The Wassail.

                           

Unfortunately I forgot to take my camera with me last night so the above of Lady Magnon, from a previous year, will have to suffice.

It was a damp chilly old night, but we went a-Wassailing regardless.

This year's chosen tree was the Jonagold, up in the orchard by the barn.

Her roots were anointed with Cider, her trunk and branches given a good beating, and Cider-dipped toast hung-up for the benefit of the Tree Spirits.

Ye olde poeme was recited (by me), then we all returned home for more hot Cider and Mince Pies.

Wassail the trees that they may bare
you many a Plum and Pear.
For more or less fruits they will bring
as you do give them Wassailing.

Twelfth Night is a busy time. Not only did we go Wassailing, but all the season's decorations came down and were packed away in boxes until next needed. The tree was taken off to the bonfire where it will later be burned. In fact tonight (last night) things are very much 'back to normal'. The house suddenly feels very bare!

Mirror, mirror on the wall....

One of the strangest things about having grandsons, is seeing oneself reflected in their features.

Take Aussie George (my daughter Tenpin's oldest above) for example. We could almost have been twins. That's exactly how I looked at 10-11 years old.

Here he is showing off his new Christmas prezzie keyboard. I do hope he hasn't inherited my musical abilities; I abandoned my melodious mastery of the Cornet, Trombone, and Bass Guitar, after extreme frustration quickly got the better of me!

Go on Georgie boy; play us a toon.

(I wonder if he looks at pictures of me and thinks 'Oh no; that's what I could end-up looking like when I'm older')

Nails.

If I had kept all my nail clippings since I was little, I would by now have a mountain the size of Snowdon.

My nails grow at an unprecedented speed; it is a constant battle keeping pace with them.

Women often used to say how lucky I was, but I never saw it that way. Being a keen gardener, they are always grubby, and need almost daily trimming to avoid things sprouting from the accumulated dirt.

I am aware that nails depend on Biotin for growth, but I'd never previously thought of seeing from where it is sourced. Consulting Dr Google, it seems that almost everything I enjoy eating is rich in Biotin, so maybe I need to change my diet. (Maybe I enjoy eating those things BECAUSE they are rich in Biotin)

I have nothing against my Frankenstein nail growth, but it would be nice not to have to clip them several bloody times a week.

In a Reflective Mood.

I was dusting my mother's photo yesterday (as one does), when I suddenly had a thought that she would have adored our dog Bok.

As a girl she'd always owned Welsh Terriers, but she also loved our little college days Terrier mutt, Hamlet. It wasn't so much the look of the dog that appealed to her, but its character. She and Bok would have got on so well.

I know she would have loved our Christmas tree too. Again, it wasn't that it was expensive or beautifully decorated that made it likeable, but the spirit in which it was erected. Ours, this year, was once again the top off a Leylandii hedge, and it touched the ceiling. It wasn't particularly well decorated either, but it had 'ambiance'. She would certainly have approved of my homemade crackers, as well as, Monty, the Teddy Bear for a fairy.

She would have loved sitting by the fire here. The rusticity of our little cottage would have appealed to her enormously. I can picture her sitting with some needles sticking through a ball of wool on her lap, listening to The Archers, Bok by her side, enjoying the peacefulness of it all.

She would also have enjoyed this Saturday's Wassailing, then eventually sighing with relief as we take down all signs of festivities until next year.

She would certainly have said her White Rabbits, because it was her who made ME say them all those years ago.

Fox v Badger.

                                  

Prior to 2004 (when Fox hunting was banned) a rough estimate of around 20,000 Foxes were killed annually by organised hunting.

                                  

However, more than a staggering 33,000 Badgers were culled in England and Wales in 2017.

It is well documented that Foxes do a lot of harm to farm animals and fowl. I myself once had a whole Chicken-run-full of birds killed over night; I think I lost 20-ish, and was not happy!

Badgers, on the other hand do no direct harm to animals; they are mostly veggies. There are, of course, serious arguments about Bovine TB, but it is far easier to inoculate herds of cattle en masse, than it is to hunt down individual Badgers.

Why, therefore, do we still see hoards of urban snowflake anti-hunt saboteurs out in the fields trying to cause trouble for riders who are simply following the trail of some stinking sack? None of these so-called animal lovers seem to bother about the daily shootings, and poisonings, of innocent Badgers.

Could it be that the people who ride-out on horseback whilst wearing smart clothes, are the REAL target of this transparent class hatred? As I mentioned above; the actual hunting of Foxes is now banned, so there is no real reason for the saboteurs to be there.

These 'friends of Le Corbyn' obviously prefer to protest about a group of people riding-out together, than to wave their copies of The Morning Star at those who slaughter Bill Badger and his ilk (which is probably undertaken by 'working class comrades' in cloth caps and gumboots).

Yet another example of urban v rural socialist hypocrisy.

The Greater Spotted Apple Bird.

Lady M: Cro, come quickly, there's a strange looking bird in the Bramley tree.

Cro: Where?

Lady M: There, on the middle of that branch; it's sort of pale reddish brown.

Cro: That's not a bird.

Lady M: Of course it is, I just saw it fly in and land.

Cro: You're bonkers.

Lady M: Have a look through the binoculars.

Cro: No, I'm too busy.

Lady M: I think it could be a baby Hoopoe; it's chest is cinnamon colour.

Cro: It's just an old apple.

Lady M: Old apples don't fly.

Cro: Yours do.

Lady M: Come and have a look with the binoculars.

Cro: Come outside, and I'll show you.

Lady M: You'll disturb it.

Cro: Old apples don't get 'disturbed'.

Lady M: Walk quietly.... let's see how close we can get to it..... Oh, OK; it is an old apple; I did think it might have been!

Cro: Yeah, sure.

Wishing season.

                                   

I'm really not superstitious, but before I utter another word on every first day of every month I have to say "White Rabbit, White Rabbit". The first of January being extra special.

What effect does this have? Well, it annoys Lady Magnon, because I always give her a dig in the ribs in the early hours, so that she utters likewise. It also guarantees great wealth, perfect health, and an invisible barrier against those who would otherwise disturb our highly treasured tranquility.

Will it work in 2018? I'm not too sure!

Certain things are beyond the ability of my albino Rabbits, but if I had total control over them, they would be ordered to divert the rivers of Alpheus and Peneius, and clear the nearby stables of their fast accumulating, and stinking, excrement.

I may not be Heracles, but controlling my "White Rabbits" would at least give me some hope.

Happy new year!

P.S. After writing the above, I hear that someone has reported my neighbour to the 'authorities' for building a terrace without planning permission. Yet more proof that our tiny hamlet community has become a cesspit of jealousies, hatred, and retributions.

And it used to be such a calm and pleasant place to live; woe is me!