set about nursing these animals that were struggling with a long and painful death with their bodies battered with many pellets or whatever it is they use to shoot them with, far too many to remove. But we tried. We bathed their wounds and held them as they died. As I sang to them the words from ancient hymns, my tears fell on their tiny heads.  With their life over we buried them, with the help of my father, in our garden by the woods that was once their home.

    It is silent again now. Please let it stay that way!

An old Chinese Proverb says ‘An inch of time is worth and inch of gold. But an inch of gold cannot buy an inch of time.’

     I have wondered today about life and the time we waste worrying about it instead of living it. I have thought about the things most of my friends talk about and usually this is about life in general, what plans we have for our future. We talk about the goings on in the world and the usual question, what do you think it’s all about? But the biggest moan I hear is that there never seems to be enough time and we’re all getting older.

      Way back in the 1800’s Abraham Lincoln said ‘And in the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.’ I think this is a good starting point.

       We all have to take a path in life, whether it is chosen for us or not. But for most of us, the choice is there. Again, I look at my friends and see some struggling because they are simply on the wrong path. I myself have probably taken many a wrong turn, but I still managed to arrive back on my chosen path and still, I sidetrack from time to time.

        So how do we know what path is right for us? I think the simple answer is to listen to our inner selves. Do you hear the quiet heart and the peaceful mind? Or do hear the stressful voice and feel the troubled mind? The latter, is telling you something is not right. Your body is overloaded. You need to ease the weight of whatever it is that drags you down. You have probably heard of the straw that broke the camel’s back! Life is not easy to live but perhaps we should try not to complicate it as much as we do.

        Some people choose an earthy path, that takes them away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life, though they can’t escape it entirely, I guess. Others long to be something or someone in the distant future and strive long and hard to achieve this and forget to live in the present. At the end of the day, you have chosen to walk that path and it is you that has to listen to your inner self to know whether to continue or not.

        Meditation comes in all different forms, but for me I like walking through the valley or along the beach or sitting quietly by the pond, drinking a cup of sweet tea. Sometimes, just simply closing my eyes and focusing on something special, a face, a picture, a place, another time. Hold that image even if it’s just for a few moments and block out the rest of the world. And remember to get out in the fresh air as much as you can. If it’s cold, wrap up. If it’s raining, use an umbrella. My father used to say ‘you are not a sugar mouse Jill. You will not melt.’ He was right!

‘Go-back-go-back-go-back!’ That is the guttural bark of this dumpy young bird we call a grouse. And that is exactly what drew my friend’s attention, whilst walking on the moors in Gower last weekend.  

      She could hardly believe her eyes, when amongst the rough grass and heather, the wee little head of a lagopus lagopus scotica looked up at her. It has other names too, like moorbird, moorfowl and moorcock and is often seen on adverts for whiskey.

       These herbivorous birds feed on seeds, shoots and the flowers of heather. It also likes to eat berries and sometimes, the occasional insect.

       Autumn is the time for grouse to find a mate before the winter sets in. So hurry little bird and watch out for the fox, the crow and the man with a gun!

If you live in Southern England, it is quite possible that the dragonflies you see have travelled at a speed of 20 miles an hour, all the way from Africa. Many of these flighty flying dragons choose to rest on the pond at our home for waifs and strays.  

      The ‘flying dragon’ prefers clean, unpolluted water in a sunny spot. They seem to like the pile of logs we have compiled for little visitors. They also enjoy a quick sunbathing session on the lily pads that float above the pondweed. And as our garden is home to hundreds of birds, the long grasses and plants around the pond are a great escape from predators!

       It is late in the year now, and autumn is upon us. But despite the lingering summer, there are many jobs in our garden that need seeing to before the change comes.

       Once again, our home for waifs and strays is a hive of activity with the harvesting of crops still ongoing. The hen houses need re-felting before the rainy season and the summer house most certainly needs a long awaited coat of paint. I almost forgot the grapes, they are almost ready for picking and already taste delicious! I’m not quite sure what we will do with them all but I’m sure my kind and unassuming husband will come up with something.

       I will be sorry to see the end of summer but as usual, I look forward to each and every season. They each bring something different and we couldn’t be without them.

       But for now, I shall make the most of sitting by the pond with a cup of sweet tea, watching the flying dragons before they leave.