Small I might be but clever I am! The fly wrote on the wall to the human. Sometimes people think I’m disgusting when I spit digestive juices on food. But let me tell you this, I need to decompose my food before swallowing. We all have to eat, after all!

      Ok, so my eyes look a bit scary close up, back off then! Give me a break! If you have to know, then I might as well tell you. I have poor eye sight, despite the fact that each of my eyes contains 4000 lenses. So please hurry up and invent specs for flies!

      So what is it about me that you don’t like? Apart from the fact I defecate every couple of minutes, so what, it doesn’t smell, does it? I do my best for you by accelerating your recycling process by decomposing organic waste. What more do you want? Please, nothing that requires speed, although I can do up to 5 miles an hour! Not bad for a fly. By the way, I do carry some lethal weapons, such as pathogenic bacteria. This could be rather dangerous if you want an outbreak of tuberculosis, dysentery, anthrax, gangrene, to name but a few. But I had better stop there as I’m not painting a pretty picture of myself.

       Moving  swiftly on, I do have a second pair of wings called halters, like mini drum sticks (we’re not talking hens here!) if you need me to fight some battles. However, remember that I do not like spiders, even the ones you think are friendly. They all have a dark side to them!

       And I would just like to tell you, that we flies like the company of humans, you supply all our needs but you do chase us about a bit. Remember, life is too short, even for a fly like me. We live for just 30 – 60 days, so we have to make the most of it!

 My kind and unassuming husband and I tried out a part of the 186 miles of cliff top walking, which stretches from Amroth in the south to St Dogmeals in the north of Pembrokeshire, West Wales.Despite all the twists and turns, the ups and downs, we were rewarded with some of the most stunning scenery in Britain.

     The steep limestone cliffs stretch all the way down to sandy bays where the grey seals often bask. From volcanic headlands to flooded glacial valleys, this walk has it all. One can even find traces of Neolithic times in this ancient and historic part of the world.

     For me, as always, I searched for birds and fox holes, rabbit holes, and flowers, anything that moved or didn’t move, but belonged there. I also kept referring to the map for small seaside villages that offered a cup of sweet tea.

     And when we rested on the cushioned grass away from the edge but close enough to hear the murmur of the sea, I thought, how lucky are we? No sounds of war, no running for our lives, no starvation or dehydration. Please, I said silently, so even the birds could not hear, please let there be peace in this world and let it begin with each and every one of us.

There is something about shopping in the wild for food. Eating for free, as my father used to call it. From a young age, he taught me how to survive on food from the hedgerows. I often wonder if what I ate was meant to be eaten! But here I am to tell the tale.

     Quite often we would sit by an open fire upon which a heavy saucepan sat, with something or another boiling away, usually nettles or rosehips. This was often followed by a bowlful of blackberries and the leaves (quite edible) or gorse flowers, red clover flowers and sticky grass (cleavers, goose grass (Galium aparine), also quite appetising.

     My father would catch a fish or collect cockles or a crab, sometimes a bowl of prawns and shrimps and we would have a feast. All for free, and cooked on a fire on the beach.

      Looking back on those carefree days of eating for free whist my head was permanently in a book full of adventure, there is no wonder I turned out a free spirit. I can hardly resist anything growing wild that is edible and a book full of mystery! But one should invest in a good reference book if you’re not sure of what is you can eat. Take for example mushrooms. These can vary enormously, from toadstools to the delicious girolles (yellow-orange mushrooms) so be careful what you eat.

       During the summer months, my father would make a salad of hawthorn leaves, hedge sorrel and hedge mustard, sprinkled with the gorse flowers and marigolds. I can’t say that I liked everything he gave me, and sometimes I would fill my pockets with leaves I couldn’t eat, not to disappoint him. He made such an effort to teach me how to survive in the world.

       And so it is, that I am happiest roaming through woods or along the beach. The smell of salt in the air helps to revive me when I’m struggling and the touch of the soft earth and the dew on the grass almost always brings me back to life.

My poor, kind and unassuming husband walked into the kitchen and almost had a heart attack, late last night. I was standing holding a knife whilst all around me, the walls, cooker, doors, skirting boards, the floor, the kitchen table and myself, were dripping in what looked nothing less than blood!

     My mouth was open but nothing was coming out (didn’t that make a change?) as I was speechless. I wanted to say that I hadn’t stabbed myself and burst an artery. It was the jam. It had exploded! My dear, kind and unassuming husband, with his cream trousers and shirt, was also soon to be covered in sticky, red hot jam! Thank heavens we didn’t get burnt.

     It all began when my friends and I picked fruit for jam making. It’s that time of year again when the jam jars are collected and so is the fruit. And although it was late, I decided to make a start. I had never thought for one moment, how dangerous jam making could be.

     All was going well, with the fruit bubbling away nicely on the stove. I had prepared the table with my new strainer, hanging above a bowl. This was to sieve the fruit overnight so in the morning, I would add a 1b of sugar to a pint of liquid and boil it all up again to make apple and blackberry jelly. But alas, disaster was about to strike.

     When the fruit was soft, I ladled it into the muslin cloth. Had I read the instructions first, as instructed by my kind and unassuming husband, then the disaster would have been avoided. But having made jam most of my life, and survived, I didn’t bother. So I continued to fill the rather large muslin cloth which instantly did its job and began sieving the fruit.

     Then without warning, the props collapsed and indeed, there appeared to be one almighty explosion of jam. Thank heavens I was not attacked badly.

      I could not believe how a bowlful of boiled fruit could paint the furniture and walls of my kitchen, in seconds. I am still cleaning it up today! For anyone doing ‘Up furniture’ then this is a brilliant way to go about it! I now have a red kitchen table, stove, patchy red floor and red spotted rugs to match!

      May I take this opportunity to warn all jam makers, not to do as I did and read the instructions! Lesson learnt....DO NOT OVERLOAD THE MUSLIN CLOTH!

 And to my dear and kind and unassuming husband who suffers much with my mistakes....I promise to listen in future! Oh, and by-the-way, I managed to make 2 jars of jelly just for you!

Lying perfectly still in a field of freshly turned hay, I waited for that perfect picture of a red kite, a buzzard, a butterfly, anything photogenic.

     ‘So this is what it takes to be a photographer,’ I whispered into my dictaphone, ‘patients!’

     In the distance I heard a tractor and hoped the farmer wouldn’t see me lying in the hay as if I had nothing better to do. I didn’t, at that very moment, despite the fact I had left my kind and unassuming husband in the car on the other side of the hedge.

    I peeped over the small mound of dead grass, the smell reminding me of summers long gone, and saw in the clear blue sky, up to twenty magnificent kites. Hardly daring to breathe, I reached for my camera, hoping to catch my favourite bird of prey!

    Their chestnut red body, against the white under their wings was almost breathtaking. I watched through the lens, as they glided gracefully through the air, their voice, an insistent and thin piping sound, calling to each other.  

    But try as I might, I could not get that picture. They were too quick for me. Tired, I lay back on the hay and rested. Then zooming into the trees that lined the hedge, I hunted for any movement. Then I saw her. She was perched on top of a tree, her pale grey head and her wickedly hooked beak, a sure sign that she was indeed a kite though I did wonder if she was a buzzard. There was a buzzard close by, but still too far away for an amateur like me to tell the difference. Holding the camera perfectly still (despite my trembling hands) I took a closer look at her hooded amber eyes, ringed with a prominent yellow and knew that with her excellent sight, she had spotted me. I held her in my memory.

     With little effort and a couple of heavy beats of her two metre wing span, this incredible creature took off in an instant, leaving me weak and humble. And although I didn’t get the picture I wanted, I now know where to find them. ‘Until we meet again!’

     I did, however, catch the buzzard.