I received a small package in the post recently and when I opened it a small stone fell out. This stone came with a story about the harsh reality of life in eastern Africa.

     Searing heat and the lack of rain is almost unheard of in Wales, where I live with my kind and unassuming husband, but in some parts of Africa the lack of rain also means the lack of food. It is so bad in the Mwingi district, that families are forced to cook meals of stones.

     Mothers will light a fire and upon it, they will place a pot of water. After adding some stones to it, they will sit with their children and listen to it bubbling. They will tell stories to the children or sing to them until they are asleep. Of course, they are still hungry but they have a full helping of their mother’s love.

      As they explained, the recipe also shows you something else, that these farmers are resourceful and resilient. And with good quality seeds, they could survive and children would not have to sleep with rumbling tummies. The seeds in question have proven to survive droughts and have high nutritional and commercial value.

       Farmers, lucky enough to be given some of these precious seeds are then taught how best to plant them.  They dig a zai pit into the ground and then add some goat manure. A thin layer of soil is added after the first rainfall, only then can the seeds be planted. It is the manure that helps retain the moisture in the soil, making a little rain go a long way.

       It is hard to believe that here in Wales, we have more than our share of rain, I wish I could bottle it up and send it to the farmers so their crops can grow.

If anyone is interested in the work of FARM AFRICA, please check out their website.

There was something missing from the garden, thought Beryl as she looked through the kitchen window. It wasn’t Charlie, because he was in the greenhouse watering his tomatoes.

    ‘Hmm, there’s definitely something missing,’ she muttered to herself.

    Drying her hands in her apron, she went out into the garden.  She looked up at the sky and smiled. It was going to be another warm day.

    ‘Hello love,’ shouted Charlie, ‘how about an omelette for breakfast, with one of these?’  And he handed Beryl a bowl full of delicious fresh tomatoes.

   ‘Do you think there’s something missing from the garden Charlie?’ she said frowning.  

    ‘Missing!’ replied Charlie curiously, and came out into the garden to look. He straightened his flat cap and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Then, like the Lord of the Manor, he surveyed the cottage grounds.   

    ‘I just can’t put my finger on it,’ said Beryl as she followed Charlie down the garden path, towards the pond. They had worked so hard on their wildlife pond complete with lily pads. It was just as they wanted it, wild and natural looking.

       ‘I think you’re imagining it Beryl. Nothing has gone. Look!’  He gave a sweep of his hand. ‘The shed is still standing and vegetables are still growing and there’s the cat, stretched out on the bench.  No, it’s all here. You’re imagining things.’

     ‘I didn’t mean missing as in gone,’ she said. ‘I meant missing as in something else is needed. It still lacks something Charlie. I just don’t know what.’

     Charlie looked at his wife strangely. He had known and loved her for almost fifty years but he still didn’t understand her way of thinking. So he shook his head.

     Beryl reached over to Charlie and kissed him affectionately on the cheek.

    ‘I don’t agree,’ she said stubbornly, ‘it lacks something!’

     They both stood and looked around them. They had indeed created the perfect cottage garden, complete with an abundance of flowers and herbs, which, as you walked up the narrow path and brushed your legs against them, extracted heady scents. Unlike the smell from the compost heap, but then that was down the bottom part of the garden, by the tool shed. 

       They watched, as butterflies hugged the hollyhocks and delphiniums and the bees busied themselves extracting nectar from the flowers which trickled down from the hanging baskets.

      ‘No…it’s all here Beryl, we left nothing out and so nothing’s missing!’

      Beryl didn’t look convinced and wondered back into the kitchen with the tomatoes. Perhaps there was something missing from her own life, she thought, perhaps it had nothing to do with the garden. She was struggling to come to terms with retirement and spending all day every day with Charlie, well it just wasn’t what she had expected.

      She looked in the fridge for some eggs and but there weren’t any. So, she picked up her purse from the table and shouted to Charlie that she was popping to the shop across the road for some. Charlie waved and shouted back, ‘See you in a minute!’

         An hour later, Beryl returned with the eggs. She was smiling and humming to herself. Charlie looked at her suspiciously.

       ‘What took you so long?’ he asked ‘and why have you bought so many eggs?’

      Beryl didn’t reply. She just hurried past him and went into the house. Charlie looked through the kitchen window but there was no sign of Beryl or the eggs. He shook his head. Charlie had learned that it was often wiser not to ask any questions. Not that she would give him an answer anyway, at least not a straight one.

     Charlie went into the kitchen and put the kettle on and if he thought he would get an explanation, he was wrong. Instead, Beryl came back into the room and grilled some tomatoes on toast for breakfast. Charlie soon forgot all about the eggs.

      A few weeks later, when Charlie was looking for a towel in the airing cupboard he got the shock of his life. He opened the door and up popped three tiny yellow heads. They strained their scrawny necks towards him and opened their beaks for small offerings.

       ‘BERYL! ’  he shouted almost hysterically.

       Beryl hurried up the stairs, she had guessed what had happened and there was a huge grin on her face.

     ‘So this is what happened to my omelette!’ said Charlie pointing to the nest of broken egg shells and three hungry chicks.

     Beryl squealed in delight at seeing the miracle she’d created.

     ‘Well?’ said Charlie, trying to stay calm. ’What have you got to say for yourself?’

     ‘Oh my Gosh,’ was all Beryl could say. ‘They didn’t tell me what to do next!’

     ‘Well, you’d better do something Beryl before they either die of starvation or take over the house.’

     Beryl gently picked up her babies and placed them in her apron.

    ‘Did you know Charlie, that keeping chickens is one of the fastest growing hobbies in our country?’

    ‘And so is knitting!’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t know what you were thinking Beryl, but you can’t keep those animals in this house or in the garden.’

    Beryl didn’t listen to a word he was saying. She was checking for more babies.

     ‘What a shame, only three hatched out,’ she said frowning. ‘But there again, I didn’t expect any.’  

     For the next couple of days, Beryl devoted her time to caring for the new additions to the family. Charlie couldn’t believe the change in her. It was very unnerving, he thought.  

    ‘You will have to make a house for them Charlie, and a run to play in.’ 

    Charlie sighed. ‘You talk to them like children, Beryl. They’re chickens.’

     ‘They’re my children, Charlie. The ones we couldn’t have.’

     Charlie looked at Beryl strangely. Then he looked at the three tiny chicks who peered up at him. There were definitely similarities in babies and chicks, he thought. They all looked cute and needed proper care. He tried hard not to, but the urge was too strong, and he bent down to smooth their soft yellow heads. Charlie melted.

     ‘I guess they won’t take up too much room in the garden,’ he said smiling. ‘After all, there are only three of them.’

     Beryl hugged him but she had a worried look on her face.

     The following day, when Beryl was in the kitchen, she heard Charlie scream her name from the bathroom. She looked at her babies in a box besides her.

     ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘you have more brothers and sisters!’ Then she looked through the kitchen window at their beautiful garden.

     ‘There’s nothing missing now,’ she said smiling.

     Quite often, when I am working at the hospital, I gaze momentarily out of the window at the sea in the distance and long for my bench by the pond. I can almost taste the sweet tea as I imagine sitting there...waiting...watching ...for nothing in particular but aware, nevertheless, that at any moment I could see something amazing.

     Perhaps I have an overload of imagination. I can see why some people can turn a molehill into a mountain, as I certainly can, according to my kind an unassuming husband. What I can’t understand is what do people think about if their head is lacking this substance. 

      If you know anyone who hasn’t any imagination and you think that they could benefit from some, let me tell you a simple way in which to do this.

      First, you read to them! You tell them stories that will evoke pictures in their heads. They will see places they have never seen before and hear words they never knew. They will bring to life a part of themselves that had been hidden from view. Similar to opening a door that had never been opened. Now throw away that key!

       I quite often find that my imagination enables me to escape from life if I need too. As a chemotherapy nurse, I used to use my imagination more frequently to help cope with the demands of my job.

       So by encouraging people to use their minds as eyes, by listen to stories or tales, you are developing their skills to cope with life in difficult situations.

       Mr Einstein once said “Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge,’ he said, ‘is limited. Imagination encircles the world!’

       So next time I gaze out of the window and imagine my bench by the pond , I will taste my cup of sweet tea and think of Mr Einstein. I will smile to myself and remember the meaning of his words. To imagine, is to switch the light on and look at the world!

Many years ago in a valley in the Lake District, my father was born. Thankfully, he was too young to realise the tragedy that would soon follow.

     His father, my grandfather, was a genius. Although, he was as eccentric as they come. Being an engineer and an inventor, he spent most of his time in his workshop, designing, making, and testing his inventions. Often with great results but sadly, tragedy lay in waiting.

     One sunny Sunday morning, my grandfather asked my grandmother if she wanted to go on an adventure. She frowned at him because she knew what his adventures entailed, and it was always a challenge. This time he wanted her to ride in the side car of his old motorbike. She hesitated, and rightly so, as she was seven months pregnant with her eighth child.

      ‘Just around the lakes,’ he begged, ‘I need to try out the ball hitch that connects the car to the bike. This was one of his inventions.

      So whilst the nannies took care of my father (who was two at the time) and the rest of the children, my grandmother squished herself into the side car and waved them all goodbye.

      ‘Go slowly now,’ she shouted up to my grandfather, ‘there’s no room in here to deliver a baby!’ And off they went.

      They enjoyed the leisurely (yet noisy) ride around Lake Windermere and on their return to their country home, with its own lake and a small island, disaster struck.

       The ball catch snapped and both the car and the bike went in opposite directions. My poor grandmother ended up in a duck pond and my grandfather, in the hedge.

        Doctors and nurses came to the house where they desperately tried to save my grandmother and her unborn child. Thankfully, my grandfather survived with just a few scratches. Distraught, he went to his workshop and waited for news. When it arrived, it wasn’t good.

        The nurse told him that the next 24 hours were crucial, but it was unlikely that the either of them would survive. He should prepare himself.

        The following morning, when the nurse went to see my grandfather, she opened his workshop door and horrifically discovered that, at the age of 31, my grandfather had committed suicide in his Rolls Royce. She had come to inform him that his wife and child had both survived.

       We never met, of course, but I know that if we had, then we would have been the best of friends. I know this, because my father followed in his footsteps and I loved my father, much more than I ever told him.

Happy father’s day Daddy and Grandad!

‘Dear Reader, there is so much more to this story, that I will perhaps add to it over time!’

Just a short walk from our home for waifs and strays, you will discover acres upon acres of bog cotton! For those who prefer to use its scientific name, you can call it Eriophorum angustifolium.

     As my kind and unassuming husband and I walked across the moors we stood in awe at the amount of bog cotton we could see. Like a child, I ran through it, brushing the cotton ball heads with the tips of my fingers. It felt amazing.

    ‘I’ve always wanted to do that,’ I shouted to my kind and unassuming husband who just shook his head and smiled.  

     ‘Did you know that these cotton heads were once used for pillows, candle-wicks, and paper?’ I said, preparing to take some photos. My kind and unassuming husband nodded his head as he sat on the grass waiting for me. It was simply breathtaking to see so many of these plants, which belong to the Sedge family, swaying gracefully in the summer breeze. Then I remembered that they have been named The County Flower of Greater Manchester.

     The indigenous people of North America use this plant in the treatment of digestive problems and in cooking too. And in WW1, it was used to dress wounds. But the strands of the plant are not long enough to spin into thread or to weave into cloth. However, it’s amazing to watch their graceful dance with the wind and I felt privileged to have a front row seat.

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