Toad of Cro Hall.

Every year it's the same; Mr and Mrs Toad turn up in late February, and lay strings of eggs in the water that sits on our black plastic pool cover.

Every year I remove the eggs and replace them in a nearby lake. This year I shall take them just down the road to where my neighbour, Laurence, has recently dug a big pond (that Monty now uses as his private swimming pool). I'm sure she won't mind.

I think they'll be happy there; there are already a few big hungry Carp in the pond; donated by local fishermen.

I've been hearing Toad 'croakings' for the last week or so; now I know why.

p.s. I've just been clearing leaves, etc, from the pool cover, and found these three Newts. How on earth did they get there? At first I thought they were tiny fish!

I shall take them down to Laurence's pond when I take the Toad's eggs. I think the one on the left might be a Lady Newt. The other two have hand-like back feet; they are possibly Palmate Newts.

A Quiet Night.

I'm sure Lady Magnon won't mind me saying this, but (being a part-time Hermit) I really do enjoy my occasional solitude.

The house is quiet. Monty is busy working through an 'everlasting chew', and Bok's head is resting on my lap. All is silent other than the sound of some intermittent rain.

The stove is lit, and a Chicken tagine is gently simmering on top; the warm earthy aroma of cinnamon and cumin is already testing my patience. 

I ignore the TV (what there is of it), the radio, and even my favourite music, as I sit stroking Bok's snoozing head and revel in the peacefulness. 

There is something blissfully happy about sitting in a warm ancient cottage with a couple of dogs. At peace with the world, and at peace with myself. 

A contemplative evening, and 'Blissfully happy' enough to want to write about it.

Time for my tagine!

Forcing Rhubarb

There is no question that 'forced Rhubarb' is by far the most tender, the tastiest, and the most eagerly awaited.

As you can probably see above, I use a big old plastic tub weighted down with a stone slab as my forcer. The idea being to deprive the Rhubarb of light, making it 'force' it's way skywards. Old fashioned terracotta forcers are, of course, preferable; but they're expensive.

In about a week's time, the Rhubarb will be trying to lift the tub off the ground; that's when we'll have our first crumble of the year.

I can't wait!

M*A*S*H.

                         

I've been without my usual dose of BBC and ITV television for a couple of weeks, but I've not been entirely deprived. For some bizarre reason I still manage to receive several obscure channels, and have therefore been offered a refreshing choice of old TV shows.

The Waltons appear quite regularly, as does The Little House on the Prairie. Judge Judy still sends me to sleep after lunch, and that wretched 'rolling' Sky News bores me to death if nothing else is getting through 'unpixilated'.

One of the old favourites that I've not seen for years is M*A*S*H. For its time, it had to be one of the best scripted, and funniest, shows around. Simply re-acquainting myself with Klinger's dresses, Hawkeye's dry wit, 'hot lips' Houlihan, and the bumbling Radar, has been an unexpected and pleasurable result of my lack of proper mainstream TV.

With such a lot of total rubbish on TV, my visits to Medical Unit 4077 out in Korea has had my sides aching. I may have missed out on The Olympics, but I think I prefer M*A*S*H anyway.

What a great show it was!.

The Cranes Return.

One of the absolute delights of early spring, is seeing, and hearing, the return of the Cranes. It has to be the highlight of my ornithological year.

I took the above photo at 4.40pm on Saturday afternoon. As usual they were flying very high, so I'm quite pleased that I managed to get a picture at all. Sometimes much bigger groups go over, but this one was relatively small. There will be others.

I always find it an emotional moment; both when they depart, and when they return.

As they fly over the cottage, their high pitched calls shout out "Hi Cro, we're back", and I wave to them from maybe 200 metres below.

I never tire of witnessing this wonderful event.

Welcome home guys!

Almost my favourite activity.

With Lady Magnon away for a while 'Grandson-taming', I was obliged to offer her St Valentine's Day present by Emailed photo. It's a Peach Tree, which I've now planted up in the new orchard.

I really know nothing about Peach tree varieties, so it was simply a matter of looking at each picture on the labels, and deciding which one looked the most delicious.

The one I finally chose was called 'Robin', and is a white fleshed, self-fertile, variety. Unfortunately that is the extent of my information. Even Wiki offered no more.

Because Peaches are early flowering, they can be tricky. One needs to plant quite a few trees, and just hope that at least one or two survive any late frosts. I've just counted our trees; we have ELEVEN (even I'm amazed).

As you might have guessed; I'm very fond of Peaches!

Desert Island Books.

1. Pookie by Ivy Wallace.
2. The Four Men by Hilaire Belloc
3. Cautionary Tales also by Hilaire Belloc.
4. Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons.
6. Les Trois Contes by Gustave Flambert.
7. Any comprehensive Anglo/Latin/French Etymological Dictionary.
8. L'Etranger by Albert Camus.

Traditionally one can only take 8 (records) books onto one's desert island, but maybe I could smuggle just two more. I would hate to be without....

9. Mythologies by W B Yeats.
10. (and just so that solitude doesn't suck me dry of humour) Decline and Fall by Evelyn Waugh.

I've always hated the pompous obscure record choices of certain people on Desert Island Disc's, and have tried to be honest with my choice of books. They are not designed to impress, they are all works that mean a lot to me, from childhood to now!

Do you have a list?

NOTA BENE: For non Brits, 'Desert Island Discs' is an English Radio programme (devised by Roy Plomley) where 'celebs' choose what 8 records they would take with them, should they be banished to a desert island.