As I dug up potatoes from our home for waifs and strays today, I remembered with sadness, the story my grandmother once told me when I was very young. It was about a wind that carried a terrible fungus that killed a million men, women and children in Ireland.

     ‘It began a long time ago,’ she said, ‘when Queen Victoria was on the throne and Charles Dickens published his book, the tale of two cities.

     ‘All of England, Wales and Scotland suffered too,’ she said, but nothing like the poor Irish. They were among the poorest people of the western world.’ She went on to tell me that in Ireland, the average age a man could expect to live was 40 and that the potato was their staple crop. So when the wind came, carrying with it the fungus, they suffered badly.

      ‘It killed the potato crops,’ I remember her telling me, ‘so people starved. It was a cruel, horrible time.’ I sat staring at my grandmother’s face. It was almost as if she herself had been a part of it.

      ‘And then there were the coffin ships,’ she was washing the dishes in the sink when she told me about the coffin ships, ‘that was the worst of all!’ She was shaking her head as she spoke. I remember thinking that I had never seen my grandmother like this but I remained quiet, and watched the embers burning in the fire.

     ‘They put the poor families in crowded and poorly built ships, bound for Canada with the promise of a better life of course. But very few made it,’ she was talking almost to herself. ‘Most of them ended up overboard after they’d succumbed to typhus or some other inescapable disease.’ All the time I just listened. It would be many years later before I understood what happened at that time.

       ‘Couldn’t someone help them?’ was the only question I asked.      

         'Laissez-faire, let it be,’ she replied, ‘that was the thinking of the government at the time.’ And she said no more.

        It was a couple of years later when I asked my grandmother about the story and why had it affected her so badly. She replied ‘our family were among those that suffered!’

        So as I dug and picked my potatoes, I was care careful not to miss a single one.

Mr Tyto lived with his wife in an old derelict farmhouse in Gusty Gully.  They were happy barn owls until one day a storm came and Mr Tyto went missing. Mrs Tyto was very upset and kept peeping out the broken roof to see if he was coming home. But all Mrs Tyto could see was flashes of light across the sky and big fat drops of rain fell on her face.

      ‘Oh I wish he hadn’t gone hunting on a night like this,’ and she turned to look at her four babies huddled together in the corner of the nest. Their white heart shaped faces peered up at her. They would need feeding but the cupboard was bare.

      The little barn owls began to make hissing and chittering sounds as they talked to each other. They never hooted like their neighbours, the tawny owls.

       ‘Keep the noise down!’ said their mother. But they were tired and hungry so they soon began to squabble.

       With each flash of lightening and each roll of thunder, Mrs Tyto shivered and wished the storm would end.

        Meanwhile, not very far away, Mr Tyto was sheltering in the garden of the home for waifs and strays. There was no way to get a message to his wife, informing her that he was safe and well, so he pulled a wing over his head and tried to get some sleep. It was a long night for both Mr and Mrs Tyto. The babies fell to sleep exhausted which was a great relief for their mother.  

         As if by magic, the storm passed and Mrs Tyto stretched open her wings to greet the sun. Just as she was about to close them, she saw her husband flying silently home and she almost cried. Well she would have cried had it not been for her hissing babies. So she laughed instead as Mr Tyto wrapped his wings around them all.

Walking in the woods earlier today I was surprised at the amount of nuts there were on the Hazel trees (corylus). This brought back the happiest memory I have of my grandfather.

      I was six at the time and it was just before he died, but thankfully we had this special time together. We had walked down through the valley where we lived, following the river as we went. My grandfather was a quiet man and I distinctly remember that I did most of the talking. I remember him wearing baggy trousers which were held up by a pair of braces which one hand clung to, the other was wrapped gently around my own. His shirt was white and collarless and on his head he wore flat cloth cap. He never went anywhere without his flat cap.

       ‘That is a magical tree,’ he said and pointed upwards to where I spotted bunches of green nuts. I loved nuts but had no idea (at that time) that they grew on trees.

        ‘Can we pick some?’ I asked excitedly. And so my grandfather removed his flat cap and we filled it with hazelnuts and with a couple of stones, my grandfather cracked a few for me to taste. Although they were green, they were the best nuts I have ever had.

        ‘We must leave some for the wood pigeons, jays, tits and the woodpeckers,’ said my grandfather and although slightly disappointed (or a tad greedy) I nodded my head in agreement.

        On the walk back home, I asked my grandfather why it was a magic tree. ‘For many reasons,’ he said, ‘but I think it’s because you can bend the branches in a knot in spring, and you can’t do that with many trees!’ Then he pulled out a couple of nuts from his deep pocket and said, ‘my father, your great grandfather once told me that he carried a few hazelnuts in his pocket to ward off the rheumatism. Now I am old too so I do the same thing!’

       Although I am not yet old, I picked some nuts from a hazel tree today, and did the same thing.

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 today, 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 light 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!

Travelling back to our home for waifs and strays filled me with inspiration to write. The journey through Mid Wales was nothing less than breathtaking. This ancient land with a history deeper than the rivers that thread their way around and down the mountains where an abundance of wildlife survives is nothing short of a miracle.

     In the heat of the sun we reached the coast of Snowdonia and Barmouth, a sort of vintage feel seaside resort, boarded by the stunning Mawddach estuary.  We couldn’t help but admire the longest wooden railway bridge in Wales. Built in 1867, this approximately 900 metre bridge stretches itself from Morfa Mawddach in Cardigan Bay to Barmouth in Gwynedd.

     For those of you interested in the wildlife of the area, there is certainly a lot to look out for. The hardy Welsh black cow grazes on the hillsides that overlook the long stretch of sandy beach. We spotted the grey seal, cormorants, and the little egrets running through the shallow water after fish. But if you have time to sit and wait, you probably would see the grey heron, mallard, teal and wigeon and of course, the long legged curlew.

     Also on the mountains of this beautiful countryside, you will find the Welsh mountain ponies. Once used for farming and mining, the hardy animals now roam freely, grazing on bushes and resting beneath the old oaks that grow in abundance around them.

     Our journey home took us through the old market town of Machynlleth and had we more time, then we probably would have checked out the book shops and the quaint arts and crafts which the town is well known for. But it was time to head home, to our waiting waifs and strays.