Friko's Advent Calendar

Advent Wreath

We are in the season of Advent and many children will be opening one window each day on their Advent Calendars; some will find chocolates behind the flap, some small toys, some an edifying picture.

Love it or hate it, there is no getting away from Christmas now; until the new year we will be bombarded with jingles, kitsch (OK, I admit that goes for my Advent header too) and, above all, pressure to shop, shop, shop. Everywhere I go people say "Are you all done for Christmas then? Got your presents ready? Shopping done?"

What I thought I'd do was to start an Advent Calendar of my own. A small oasis of sanity, for my own sake and maybe yours, if you'd like to pop in and open the day's offering.

Every day between the 1st December and the Big Day I shall publish a contribution to the season, a new window for the day shall be opened and a new little treasure unveiled. A story, out of literature or real life,  a picture, a photo, a poem or verse. Not all will be wholly pro-Christmas, some will be funny, some sad, some grouchy, some happy; much like life itself.

I hope you will find something to enjoy here once or twice in the coming days. And if you really can't stand the season: I'll see you when it's all over.

My wrist is getting better, I can use the fingers on the left hand again, although other movement is still
restricted.  Thank you, all you lovely people who have commiserated and sent good wishes.

We Bloggers are a special bunch!

Today is St. Andrew's Day, three weeks and three days before Christmas.

St. Andrew was the first-called of the Apostles, a Galilean fisherman and brother of St Peter.

In Scotland, the traditional dishes on this day are boiled or baked sheep's head, haggis and whisky.

In parts of Kent and Sussex, the right to hunt squirrels at St Andrewstide was claimed: "when the lower kind of people assembling together form a lawless rabble, and being accoutred with guns, poles, clubs and other such weapons, spend the greatest part of the day in parading through the woods  . . . . . .

and under pretence of demolishing the squirrels, they destroy numbers of hares, pheasants and partridges and, in short, whatever comes in their way.

Hasted History of Kent 1782

See you tomorrow?

Study in Black and White and Red, or One-Finger Exercises

In Late November

Why Do Dogs Eat Snow?

There is a River In There Somewhere

Frozen Crabapples, Anyone ?

SPLAT !

I am certain, everybody knows the feeling!

One minute you are walking downhill, on freshly fallen snow, carefully watching where you place your boots. You hit a hidden icy patch and  SPLAT!  the next minute you are flat on your back, bottom foremost, legs shot out you from under you, staring at the sky.

The first thing after that is mentally checking yourself over: are all moveable parts intact? Any cracks?
Any dents? Everything is OKish, only your dignity has taken a very hard knock.

It's only when you crawl to your knees and back upright again, that you realise you have broken your fall with your wrist, which is beginning to complain agonisingly about this unkind treatment.

So, there you are, I am now a one-fingered typist. Which means that I will neither be able to do much commenting, although I will still read your blogs, or write posts myself for a day or two, I hope. Only the thumb still works on my left hand,  how will I pull up my pants?

The absolute howler is that this is also my 333rd post. Instead of dazzling you all with a post of unsurpassed wit and wisdom, the jumping rabbit is all I have to offer in the way of celebration.

At least it's not the Kitchen Sink this time.

Best In Show.

WILLOW'S MAGPIE TALES No. 42

He's all aglow 

At the Village Show,

His hard work has paid off.

He's happy now, 

So happy now,

It was a labour of love.

He's on the up,

He's won the cup,

His parsnips did him proud.

He's happy now,

So happy now,

There's not a single cloud.

The sun shines bright,

His heart is light,

His cress is a great success,

He's happy now,

So happy now,

And bowing to the crowd.

Then comes the thought,

A horrible thought,

How to retain the prize

In years to come,

For there would be some,

Who'd laugh at his sprouts out loud.

He'd also fail 

With his curly kale,

it's painful to realise.

He's not happy now,

No, not happy now.

 For cheating is not allowed.

His heart is heavy,

For he can see

That pride comes before a fall.

For the winners next year

Will surely be,

Uncle Tom Cobbley and all.

I Did It! I Wrote a Sonnet!

Some of you know that I have very recently started to attend a Creative Writing class. Last week's homework was to write a sonnet. A proper, Shakespearean sonnet.' 4-4-4-2'. abab, cdcd, efef, gg.

So,  "Go away and write a sonnet", she said.

She gave us exactly twenty minutes' worth of explanation, a few pointers where to find examples and one of her own, which she admitted, was not perfect.  One line was not a perfect pentameter!

I ask you! How could she!

Ever since I left class last week I have been in a tremendous tizzy. Firstly, I lacked an idea. Write a sonnet about what? Love, a philosophical question,  a special object ? You have to start with an idea for a subject, otherwise you're stuck from the off.

I tried roses, love and philosophy not growing so well on my compost. I got as far as a first line for the first quatrain.  Then I tried out various techniques, like a whole lot of words that rhyme with roses or rosebushes, petal, scent and blushing brides, mildew, mulch and manure.

No mileage in that. I can grow roses, but not their poetic equivalent.

I read reams of sonnets. The more I read the more I knew I could never write one.

I asked Jinksy for help - you know the annoying blogger whose blog is riddled with poems, all her own. She sent me one of hers, a perfect example of the art, telling me how easy it is. I can tell you I was sorely tempted to pinch it and pass it off as my own. 

I could always feign illness and miss the class, hoping that teacher would have moved on to a nice, easy, short story, or maybe the definitive novel of the 21st century by the next lesson. I might have stood a chance with them.

It was that clever blighter, good old Stephen Fry, national treasure and avuncular polymath, and The Ode Less Travelled, who unlocked the poet within and helped me to give birth to my very own first sonnet. I imagined his fruity tones reading the chapter on sonnets and setting me an exercise, very kindly supplying the subject too. Apathy.

And would you believe, it worked. It is a dreadfully bad sonnet, a lot of rubbish, actually, (no, you do not get to say it isn't), but although it is definitely rubbish, it is rubbish in sonnet form. 

To choose our rulers we have won the right,

To stand up and be counted, one by one,

To fight against oppression with our might,

And brothers all, we did what must be done.

In modern times, the voters do not care

To vote, electoral apathy wins,

We moan and rail against our rulers’ fare

But we do not use the polls, for our sins.

I too am one of those who do not use

The polls, my right was taken from me when

I chose to live among an alien muse,

Her law being mightier than my pen.

But what’s the point, why should we vote, (for shame!)

Nothing would change, rulers are all the same.

A Country Man

It is gardener's 65th birthday tomorrow. It's been a thoroughly cold and dank day, the mist hardly lifted at all across the valley; still, we succeeded in pruning all the rose bushes.

Some needed staking too, the storms last week loosened the roots of several bushes. They suffer tremendously from wind rock and could even die over winter if they are not secured. After pruning they got a good dressing of mulch to soak into the roots. All that cosseting means that we'll have a good show of blooms again next year.

Gardener told us that his missis will take him out for a meal tomorrow, in honour of his birthday. Seeing that she's paying, he plans to go for the best steak they have on the menu.  She'll be choosing the pub, if it were left to him, he'd probably go for a 'all-you-can-eat' meal. He remembered a very memorable meal, he said, where he piled his plate so high that he couldn't fit everything he wanted on it. He asked the serving staff  "either give me another plate or a bigger one". "When they call it 'all-you-can-eat' then they'll have to give you as much as you can eat".  He has a point.

He also likes Sunday Carvery meals, when the choice is limited to one or two roasts, plenty of vegetables and one of these large, stodgy puddings like spotted dick or treacle tart.

"The turkey was massive", he said, " the chap gave me seconds once. I went back and said that I hadn't any meat left to go with my vegetables". He added, for good measure, " I likes a big dinner".

Gardener is one of fifteen children, seven brothers and seven sisters. I asked "one every year?"

"No, he said, "they left proper gaps, eighteen months for the first eight or nine, more later". Poor Woman. There was also at least one still birth. Gardener then went into a monologue on how suckling mothers don't fall pregnant, "she should have kept us all on the tittie for longer", he giggled. Gardener is a great one for laughing, there is humour in every kind of situation for him.

As a small child he suffered with serious migraines. "I was teacher's pet" he said, "I remember that I sat on her lap in class when she was reading stories". He continued, "she could tell when I was feeling poorly and she'd sit me on the floor in a corner, because I was bound to be very sick in a bucket before I felt better again. Then she let me sit on her lap and I'd go to sleep".

He and his brothers used to run the first 1 1/2 miles to school across the fields. They then picked up a mini school bus which took them to the nearest town. The driver was a lady whose little daughter sat on the single seat right in front, nearest her mother.

"She was a nasty little girl", he said, "Priscilla, her name was. Stuck-up she was. She used to turn round and poke her tongue out at us. So, when we got off the bus, we always gave her a little tap".

Then, with one of his laughs, "she only went and married my eldest brother", he said, " she was fifteen years younger than him. He divorced her again ", he said,  gleefully, "we could have told him it wouldn't work".

Gardener left school at fourteen and went "on the land". From the stories he tells, his life must have been very hard. He doesn't see it that way. He agrees that he has always worked very hard, from when he was a small boy, even before he left school. Country children work with livestock and in the fields almost from the day they learn to walk.

Gardener is tough and weather beaten, he does the work of two men, although he has lately taken to sit over his tea breaks for a little longer than he used to.  I am happy that he should do so, under strict supervision and with a tight rein on his bonfire sessions,  he is still worth his weight in gold and a mine of information on genuine country life. He is also willing to put up with us in spite of being townies from 'off'.

Time

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No. 41

No more than a fragment saved

A perfect fragment

In a perfect square

Of time itself.

Brush strokes of time

An exclamation mark reversed

Foretelling midnight and

The end of time itself.

Bid time return once more

In fragments, hour by hour

Counted by heartbeats

In a perfect circle

Until the end of time itself.

Eva's November

Klaus Baum

November wears a mourning band.

Storms tear the last leaves from trees, woods weep raindrops into muddy puddles, colours fade and die. Fallen leaves rot on sodden paths. Grey day follows grey day.

The feast of All Hallows on the first of the month is followed by the day we remember our dead, the feast of All Souls. It is the day when the whole family gets together to meet at the graveside of those they have lost.

In my childhood we travelled to my mother’s home village. Early in the morning we stood on a draughty station platform, stamping our feet and clapping our hands together to keep warm, waiting for the local train to transport us from the smoky town to the sleepy little village crouching among streams, mist shrouded fields, and an occasional avenue of poplars marching into the distance. Farm houses, surrounded by barns on three sides, lay low, broad and solid among them, sheltered by a stand of oak or beech trees from the prevailing East winds.

Photo thomas mayer archive

It was a homely, comfortable landscape.

Inside the stuffy carriage with its wooden seats you could smell the smoke snaking back from the engine. It was a short journey, with half a dozen stops at villages and a small market town along the way, but the regular rat-tat-tat of the wheels induced a light doze in the fug inside the carriage.

It was hard to alight into the cold, damp, air at our destination. We still had a long way to walk to
grandfather’s house, where we thawed out with a steaming mug of coffee. Aunt Little Kate gave us lunch, usually a hearty soup and good country bread, before the whole family got ready to walk to the cemetery, which was about 2 miles out of the village. We passed the forbidding reddish brown brick structure of the nunnery and convent school, looming out of the mist, and walked along an avenue of horse chestnut trees, the candle decked branches a picture in spring but now dark and bare, shiny brown conkers freed from their prickly wrappers sprinkled in the dead leaves underfoot.

The cemetery itself was enclosed by low stone walls, with large wrought iron gates in the side nearest the road. There were no other buildings there, no houses, no trees, just bare open fields, leaving the East wind to whistle through you to the bone.

At the graveside, the men fussed over positions for the wreaths and bouquets they had been carrying, the women lit everlasting candles in red plastic holders and set them on the flat stones, each of which denoted the final resting place of one of their ancestors or siblings.  Great grandparents lay there, grandmother too, and uncles and aunts who had died young. There was room for grandfather and a few more, who had yet to die.

“The grave is looking good, the cemetery gardener has made a good job of it this year.”  And  a mumbled “wonder who’ll be next, will we all still be here next year?”

The mourners for the day stood around in the biting wind, murmuring platitudes and wishing themselves out of it and back in Aunt Little Kate’s warm kitchen but not quite daring to suggest retreat for as long as grandfather stood his ground.

“The old man is going to catch his death of cold”, his daughters whispered, “somebody should get him to move.”

Grandfather was a stubborn old man, he knew the family had had enough but he would be the one to decide the time to leave, even if it killed him.

Finally, they all set off again, the short day was ending and various family members had trains to catch. Only uncle Hans, who owned a small transport business, had a car. It was too soon after the war, before the economic miracle took hold, a very few owned private cars.

Aunt Little Kate provided more coffee and cake; the talk was loud and free now, the relief at having escaped for another year palpable. They were alive, they had survived, things were looking up.

“See you at Christmas”, they said jovially, and “get home safely”.

“Gute Reise”.

By six we were stumbling back through the dark night to the station; no street lighting in those days to show you the potholes waiting to trip you up.

Walking home from the station in town was purgatory for the aching legs of a small child. It had been a long day, I was ready to fall into a dark and dreamless sleep.

Lunch With A Difference

We had a lunch party yesterday, where the combined age of the four guests was 335 years.
Is that a record in blogland?

It was not a duty party and I gave it not primarily out of kindness, although that did play a role.
Two of the guests had recently lost their partners, a widow and a widower, and I know that bereaved people like to be provided with a safe place to talk about the person they lost. A simple lunch where the others knew the deceased is just such a place. I was certainly not trying to matchmake.

An interesting point came up. The guests complimented me on the food and in the course of a discussion of TV chefs, recipes and cooking habits, Bob, still one half of a couple, asked:

"Would you cook like this if you were on your own? Do you take pleasure in cooking for its own sake, in cooking for others, or for the pleasure of eating?"

I had to think. I enjoy cooking, it can be a creative outlet. I enjoy eating, I enjoy entertaining; I am also lazy and like to do as little as possible but still make an impression. Beloved and I keep a reasonable table, we eat very little in the way of convenience food and have one home cooked hot meal every day we are at home.

Nobody can say for certain what they will do at a time in the future. My answer was:

"Yes, I would still cook enjoyable meals. I would buy more special things from delicatessens' counters, small quantities of luxury foods, perhaps more ready made meals with fancy ingredients. I believe food is a pleasure, not just fuel, and there is much to be said for treating oneself kindly. I would also hope to be able to open a bottle of wine with my meals, even if it would take me three days to drink it on my own."

The men round the table thought that they would probably not bother to cook much, although all three have cooked meals for themselves and their partners in the past; pub meals were mentioned and beans on toast. Allan said that most men wouldn't know how and would probably be unwilling to learn. Pauline, the widow, said, she certainly cooks herself good meals; any leftovers would be coming in handy another time. Pauline also said, that there is usually a bottle waiting to be finished in her fridge.

Is this really just a straight male/female divide? Is this a generation thing? Do people still cook proper meals or do they make do with TV cookery programmes while  eating  take-away?

I know what I prefer.

First Love

Lorenzo Quinn - First Love

There are nights when sleep will just not come to me and all that remains to do is to give up and give in, and compose myself in patience, allow myself to drift.

Mentally, I spread my wings and let my thoughts go where they will, flying high above the landscape of my memories, alighting here and there on the peaks and skimming the troughs.

One night recently I landed on a memory dear to me, but long in the past. When I was seventeen, there was a boy I loved very much. He was nineteen, a college drop-out, a bit wild, tall and lanky, who owned a Vespa. He was my first true love. We suffered all the pangs that young love brings, the heartache, the joy, the delirium; it was a time of soul-stirring, blood-quickening intensity. I have fallen in love since, each time there has been great excitement, but no later love has been as sweetly innocent, as new and shiny, as that first one. Neither set of parents approved, which made the experience all the more delicious. My schoolwork suffered, he vacillated between working and going back to college. When a parent put their foot down we broke up, only to get back together again promptly.

We had a blissful time of it, gloriously melodramatic, bitter-sweet; the kind of young love the great poets describe:

Love

Joyful
And sighful
And pensive in turns,
Now easing,
Now freezing
In anguish that burns,
Drowned in despair,
Demented with bliss,
The lover alone
Knows what happiness is.

Goethe


Alas, it didn’t last. His parents moved away and for almost a year he came back every few weeks, hitchhiking on the Autobahn, a distance of 600 km, a journey which took him from between twelve to eighteen hours, depending on the kindness of drivers.

Then it was me who left, I started a course in the UK which was to last for two years. We wrote each other passionate letters, but the inevitable happened. Life intervened, new experiences, jobs, studies, and eventually, a new love. He was heartbroken; occasionally, he visited my mother who, very unwillingly, gave him news of me. My new love soon failed but the misery of that commitment continued for many years.

We met just once more, many years later, in London. Germany and England played against each other at football and my first love came over with a group to watch the match at Wembley Stadium.

In the event, he missed it. We met at Piccadilly Circus, in the midst of vast crowds; the meeting was to be a very quick one, before he was to join his mates at Wembley.

Instead, we walked to Hyde Park, spending the whole of a brilliantly sunny afternoon sitting on a park bench; catching up, reminiscing, regretting what might have been and never was; finally falling silent.

We didn’t kiss until we said goodbye at the turnstile into the Underground station, he to return to his hotel to pick up his bag, me to take the train back to my unhappy life.

We could so easily have gone to his hotel;  perhaps it was too late for both of us.

It is true what they say, you only regret the things you didn’t do.

HAIKU

Magpie No. 4

drops of semi precious stones

a purple shroud.

Mighty Hanuman triumphs.

Thank you Willow for posting your interesting prompt early this week. It has helped me to post both my reply to it and my own, unrelated, post following below, on the same afternoon.

. . . . . . . . . And How!

Schubert At The Piano
by
Gustav Klimt

To understand the post title you have to go to the last post. If you don't want to do that, just watch me gloat!

Can you hear me buzz?  See me fizz? A bee in high summer with pollen available by the bucket load couldn't buzz louder. The best vintage champagne has nothing on me when it comes to fizz.

I have had the most marvellous day yesterday.

It started with a very positive review from he The Weblog Review People which put me in a good mood. Try as I might, I couldn't find the derisive laughter between the lines, so I gave up searching for it.

First stop of the day was a new venture. I have joined a proper creative writers group, with a teacher who actually rips your work to shreds. She is a tiny person, slim and lively, with a sharp mind, a quick eye for a ridiculous turn of phrase and the capacity to reduce her pupils to gibbering wrecks, in a nice way, of course; give her her due, she grudgingly allows you the hint of a brownie point when you've done well.

A quick stop in a lay-by to swallow a sandwich, then off to the next Buzz stop, a meeting of the German Conversation Group of the University of the Third Age (U3A), where we listened to Schubert Lieder and  discussed the (very average) poetry which Schubert used for them. The 'poets' were his friends, hence his, to my mind, rather misguided choice. Never mind, we soon dismissed the poetry and gave full  attention to his music. These were old recordings by Dietrich Fischer Dieskau, still among the best ever.

The group has a leader who is a highly intelligent, widely read, multi linguist, who used to be a teacher and has the teacher's failing, in that he likes the sound of his own voice.  (Sorry all you lovely teachers among my blogging buddies, but you have to admit that talking comes easily). This teacher, an excellent fellow otherwise, also likes to add a little giggle to the end of many of his sentences.

By the time evening came round I was too high to worry about cooking,
so we went to The White Horse at Valley's End.

The table in the alcove by the wood burner was waiting for us.

All that culture gives me a thirst.





PS: I really like teachers, some of my best
friends, etc, etc.

Elitism ?

At the last meeting of the poetry reading group, somebody absent that evening was reported as having complained that the group had become too precious, the poetry too high-brow, too difficult. My manners are sadly lacking, so I jumped in, instantly, with both feet. I will allow high-brow and difficult, but I will not allow precious.

Precious in this context is a derogatory term, almost an insult.

It was a fascinating evening;  an exploration of  Seamus Heaney’s lyrical translation of ‘Beowulf’, a heroic narrative written some time between the seventh and tenth centuries, in the language which is now called Anglo-Saxon or Old English. We  soon got off the poem itself and into all sorts of literary, historical, religious and even scientific avenues.  Several people there knew their stuff, the background to pre-mediaeval, Anglo-Saxon tradition;  I love the sort of discussion where the mention of one thing inevitably leads to another, a kind of intellectual ramble; I had a great time.

As a non-native, even after decades of living here, I still have to be careful what I say, or, at least, how I say it. Impulsiveness usually gets me into trouble; so I try to choose my words carefully.

Something is ‘precious’ when it is seen as affectedly refined, a little camp.  Anyone who enjoys poetry rather than simple, popular, verse, is definitely suspect.  (Perhaps that’s another reason I like blogging: I have never come across so many people who openly admit a liking for poetry, even write it themselves! as in blogland).

There was a Tory MP several years ago, who, when discussing funding of art institutes in this country, brought up ballet and opera. Of ballet, in particular, he said,

“What is that but a lot of poofters prancing around in tights”.

He and many others  maintain that no sane person could actually care for opera, ‘a load of screeching and dramatics’, costing a lot of money and really only of interest to a small elite.

Fair enough, they don’t like it. I can accept that.

There is an atmosphere in this country, which ridicules people who openly admit a liking for a high-brow art form.  Elitism. being elitist, have come to be pejorative terms too. Mention going to the theatre and it is assumed that you saw a show, a musical, a lightweight piece where all the performers are known by their TV appearances. At best, you are permitted to go to an open-air production of say, a Shakespeare play, or a concert in the park, where the picnic before the show and during the interval is the main event.

I am very happy to watch a whodunit on TV, a populist documentary or a costume drama. I might not go for the reality or talent show formula – my arthritic toe can’t  stay curled for long -  but I really don’t mind if watching people being publicly humiliated and tortured is your favourite evening’s entertainment.

Of course, the lady who complained about the kind of poetry being read and discussed at the meetings has a point; every member should feel comfortable with what’s on offer. We’ll have to ask her to be more specific about her objections.

Perhaps a compromise is in order.

As for me? I’ll stay an unreconstructed cultural elitist,  occasionally happily slipping into the elasticated waistband of popular culture.

Miscellany - In No Particular Order

Benno is totally confused once again. It happens twice a year, when humans take it into their heads that they must change all the clocks of the land. When it's a question of getting his five meals a day an hour early, well, he can cope with that. Come wintertime, though, they make him wait an extra hour for each of them. It's enough to make a dog weep.  And messing about with walkies too? What's that all about?

"What have I done to deserve that?" You can see in his eyes how hurt he is.

In case you're wondering about the five meals a day: he has a delicate stomach and needs his food divided into small portions, at regular intervals. He said he wouldn't mind a continuous drip feed, a kind of doggy feeding assembly line. He thinks it would make life easier for all of us.

This heron is standing in his very own assembly line of food, silently, infinitely patient, almost trancelike.Very occasionally he shifts position and, with great deliberation, steps sideways, like a stilt-walker, for a better vantage point.  Every so often that sharp beak stabs down and brings up a tasty morsel.  I stood and watched him for a long time; a perfect tool for meditation.

From The Heron by Theodore Roethke


He walks the shallow with an antic grace.
The great feet break the ridges of the sand,
The long eye notes the minnows hiding place.
His beak is quicker than a human hand.



I have recently been honoured with not one, not two, but three awards.  It is time I displayed this honour here and now.  

Herrad at her blog Access Denied - Living with Multiple Sclerosis
gave me the first one.
I am one of those moaning minnies who frequently whine and complain - well, we should all go and see what this patient and brave lady has to cope with, her unfailing humour and courage in the face of
this beastly disease is an example to us all.

Val of monkeys on the roof gave me this one.
I have only recently discovered Val, who lives on a Nature Reserve in South Africa.

I understand that internet access is  only so-so; in spite of it she manages to post fantastic posts telling us about her world and the world of the animals who share it.

Val's blog is better than a nature program on TV; her stories are instant and immediate, they talk about yesterday and today, rather than what happened last spring.

Jinksy of napple notes is a long time favourite.
Or she would be, if she didn't take the mickey so mercilessly.
Usually in verse form!

Anyway, she took it upon herself to design, execute and hand over this award for me and me alone - I am saying this here, Jinksy, so you can't change your mind and distribute it amongst all and sundry -.



Thank you all very much.

The Bremen Town Rock Musicians

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No. 39

One day, a long time ago, I was walking in the forest near the town of Bremen, when I came across a very old cat, seemingly all alone and lost. 

I rather like cats. 

“Here, kitty, kitty”, I called out and from my pocket pulled out a bit of sandwich which was meant to be my lunch. I held it out in front of me and the cat came closer. I knelt down, still holding out a morsel, when I felt sharp teeth going into my leg through the cloth of my trousers. I yelped and looked round, seeing that a mangy cur had got hold of my leg, fangs bared and slobbering. 

“Let go, you nasty beast”, I shouted, trying to kick at it with my free foot.

The dog held on. By now the cat had come close enough to snatch the bread;

it ignored the bread, however, and sank its teeth into my hand instead, causing me excruciating pain.

I shouted and screamed, kicked and cursed, the beasts held on.

“Hallo, hallo, hallo, what have we here”; a shrill voice rang out from the wood and a ragged donkey appeared.

“What’s all the fuss about”, the donkey brayed, ‘ you are making enough noise to wake the dead”. The donkey continued “ Griselda, Grimper, let go  for now, but keep a close eye on this human; we know they can’t be trusted”.

Cat and dog let go. I sat on the ground, rubbing my wounds. 

The donkey asked me what I was doing in the forest, so far from other humans. 

“Walking, just walking”, I said. “Minding my own business and trying to be kind to the cat.”

“Walking? Just walking?” the donkey clearly didn’t believe me.  “Just walking?” it repeated. “Being kind? Humans being kind?”

The donkey swished his tail, the dog scratched its flank, the cat yawned. 

Finally the donkey said “ this is a matter to lay before the boss, let’s call him.”

The three produced the most earsplitting noise. it was worse than being mauled. The donkey noticed that I winced. 

“We are singing to our conductor and soloist. When he comes he’ll sort this problem out for us. Conductors and soloists have special powers, you’ll see”.

Sure enough, a fourth creature appeared from the top of the trees, flying down to us, crashing into trunks and branches on the way. His coat was moth eaten and he’d lost most of his tail feathers a long time ago, his comb  but a floppy semblance of his former crown.

The donkey cleared its throat. “This human was found trespassing. He says he was walking, just walking and being kind. What shall we do with him?”

The cock croaked. He cawed. He stalked up and down and round and round.

“He was being kind, you say? Hmmm”. The cock scratched at the ground.

He seemed to come to a decision.

“Humans are never kind”, he said. “All four of us were threatened with death by our former masters. Would you believe, they were going to turn me into soup? We all ran away before they could do for us; we decided to be our own boss, form a band and earn our living that way. Our kind of music is all the rage and we will soon have earned enough for homes in Florida, Acapulco, Paris and Berlin. In the meantime we live in a very desirable residence right here in the forest. The former owners, a band of robbers, kindly left it to us when they were suddenly called away.”

Hearing this sad story almost broke my heart. 

“ I am so very sorry for the treatment you have received at the hand of humankind’” I said; “Let me make it up to you. You can trust me, I never hurt an animal.”

“And how would you do that, make it up to us, I mean,” the cock asked.

Out of nowhere, I had a brainwave. Sitting there on the ground, the idea hit me. I knew what I would do.

“I am going to become your manager,” I said.

And that’s why I now have second and third homes all over the world. The band? They’re doing fine, since you ask. Still in that wood near Bremen, but we’re getting there. We’re getting there. 

Gathering Sloes

Frost patterns on the glass roof of the conservatory.

We have had the first serious frosts,

which means it's time to go into the woods and gather sloes.

Sloes are the fruits of the Blackthorn, used to make 

sloe gin, wine or jelly.

In olden days they were used as a household remedy: 

By the end of October, go gather up sloes

Have thou in a readiness plenty of those

And keep them in bedstraw. or still on the bough

To stay both the flux of thyself and thy cow.

Tusser

Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry 1573

Benno is showing me the path into the woods.

At the very end of the month, there is still a memory

of the glory that was October. 

We have arrived.

Blackthorn loves a sunny place at the edge of the woods,

not too tidy, often by a stream between the woods and the fields.

In Spring, a blossoming blackthorn hedge makes itself known

from far away as a frothy white cloud hugging footpaths and lanes. 

This is what we came away with:

more than three kilos of sloes,

Well done, Benno and Friko.

Beloved will do the rest.

Sloes for keeping are best taken not quite ripe,

 and stored still on the branch;

 but sloes for wine or jelly

(wherein some mix them with apples to take away their sharpness)

should be left until after they have weathered

a sharp frost or two.