The Dorset Family

No photographs of the Dorset Family! No opportunities, so here's a photograph of Arthur this morning, saying, 'It's about time we went out for a walk!'

On Tuesday evening I had a call from my eldest daughter, asking if it would be all right for her to visit the following day. She had been intending to descend on us without warning, but her elder daughter said, ‘Mum, haven’t you read Janice’s blog? She said that it's lovely to see people, but a little advance notice would be helpful.’

I was surprised at that. I didn’t know that Marnie read my blog. Anyway, Gillian took the advice to heart. On Wednesday, Gillian, her daughters, one son-in-law and all six of her grandchildren arrived. Their dogs remained in Dorset.

Five-month-old Hailey was passed to me and sat happily on my knee watching her cousins. The other three girls, Marnie’s daughter, Isla, who is twelve, Kiri’s daughter, Ariella, four, and Callum’s daughter Melia, two and a half, did what girls usually do. They settled down on the floor with paper and coloured pencils, then gravitated to construction toys with gears and cogs. It’s clear that they spend a lot of time together, giving, taking, and working cooperatively.

Fergus, who is nearly eleven, concentrated on playing with the dogs, particularly Gilbert. He is very much at ease with animals.

 Luca was busy pressing buttons and investigating the contents of cupboards and drawers. He will be three in October and is ‘into everything’ as the saying goes. He needs a dedicated full-time adult to monitor his actions, and prevent them if necessary possible. He found the cat litter tray especially interesting. The texture of the granules was pleasing as it poured through his fingers. Naturally, the more he was dissuaded from investigating it, the greater was the fascination. Fortunately, the tray only contained unused litter! The cats were prowling around, quite unaffected by the sudden influx of people, particularly small ones.

Gilbert and Arthur were intrigued by the baby and gently licked her toes, which she seemed to enjoy. Roxy, of course, is an old hand paw with little humans, and knew which ones to attend, principally Luca, who was waving his food around in a tantalising manner.

Barry took Marnie and Dean into the garden, to pick apples and plums, of which there are an abundance. All the children, apart from Hailey, had a turn around the garden – such a Regency phrase!

Our garden is no longer a children’s space, in the sense that they cannot play football, cricket, or tennis in it, or ride their bikes, but it is full of interest. We have tried to divide it into ‘rooms’ with a winding path and arches which support a variety of climbing plants. Actually, it’s more the case that the plants support the arches now.

Marnie was in seventh heaven. Her ambition is to have a self-sufficient garden. She already grows a few vegetables, but has plans for much more when she and Dean can acquire a house with a bigger garden.

She came back into the house laden with fruit, a branch (!) of bay leaves to dry, thyme, oregano, a number of different mint plants, which she can root on, and a great quantity of cobnuts. She and Paul, her father, have been engaged in creating chutneys and pies. The crab apples are not ripe, so she will have to make a return journey to pick those for crab apple jelly. I haven’t made that for some years now as somehow everything in sight gets covered in stickiness.

They had to leave early as Fergus had a football match near Blandford. He’s a tall boy and plays goalkeeper, like his sister, Isla, and just as his mother used to.

All too soon, the house was relatively empty again and peace descended. The dogs and cats slept well, Gilbert retiring to (our) bed shortly after his supper at 6:30.

Tonight, there will be more upheaval for Arthur when Susannah returns. He will be so excited. He’s a lovely little dog, very faithful and affectionate and we shall miss him when he returns to London with Susannah and her cats.

Alaska

 

Alaska

Alaskan sunset

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Why did Russia sell Alaska?

Russia discovered Alaska in the first half of the eighteenth century, claiming the coast for the Russian Empire in 1741. The first settlement was made on Kodiak Island in 1784, but it didn’t become a formal colony for another fifteen years.

Few Russians settled in Alaska, finding it inhospitable. Primarily, they traded in sea otter skins, which were popular with the Chinese, because of their fine, soft quality. Sea otters had been hunted almost to extinction by the first half of the nineteenth century.

Whaling and fishing were secondary pursuits, with a trade in ivory from walrus tusks. Timber and ice were plentiful and were sometimes supplied to Russia and, on occasion, to California.

In 1867, impoverished by its three-year war (1853-1856) and eventual defeat in the Crimea, Russia desperately needed money to return the country to some stability.

The US Secretary of State, William Seward, agreed to buy Alaska from the Russian Empire for $7.2 million. It was thought at the time to be an expensive, foolish purchase, and was denigrated as ‘Seward’s Folly’ and ‘Seward’s Icebox.’ The procurement added more than 586,000 square miles to the US, but no-one thought the remote territory a worthwhile economic purchase. There is historical disagreement over that opinion.

However, almost thirty years later, in 1896, gold was discovered. That precipitated the Klondike Gold Rush, which, followed by the discovery of oil, ensured that the acquisition of Alaska came to be celebrated.                                                             

Would Russia attempt to ‘reclaim’ Alaska one day?

Berries and crops

 

Berries and crops

                                        Taken through glass. 

Juvenile woodpigeon, in foreground, and adult on pyracantha.

In July we noticed rowan berries ripening in the woods, and that seemed exceedingly early. Rowan berries normally start colouring up in late August.

I caught the tail end of a report on the radio, suggesting that autumn and particularly winter would be challenging times for wildlife this year. The long, hot, dry summer has led to trees losing their leaves prematurely, and unripe acorns and fir cones are also dropping. Nature’s larder may not be able to provide so readily for the little creatures that rely on it.

In the garden, the berries on the brambles have also ripened early. Most noticeable have been the pyracantha bushes. The red berries are already being greedily and speedily consumed by wood pigeons. The orange and yellow berries are always later to ripen, but it seems that they, too, will be earlier than usual this year.

Farmers are warning that some vegetables will be more expensive. A strange weather system has given heatwaves and, in some areas, record rainfall, which has resulted in sodden fields and poor yields. For example, broccoli production is down by 50%.

I suspect that many root vegetables will be in shorter supply than usual. Carrots have increased in price by more than 34% in two years, mainly due to flooded fields.

The answer is clear. If you have the energy and the determination, ‘growing your own’ is the route to follow.

Dappled

 

Dappled Sunday

                                        Dappled Connemara pony

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

It was beautiful in the woods this morning, with the sun slanting through the trees, casting dappled light on the peaty ground.

The first lines of a verse came into my mind:

  I had a little pony,
His name was Dapple Grey.

I couldn’t remember the rest of it, so looked it up when I reached home. Somehow, I wish I hadn’t!

This is the traditional English nursery rhyme:

  I had a little pony,
His name was Dapple Grey;
I lent him to a lady
To ride a mile away.

She whipped him, she slashed him,
She rode him through the mire;
I would not lend my pony now,
For all the lady’s hire.

It probably dates back to the 1800s. Iona and Peter Opie, in ‘The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes’ suggest that it originated about 1825.

I discovered another version, which was popular in USA:

I had a little horse, his name was Dapple Grey,
His legs were made of cornstalks, his body made of hay.
I saddled him and bridled him and rode him off to town,
Up came a puff of wind, and blew him up and down.
The saddle flew off, and I let go -
Now didn’t my horse make a pretty little show?

 

No post

 

No post today.

Nothing to say.

Too much going on in the background.

Cast down by events.

Nothing life-threatening.

Back soon.

Summer visitors

 

Summer visitors

Arthur goes to bed with at least one toy.

Arthur has come to stay for a couple of weeks while his owner visits the South of France for a few days. It is a working holiday for her. She was recently made redundant but managed to get another short-term contract, so is working remotely. She has gone with a pregnant friend whose parents have a holiday home there.

Arthur was always going to stay with us, but the cats had to come, too. The cat-sitting arrangements fell through while Susannah waited for confirmation of her new job. Solomon, Lenny, and Zula are safely ensconced in what we laughingly call the South Wing, East Wing, West Wing?? another part of the house anyway, where she and Frankie lived for almost six years. It’s just the three old bedrooms of our children, nothing spectacular.

Herschel and Jellicoe are fascinated and sit near the dividing door when I go in to ‘see to the cats.’ Arthur dances around outside, not desperate to visit his housemates. They are not nearly as tolerant as our felines, who give him a good ignoring while attempting to steal his food.

                                        Stopping for a portrait

Arthur is a very obedient little dog – a working Cocker spaniel, with boundless energy and the sweetest nature. Out of the house for a walk, he dashes hither and yon, but never goes far from whoever is walking him, currently Barry. He is polite to other dogs and people but is not really interested in them. Susannah has trained him exceptionally well. He is a great companion for her and an alert guard dog, though he would greet any intruder with immense joy.

I now have two dogs at my feet. Dogs seem to need more contact and reassurance than bitches. Roxy comes to us now and again for attention, but she’s much more independent than the boys. I suppose that’s the nature of the beast. The girls instinctively nurture their young.

 
Ready for morning cuddles

Summer holiday

 

Summer holiday

                                    Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

It’s lovely to live in an attractive part of the world, though it can be a disadvantage if hordes descend upon it for their summer holiday. Generally, it’s the coastal regions that spring to mind, but there are other bucolic areas that attract holidaymakers.

I have no wish to mention the name of one particular American visitor to the unspoilt loveliness of the Cotswolds. He has as much right as anyone to a vacation, though I understand he has had several already since being appointed to his role as 2iC USA. He and his family and a large cohort of security ‘people’ have descended upon Dean, a picturesque hamlet in Oxfordshire. It and its environs are home to many slebs, including Jeremy Clarkson, David Beckham, Ellen DeGeneres, and former Prime Minister David Cameron. The locals are accustomed to seeing ‘famous’ faces and are unfazed by them.

However, 2iC’s advent has caused enormous disruption in the area, with public access being closed and local residents having to prove their identity as they attempt to go about their daily lives. Though it may only be for a few days, it has drawn attention to 2iC in a quite remarkable way, inflating his profile, as he travels from A to B in his 29-vehicle motorcade.

To put it into some sort of perspective, 1iC, the Orange One, has a circus of forty or fifty vehicles. Putin has around twelve vehicles and Xi Jinping about ten (in China) The French President has three to five vehicles, while the German Chancellor has around six. The Japanese Emperor has three to five vehicles, and the Dutch Prime Minister has one of two, or perhaps a bicycle.

As the UK Prime Minister fulfils his                                                                                 duties, his motorcade consists of four to six vehicles, though that number may increase for high-risk situations or state visits.

Meanwhile a typical Royal motorcade would involve between three and six vehicles, with more for state occasions and visits.

The question that comes all too readily to mind is whether 2iC is practising for a more significant role in the future?

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Steam fairs

 

Steam fairs

Today, the Glorious Twelfth, has felt like a Saturday all day long. It’s also hot.

We all have different interests and hobbies. Sometimes they overlap, perhaps the most obvious one being photography.

My eldest daughter and son-in-law spend many summer weekends at steam fairs across the country. It is a way for Gillian to ensure that Paul is released from the constant calls for him to sort out someone’s plumbing. He’s a reliable, hard-working plumber and has a reputation for charging fair rates. In fact, he doesn’t charge what he's worth, which is another reason his work is in demand. He has an abiding interest in military vehicles, not surprising, I suppose, since his father was in the army and Paul lived in army quarters for much of his young life.

He enjoys repairing vehicles and preparing them for exhibition. A few years ago, he acquired a 1956 Daf YA Dutch Army Weapons Carrier. He tinkered with it, found authentic spare parts, and eventually drove it to rallies. Then he painted a twin-axle caravan to match – olive drab! – and hauled that along, too.

Following that, he bought a Bombardier military motorcycle and a Hillman 12 RAF staff car. His daughters Marnie and Kiri take it in turns to drive the car. I’m not sure how the motorbike gets to the steam fairs – in the Daf, I suppose, along with the dogs.

Sometimes, Gillian and Paul go to rallies on their own. At other times, one or two of their children accompany them with their families, towing a more conventional-looking caravan – that is, not olive drab.

Luca, 2, and Ariella, 4, in camouflage outfits!

It’s a grand way to escape from the humdrum of daily life. The rallies are held in fairly remote locations in large fields, so there’s plenty of room for dogs and small children to play safely. Many connections are made, and much knowledge and experience are gained. Paul returns with ever more plans and Gillian smiles and leaves him to it. 

Velocipede

 

Velocipede

Velocipede

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The velocipede was the first proper bicycle with pedals. It was invented in France in the 1860s and manufactured from 1867 to 1869, to cater for the new obsession with bicycles. With its iron frame and wooden wheels with iron tyres it gave the rider a most uncomfortable ride. It was popularly known as the bone shaker.

Penny farthing.

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

In 1870 it was superseded by the penny farthing. The name came from the British coins, penny and farthing. The penny was significantly larger than the farthing and a side view of the bicycle showed an appreciably bigger front wheel and a very much smaller rear wheel.

The front wheel was often greater than fifty inches (1m. 27) and meant that the machine was capable of high speeds because each revolution covered more ground than a smaller wheel. However, the wheels had solid rubber tyres and there were no brakes or gears. The only source of shock absorption was provided by the saddle. With a high centre of gravity and no safety devices, riders often flew over the handlebars.

It was a heady experience for those who embraced it, but by 1879 they were beginning to fall out of favour. Modern bicycles were being produced, which had gears, brakes, and pneumatic tyres and were more comfortable to ride. They were promoted as ‘safety bicycles’ because they were easier to mount and closer to the ground, so that any falls were less traumatic.

The Beachy Head World Championship Penny Farthing Hill Climb is the only time trial of its kind in the world and has been held annually since 2018 when nine competitors took part. The 2025 event took place on Sunday 10^th August and attracted thirty-nine riders from UK, Belgium, France, Germany, the Netherlands, Puerto Rico, Switzerland, and USA.

The public is encouraged to watch and applaud the competitors. Though it may not have quite the pizazz of the Tour de France or the Giro d’Italia, it is nonetheless great fun for the crowds.

It is an amateur event and is open to anyone with either a modern or a traditional penny farthing with a wheel diameter greater than forty-six inches.

The course is almost three miles long and rises from the starting point on the Western Lawns to the finish line at the Beachy Head car park. Riders take off at one minute intervals with the faster riders going first. The fastest riders take about twelve minutes to complete the course.

The winner receives a ceremonial ‘Block of Wood’ trophy which bears the names of past winners. Plans are already afoot for the 2026 time trial to discover the 'King of the Mountains' (East Sussex version)

More pigs

 

More pigs

                                Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Hilary mentioned a pig in a poke. It was the custom to carry piglets to market in a poke or sack. Buyers did not inspect the contents of the sack, so were buying blind and in good faith, laying themselves open to sharp practice.

Sometimes a customer would pay for or trade for a pig in a poke only to discover, too late, that a cat had been substituted. When the buyer opened the sack to look at his purchase, the cat would leap out, leading to the expression, ‘letting the cat out of the bag.’

In 1555, the saying ran:

I wyll neuer bye the pyg in the poke               I will never buy the pig in the poke

Thers many a foule pyg in a feyre cloke      There’s many a foul pig in a fair cloak

Pig iron is nothing to do with pigs, unsurprisingly. The crude iron ingots are brittle and are not used directly and need to be refined. Pig iron is used in steel production, cast iron and wrought iron. Molten iron was poured into a channel, called the sow, which had smaller moulds branching from it. The resulting small ingots are said to resemble suckling pigs.

St Anthony’s pig, or Tantony, is the smallest pig in a litter, maybe a pet pig, sometimes called the runt. Saint Anthony is the patron saint of pigs and pig keepers. He was also entreated to heal skin diseases like ergotism which was endemic in mediaeval times. This ailment resulted from eating grain infected with a fungus that caused convulsions, gangrene and death. Those afflicted often suffered severe feelings of burning, which gave rise to the common name of St Anthonys Fire.

The Hospitallers of St Anthony nursed the sick and would often receive a Tantony. The little pig would be dressed with bells and allowed to wander the streets. Local people would feed the pig, which became a symbol of charity and caring.                             

There are three canddates for the name of Pig Island. The first was an unflattering name for New Zealand. Captain James Cook introduced pigs to New Zealand in the second half of the 18^th century He may have entertained charitable intentions, to allow pigs to breed and provide food for the indigenous people. The pigs thrived and did much damage to the ecosystem and biodiversity. They remain a persistent problem.

                                        Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The second Pig Island, or Pig Beach, is in the Bahamas. This is an island uninhabited by humans, but providing home for a colony of swimming pigs, some goats and a few cats. The pigs are a tourist attraction, and swim out to boats hoping for tasty treats.

The third place is in Thailand. Koh Madsum, or Pig Island, lies thirty minutes off the coast of Koh Samui. The pigs live on the beaches and greet tourists with joy. They enjoy treats like watermelon.

There are conflicting stories of their arrival on the island. One source claims that the pigs swam to Koh Madsum from an island nearby. Another story says that a local man rescued four underfed pigs from a market and took them to the island, where they settled in and became happy inhabitants, relaxing on the beautiful sands and swimming in the clear waters. Visitors can expect to be greeted by about ten friendly pigs.

 

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

 

Happy as a pig in muck

 

Happy as a pig in muck

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

This expression was first used in Britain around 1870. People had noticed that pigs seemed to enjoy wallowing in mud. Much later, they realised that pigs cannot sweat to cool their bodies and so wallowed to cool down. The mud was also useful for ridding the skin of parasites. A number of other animals enjoy a mud bath including the hippopotamus (remember the Flanders and Swann song, ‘Mud, mud, glorious mud?’) the rhinoceros, the elephant, and the warthog.

Pigs are intelligent, sentient beings, and can experience a range of emotions. They can become congenial pets but need companionship and careful handling and socialisation. If not properly socialised, pigs can become aggressive. 

In UK, a person seeking to keep a pig must register as a pig keeper, report and record the pig’s movements, and acquire a County Parish Holding (CPH) number detailing where the pig lives. If the owner wants to take his pig out for a walk, he needs to carry a special licence.

Pigs live between five and ten years, though some might live for twenty-five years. Even small pigs can weigh seventy kilos, and some breeds weigh four times as much

When a pig is happy, it may smile and wag its tail. It may also give soft grunts and come to its owner for a scratch or a stroke.

My sister loved pigs when she was little. She was fifteen years older than me so I never witnessed the porcine interaction!

Walking in the woods

 

Walking in the woods

 Crow preparing to pick up treat from the water

Many of the pleasures of walking in the forest or the woods are the sounds. There are the birds. The raucous cranking of the crows accompanies many a dog walker, who follow in the expectation of receiving a treat. Wood larks spiral into the air, their song diminishing as they rise higher. Great tits and blue tits tseep at each other from branch to branch. 

Red kite, scavenger more than predator

Maybe a red kite will be spotted, its high eery whistle echoing across the sky. 

Mallards quack in alarm before taking off from the water.

The wind soughs through the tall trees, and rattles the dry grasses at the water’s edge.

The tin whistle man was very private and we never managed to take a photograph of him playing his whistle.

Years ago, we would occasionally come across the tin whistle man. We would hear his music before we saw him. He would stride along the rough paths, playing his tunes. We wondered why he came outdoors to play. Had his wife banished him from the house? Was he summoning up nymphs and sylvans? Did he simply enjoy playing his tin whistle in the open air, the notes free to escape into the wild?

We have not seen him for a few years now and suspect his spirit has moved on. We thought it always a privilege to see and hear him.

The Phantom Tollbooth

 

The Phantom Tollbooth

This story, published in 1961, is about a young boy for whom the term ‘ennui’ might have been coined.

The first chapter begins: ‘There was once a boy named Milo who didn’t know what to do with himself – not just sometimes, but always.

When he was in school he longed to be out, and when he was out he longed to be in. On the way he thought about coming home, and coming home he thought about going. Wherever he was he wished he was somewhere else, and when he got there he wondered why he’d bothered. Nothing really interested him – least of all the things that should have.’

On returning from school one day he discovers that a mysterious exceptionally large parcel has been delivered to his bedroom. Unwrapping it he finds a magical tollbooth which he must assemble. 

There are signs and rules and coins for paying tolls and a beautifully detailed map, showing places Milo has never heard of. Deciding he has nothing better to do with his time he gets into his toy car and begins his journey through the Kingdom of Wisdom.

Tock the Watchdog

There is much wordplay and  many puns. For example, Tock the Watchdog literally has a clock in his body and can fly, because, of course, time flies. The Island of Conclusions is reached by jumping. There is a vehicle that goes without saying and the two princesses, Rhyme and Reason, have been banished from the kingdom so that confusion reigns.

Half a child, or .58

'Oh, we're just the average family, . . . mother  ,father and 2.58 children - and, as I explained, I'm the .58.'

Although this is a book primarily written for children, there is much in it to amuse adults.

Norton Juster (1929-2021) was an American architect and writer, His friend Jules Feiffer (1929-2025), drew the illustrations for The Phantom Tollbooth.

Painted snails

 

Painted snails

Cuban painted snail (Polymita picta)  

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Eastern Cuba is the only place in the world where the oriente tree snails or Cuban painted snails (Polymita picta) can be found. The large, colourful land snails are often referred to as ‘living jewels’ but they are critically endangered because their vibrantly coloured and patterned shells are attractive to shell collectors and traders. In addition, their habitat is under threat. Frequently the shells are used to make bright necklaces or unique decorative objects, appealing in the tourist trade.

The snails are protected under CITES (Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species) Capturing and selling them is illegal but poaching can be a profitable business. Legitimate sales require permits and proper documentation and there are bona fide sellers. One UK collection of seven shells was advertised at £160.  

Though not proven, one theory for the variation in colour and pattern is that the snails adapt their colouration to avoid predation. Colour can also be affected by diet – they eat a variety of materials, including lichen, moss, and fungi. They also feed on growths on tree bark, which helps to preserve the health of the trees.

In a bid to understand the genetics of these extraordinary molluscs, and to save the six known subspecies, research is being conducted in Cuba, at the Universidad de Oriente, and at Nottingham University.

In Cuba, Professor Reyes-Tur is attempting to breed the snails in his own home. They are flourishing but have not yet bred.

It is a strange contrast to the lives of most poor Cubans, where 89% of the population lives in extreme poverty in a country judged in 2023 as the poorest in Latin America.

That is no reason, however, to put aside the needs of one species. Research often reveals unexpected benefits.

Please

 

Please

Spare us a crumb, mister . . . please?

An alternative sequel

 

An alternative sequel

'Dance at Bougival' by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919)

                                    Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

jenny-o challenged me to write an alternative ending to the musical box story, so here we go again! 

Here is the original story.

Here is the first sequel. 

Now read on for the alternative sequel.

 

When the music stopped, Marjorie and Henry sank to the floor, exhausted.

‘At last,’ Henry gasped.

‘I thought she was going to wind it up again,’ said Marjorie. ‘The hardest bit is dancing ever slower as the music winds down. It’s like moving in slow motion.’

‘She’ll be back tomorrow, and my poor feet are so sore,’ Henry grumbled. ‘How long is she staying?’

‘I don’t know but I think my jaw will break if I have to keep smiling,’ Marjorie sighed.

They sat for a while in silence, enjoying the peace and the stillness.

Henry stretched. ‘We’ve been *tripping the light fantastic for sixty years. It’s time we retired.’

‘If only we could escape,’ said Marjorie.

‘Leave it to me, my dear,’ said Henry, tapping the side of his nose.

The next day, when the little girl tried to shut the musical box, the lid resisted, and she had to leave it slightly ajar. It didn’t matter, because the music had stopped and in any case, there wasn’t enough room for the little dancers to do anything other than lie down. What she didn’t see was Henry lying on his back, bracing his feet against the lid.

When they were sure the child had left the room, Henry stripped off his  coat and tie and Marjorie loosened the belt of her floaty, many-layered dress. Together they strained at the lid. When they had prised it open sufficiently, Marjorie jammed her high-heeled dancing shoes into the opening to prevent it closing again.

Now all they had to do was work at making a gap large enough for them to slip through. The long years of dancing had made them fit and supple and strong. Marjorie stood on Henry’s back and forced her head through the gap. Once her shoulders were free, she arched her back and pushed upwards. To her delight, the lid sprang open and she was able to jump down to the table on which the musical box stood. Swiftly Henry followed and stood hand in hand with his partner, marvelling at the room they were in. All they had ever noticed as they spun in endless circles were the pictures on the walls.

 Now they could see bowls of flowers on every polished surface, and wonderful gilt-framed mirrors. Rich hangings echoed the colours in the upholstered armchairs and sofas and tall windows opened into a glorious garden. They walked over to the French windows, feeling themselves grow taller with each step.  

Marjorie squeezed Henry’s hand. ‘I had forgotten how lovely it was,’ she whispered. ‘It has been so long.’

Henry smiled. ‘Welcome home, my love. The spell at last is broken.’

‘But what about the little girl? She will wonder what has happened to us.’

‘Look in the musical box,’ said Henry and led Marjorie to the table. He picked up the box and wound the mechanism with the little golden key. As he lifted the lid, the music began, a different tune to the one they had danced to for so long. There, on the silvered floor, twirled and spun a dainty ballerina.

‘But that’s . . .,’ Marjorie stammered, but Henry hushed her. ‘It is her turn to dance now. Who knows how long she will continue?’

 

·        The expression ‘tripping the light fantastic’ is attributed to John Milton

Things that please

 

Things that please

Often, it’s the small details that make something different and special.

I discovered that we had almost run out of soap recently. I searched feverishly through my drawers, where I store soap bars, but there were none to be found, so I sent away for some.

The Little Soap Company started life in the Cotswolds. Its original name was the Naked Soap Company and the founder, Emma Heathcote-James, created her first soaps in her kitchen and started selling them at local farmers’ markets. That was more than fifteen years ago, and her business has gone from strength to strength. Her soaps can be found in supermarkets, pharmacies and online.

The soaps arrived securely packaged in recyclable materials. The scent, as I unpacked them, was sensational (yes, that’s a pun!) If one were susceptible to strong perfumes, the package might be overwhelming, with the concentration of many bars, although I didn’t find them so. Individually, the soaps are pleasantly perfumed.

I am aware of how scents can sometimes be too much. I bought a scent diffuser a few weeks ago that had such an overpowering smell – all natural ingredients! - that it made my throat sore. I had to put it at the end of the garden, and even at a distance of about twenty yards, I could still smell it.

The little thing on the box of soap that really made me smile was the packing tape, shown at the top and below.

It depicted scenes of bucolic bliss, bringing to mind the rolling Cotswold hills, the sparkling streams and the honeyed tones of the buildings.

                                    Essential information.

 I know that Alison in Devon, (once upon a time in Wales) makes her own soap. Does she sell locally, I wonder?