Traditional Skills - Day Two

The weather’s no better but we’re raring to go.  Naomi takes us through the process of making ‘burn’ spoons.  Somehow we’re going to turn a sycamore log into a wooden spoon!

      ‘There’s a big fire burning outside,’ she grins. 

      ‘Er, it’s not that big yet,’ Dan pokes his head around the door.

Naomi tells us some important tree etiquette.  ‘When you cut down a tree don’t leave the pale stump exposed, show it some respect and rub it with mud.’  I like that, helping the tree maintain its dignity.

We saw a piece of sycamore, split it, draw a spoon on the split side and gather around the fire pit for another demo. 

Using tongs made from willow, we select a piece of red hot ember, and after chasing it around the fire pit, sticking our tongues out like children concentrating hard, we eventually manage to pick it up and balance it on what will be the bowl of our spoons.  Holding the ember in place with a stick, we blow – hard, to create heat.  ‘Don’t hyperventilate,’ Dan warns, as I start to see stars from blowing too much.  Eventually, shallow indentations are miraculously made.

Inside in the warm, we begin whittling our spoons.  We sit well apart from each other so there are no nasty accidents. Dan explains the technique, ‘No carving on your leg.’  We all wince at the image he creates should the knife slip.

For a while, there’s just a scrape, scrape sound and the buzz of the overhead heaters as we all focus on our spoons and a mound of shavings grows at our feet.  We don’t want to stop for tea, we’re all getting ‘spoon vision’ according to Dan.

After lunch there’s a choice of making raw hide pouches or carrying on whittling our spoons.  Me and Dad choose to continue with our spoons. 

By the end of the day, I’m doubtful whether I’ll be peeling spuds for a while but we’re delighted with our rustic cutlery.

Up with the lark

The wind’s from Siberia, slicing through the crystal clear sky like an ice axe.  We’re up on Halkyn Common, Snowdonia on our left, The Dee far below on our right. I hear a faint song, like a thumb being drawn continuously over the teeth of a metal comb - not a dunnock, not a robin. Pulling my fleece hat off my right ear, I angle my head away from the whistling wind and look up.  Finally I spot a black dot way up high, just in front of the tissue paper moon, underlined by an EasyJet vapour trail, my first skylark of the year.  He pours down his song, never pausing for breath. 

It's only February, he won’t breed until April but he’s making sure he gets the best territory– the birdie equivalent of spreading his towel on a sun lounger before breakfast.

There's a ‘gulp’ of magpies clattering in a scrawny hawthorn.  I pity the ground nesting lark, though I once walked past a skylark’s nest everyday for a month and never knew it was there until someone showed me.  They’re very good at leading you away from their chicks.  Can they fool the magpies though?

Small Signs of Spring



Rhubarb!



                                            

Traditional Skills in Rhydymwyn

It’s Saturday, the weather’s grim, perfect for staying in and watching the rugby.  But Me and my Dad are busy turning a deer’s shin bone into a needle.  We select a bone, score it with a piece of flint, hit it with a stone to break it into shards then pick one to file into a needle.  Real cavemen would’ve used sandstone to file their bone bits, we haven’t got all day so we cheat with metal files.  The workroom is filled with the sound of rasping files and thirteen people concentrating hard, not even stopping for tea when Dan shouts; ‘the kettle’s boiled.’  It’s very meditative, filing.  Your mind is focused on the job in hand, the rain, the rugby, the chores are far away.

In the middle of it all, Naomi throws out a question:  ‘The weight of all the insects on the planet would be more than the weight of all the humans, true or false?’   Quick as a flash, someone shouts out, ‘True,’ and is rewarded with a parcel wrapped in Rudolph the Reindeer paper - a selection box!  The rest of the day is punctuated with sudden random questions and winners are rewarded with more chocolate. 

Deer Bone needles and awls

Naomi and Dan are www.outback2basics.co.uk from Shropshire.  They've been invited by North East Wales Wildlife (www.newwildlife.org.uk) to teach us some traditional skills. They’re brilliant, passionate, but most of all, fun.  They went to America and re-lived the Stone Age for 4 months, making their own clothes, shoes, shelter, fire, food.  We saw the photos, they obviously didn’t have showers in the Stone Age.

After lunch, we go outside for some fresh air and learn how to tap a birch tree to get the sap.  ‘It makes a lovely drink,’ Dan says.  ‘Pine cones make great scrubbing brushes,’ adds Naomi,  ‘and those Leylandii we all hate in our neighbour’s gardens, their bark makes great containers, but get permission first before you go stripping the bark of your neighbour’s trees, or any trees.’ 

            On our way back to the workroom, we stand under a dripping birch tree and study its branches.  ‘How can you use a tree to find your way?’ asks Dan.

 ‘Er, we give up.’  Dan explains that the branches on the south side of the tree are more horizontal, pointing towards the sun, the branches on the north side have to find the light so they point up, towards the sky.  Easy!

Bark Containers

Back inside, we begin making bark containers, sort of Stone Age handbags.  And we use the needles and awls we made during the morning session.  By the end of the afternoon, we’ve made an amazing variety of bark ‘bags.’  Better than Louis Vuitton any day.

Me and Dad walk home proud as punch with our bone needles, bark containers and chocolate prizes.  We stop by a particularly fine silver birch tree; ‘Nice bit of bark,’ says Dad.

            ‘Hmmm,’ I reply, stroking the trunk and picturing my next rustic creation.

(This was a free course provided by NEW Wildlife based in Rhydymwyn)

Slow Saturday

I live near Mold.  It’s a ‘Slow Town’.  So I decide to do something ‘slow’.

(www.cittaslow.org.uk)

I phone my friend. ‘How do you fancy a walk followed by coffee and homemade cakes?’   

‘Count me in,’ my friend’s a big cake fan.

We head for the village of Cilcain where every Saturday afternoon there’s a community café in the village hall. (www.cilcaintoday.org.uk)

 If there’s one thing I like as much as homemade cakes, it’s second hand books.  On the way in to the village hall, there’s a table piled high with them, impossible to pass.  After a leisurely browse, I select a book about mosaics and my friend finds one about Shackleton’s epic voyage.  We put our money in the honesty box and follow the tinkling sound of teaspoons on china. 

The hall is laid out with half a dozen gingham covered tables. My eyes come out on stalks as we approach the huge serving hatch and I take far too long choosing a cake. A queue builds up behind me but everyone understands my dilemma and waits patiently whilst I chose from chocolate, lemon, apple, fruit, brownie or flapjack. 

The café has a different theme each week.  Today there are crafts made by local people.  I chat to a woman who makes fabulous notebooks, cufflinks, earrings, cards, and art work from old newspapers and books.  ‘Everyone calls me the newspaper lady,’ she laughs, ‘people have started bringing me foreign newspapers and old menus from their holidays.’   I buy a beautiful blue-washed bookmark. You’d never guess it was made from old newspapers. 

On our way home along the quiet lanes I hear a familiar sound but one I haven’t heard for ages and I just can’t place it.  ‘What is that?  It’s like one of those swannee whistles that clowns blow when their trousers fall down.’ I hear it again and shout ‘Lapwing!’  We look over the hedge into a flooded field and see six.  I raise my binoculars, which have been around my neck all through coffee and cake.  Not a good idea.  I clean off the crumbs and look again.  There’s something about the cry of a lapwing which stirs the heart and makes me think of the wild moors and far off places yet here they are, on my walk home, taking advantage of the soggy field to probe for worms and insects.  Two take to the air, flapping their broad black and white wings and repeating that funny pee-wit call. 

A couple of lanes further on something zooms out of the wood just ahead of us, ‘Woodcock,’ we both shout together.  It zigzaggs up the field towards another bit of wood, its long bill pointing the way.

Red streaks appear in the darkening sky as we approach home.  ‘I could get to like this,’ my friend beams, ‘let me know if you plan any more slow outings.’

Midweek Treat

The wind is blowing hard, blue tits cling on to wildly swinging feeders, crows like black rubbish bags swirl through the grey sky.  It’s the perfect day for a full body Swedish massage. 

The health and beauty students at Deeside College practice their newly learned skills on us lucky locals for a fraction of the money we’d pay in a salon (£8 for full body massage).  The atmosphere is calming, the lighting soft and the students are very professional.

I’m wrapped in a warm blanket and with soothing music playing in the background, the massage begins.  I ask for firm pressure, my shoulders are in a mess from getting my garden ready for early potatoes.  Apart from turning over, I don’t move, I’m made of lead.

An hour later, I’m given a glass of water and left to get dressed in my own time.  Sally tells me to take it easy for the rest of the day, drink plenty of water and eat a light meal.
      ‘If you put a tennis ball in a sock and lean on it against a wall, rolling it over your back, it will help your tense shoulders,’ she advises.  Great idea. 
     I float down to reception and book another treatment, Hot Stones in two weeks time. (I've had this before, it's sublime).  I could've gone for reflexology, a facial, pedicure, manicure or Indian Head massage. Last week I had my haircut for £4.

What a treat and practically on my doorstep. Check out your local college to see what’s on offer,  you may be surprised!

Back at home, I follow Sally's advice and put my feet up.  I'm impressed watching a robin pull worms from my newly dug potato patch, I can hardly lift my mug of herbal tea.

Bird Breakfast Blizzard

Big wet flakes swirl all around me as I carefully carry the breakfast tray across the garden.  It’s hard to find a snow-free spot to scatter left-over mince pies, chopped apple, sultanas and seed.  'Blackie's beady eyes watch me from beneath the buddleia, the flash of his yellow beak provides the only colour today.  A whiff of summer from the apple is carried away in a blizzardy gust.  I sprinkle bird-breakfast and scurry back in doors.

Five more blackbirds arrive and I’m glad I chopped the apple up small. Siskins, goldfinches, chaffinches, dunnocks, sparrows, starlings, a song thrush, coal-tits, blue-tits, great-tits, all jostle for space.  Even birds that don’t normally hang onto seed feeders are having a go, a starling tries, a dunnock too, and then a robin flutters his wings wildly as he tries to grab on to the swinging seed.

Goldfinches!  You'd think to look at them that butter wouldn't melt, yet they are so narky and quarrelsome and the shrill, grating sound they make is not at all what you'd expect from such a glamorous looking bird. 

Another bird came to visit my garden last week. 

I Googled her and discovered she was a Reeve's pheasant. 

Her markings were so beautiful.  She clattered down from the fence and ran towards me.  I gave her seed from the large sack in my shed.  She stayed all afternoon, admiring herself in the glass of the patio doors, then left.  I heard shooting from the estate nearby and hoped she hadn't headed that way.

Top Secret Birds!

At the end of my road there’s a strange collection of old brick buildings, paths covered with a now peeling anti-spark coating,  an old railway siding and some deep underground tunnels.   It was once a top secret WW2 chemical weapons factory and the tunnels held thousands of mustard gas shells.  They also carried out research into the first atomic bomb here.  Calculations and scribblings can still be seen on the walls in some of the buildings.  But now it's a thriving nature reserve and home to North East Wales Wildlife and Rhydymwyn Valley History Society.

I was on site to help out with a winter bird survey.  It was freezing , the golden reeds were covered in frost, the trees stood out like pencil sketches against a pale, water-colour-wash sky and my breath billowed out in clouds through my red felt scarf.

Jackdaws repeated their harsh calls like the sound of ice cracking; we counted their black shapes in the spooky ash tree.      On hearing a bright tinkling sound we looked up and counted ‘1, 2, 3, 4………10 goldfinches.’  We watched them disappear, showing off their light, bouncy flight.  Blue-tit, coal-tit, robin, wren, dunnock, marsh tit at the feeders in front of the bird hide, fieldfares clattering overhead, we counted them all until it was time for lunch and much needed hot chocolate.

After lunch we walked the Woodland Trail.  It was slightly warmer up there, less frost.  The branches glittered with drops of moisture and our feet slithered on dark slimy leaves.  The air was heavy, still and silent except for a drip-dripping sound and the occasional crunch of twigs under foot.   Then we heard a noise like tiny football rattles and saw a troupe of long-tailed tits swinging through the branches.   Then, the ‘demented’ call of a nuthatch, the thin ‘tsee’ of a goldcrest high in a conifer and the ‘squeaky toy’ sound of a great-spotted woodpecker.   Someone whispered, ‘There’s a treecreeper,’ and we all looked up to see the tiny bird, doing exactly what it says on the tin.

‘Woodcock!’ We shouted, looking at each other for confirmation that we hadn’t been imagining it. 

  It was on the edge of the Woodland Trail hiding in the leaf litter, until we approached with our clip boards.  I had a quick glimpse of its stocky body and long dagger bill before it disappeared. 

Kate pointed out some King Alfred’s Cake fungus, hard, oval and shiny black, growing on the bark of a dead tree.  She told us how it can be used to light a fire.  I never knew that.  I also never knew that I could see woodcock just down the road from my house.  I always imagined I’d have to get in the car and drive to a deep, dark wood somewhere miles away. 

Oh and there was also a ‘possible snipe’ near the wetland, but that flew off so quickly that none of us could be 100% sure.  

The next winter bird survey is on Saturday 26^th January. I’m going to do my best to be there.  Who knows, we might see a ‘definite snipe’ this time?

Simply A Happy New Year

I breathed into my Christmas-red scarf to prevent the cold air from making me cough and at last we stood on top of the ancient hill fort, alone except for Iron Age ghosts.      

     Merseyside twinkled below and at midnight, the land all around erupted with a thousand tiny explosions. Orion threw off his cloudy cloak and flashed his rhinestone belt at us and all the while the wind blew through our hair and we stood wrapped up in each other. 

We went back next day, for a longer walk and watched a peregrine, slicing through the wild wind like a grey Zorro.  A female kestrel perched on a telegraph pole, hunched and peering down into the scrub below for a furry meal.  We perched on limestone outcrops and ate mince pies, facing Moel Famau and the rest of the gently rounded Clwydian hills.  Shafts of silver sun shone down through slits in the grey cloud, like someone shining a torch through floorboards. 

My New Year resolution: to simplify.  I’m off to a good start.

Christmas Crowds

‘Twas the Saturday before Christmas

 when all through the shops

the crowds they were pushing

and people were cross……………

So, instead we went for a walk during a break in the rain, about half an hour before it went dark. 

Still we encountered crowds………..

         Hundreds of ragged, black crows, cawing and cackling in the darkening sky, coming in from all points of the compass to settle in a stand of oaks.

                 Then, a familiar sound, like a hundred tiny football rattles - a troupe of long-tailed tits flitting through a gnarled tree, their long tails showing in silhouette against the last of the sky-light.

                Further on, a crowd of muddy sheep jostled in a field of bone-white turnip chunks.  Away from crows and long-tailed tits, the only sound was their ‘crunch – munch.’

These are the kind of crowds I love and when, to quote a line from Wendell Berry’s poem, ‘The Peace of Wild Things’………………

                     ‘I rest in the grace of the world and I am free.’

I hope you manage some time this holiday to slow down and enjoy 'the peace of wild things'.

How Long Does A Sparrow Sleep?

At 3.30pm I tuned my telly to BBTV (that's Bird Box TV), sat with a cup of  tea and waited.  My bird tumbled in to her box at precisely 3.50pm.  She fidgeted for a bit, preened, threw out some poo then settled in the corner, face to the wall, head tucked in over her shoulder, so that her feathers made a pretty swirl.  She looked like a wall nut whip with a tail.
I changed channels periodically throughout the evening and watched her sleeping.  You'd think it would be hard to see bird's breaths, but she breathes deeply and her tiny body pulses in and out with some force. 
The following morning, I took more tea into the living room and settled down to watch her wake.  It was getting light by 7.30 but she didn't move.  At 7.45 am, she woke suddenly, shook herself and immediately returned her head to its snoozing position with such force I felt sure she must've stabbed herself with her beak.  She obviously wasn't ready to face the world.  Perhaps she was dreaming of being chased by a sparrowhawk?  Do sparrow's dream?  Then at 7.50 am, she woke, and without any preening or shaking of feathers, just jumped up to the entrance hole and left.  

So, how long does a sparrow sleep?  16 hours!  Even longer than me in the winter!

More Reasons to Love Libraries

When did you last visit your library?  They're not like they used to be, no 'Silence' signs or bosomy ladies glowering over their half-rimmed specs.  

I love mine, as soon as the doors close behind me, a new adventure awaits.  I can visit the moon, the top of Everest, swim with Humpbacked Whales, dive to the ocean's depths, learn a bit of Greek, I feel like Mr. Ben when he walks into the tailor's shop...........

My library's just had a make-over, a Gok, the full works.  Mossy green carpet, soft mint walls, comfy chairs, modern flat-pack book shelves snaking around the room.

I've discovered I can download e-magazines for free with my library number, so far I've got Countryfile, National Geographic, Cycling Plus.  I can also download audio books and e-books - for free! What a service.

It's quiet in my library at 5.45 pm, only the humming of the wall heaters, the swish of pages being turned and the satisfying clunk of the date stamp as someone takes out an armful of books.

For fun, I like to visit the Westerns section.  It's the only part of non-fiction that's not arranged alphabetically. The titles are fab - Desperado Doublecross, Last Stage to Gomorrah, Battle at Rattlesnake Pass, Last Chance at Devil's Canyon.
My Dad used to love Westerns as a lad, he'd come out of the Saturday morning cinema shooting imaginary arrows at his mates, who blew the smoke off the end of their imaginary pistols. Liverpudlian Desperados.

Todays Slow Moments

The satisfying 'shloop' of carrots being pulled from soft, wet soil.  I felt quite proud as I held them aloft, a startling orange against the ice blue sky, ideal noses for snowmen, I thought.
And there's enough left for Christmas Day.

Four starlings came clicking and whistling as soon as I hung out suet balls.  They seem to appear as soon as suet or cheese is on the menu, they must be watching the feeders from somewhere near.

A wren sang its ear piercing song as I collected leaves for compost. Sorry but I winced, involuntarily.  It's just that a second before the only sound had been the quiet rustle of leaves.

I think it's the turned up tail that gives the tiny bird that feisty, don't-mess-with-me-if-you-know-what's-good-for-you air. 

If you have nest boxes up around your garden, don't assume that they are empty at this time of the year.  Birds may use them to roost in on frosty nights.  Tiny wrens especially need somewhere to keep warm.  Although they are mostly seen alone in the garden,  they roost together, squatting in layers 2 or 3 deep with their heads facing inwards and their tails towards the entrance or sides.  I read that 60 birds have been seen huddling together in one box.  And they squabble a lot too, before they finally settle, some are chased away, definately not allowed in.  You can just see that can't you, that bird at the entrance, tail cocked, lungs bursting, ejecting other birds who aren't part of its gang.

I always thought that the collective noun for wrens didn't fit but after learning more about them, a 'herd' of wrens seems appropriate for the little bullies.

Different Views

Yesterday, under an icy sky, I did a twirl on top of Moel y Gaer, an Iron Age hillfort about 10 minutes from my house - and as I twirled I took in -  Blackpool Tower, snow-capped mountains in the Lake District, two Liverpool Cathedrals, the Rivers Dee and Mersey, Beeston Castle, half the Clwydian Range (and a few more hill forts), a tantalizing view of snowy Snowdonia and a ferry making its way to Ireland.  Phew!

       A Kestrel shared the hill with me, but he spent the whole time looking down, for the ultra violet glow of vole’s urine.  I’ll stick to Blackpool Tower thanks very much.

         

                               

Special Offa!

The 177 mile Offa’s Dyke path has been named by Lonely Planet as being among one of the worlds must-see sites for 2013.  The northern part is practically on my doorstep! The other dayI walked a bit of it with my friend Julie.

‘Did you know there used to be 16 pubs around Llandegla because of all the drovers and cattle dealers passing this way?  I read from the village information board as I unscrewed my walking poles.  Now the Church of St. Tecla offers refreshments to passing ramblers, just go in, boil the kettle, leave a donation.  We followed the yellow school bus up the lane, crossed a stile and squelched over muddy fields to Llandegla Forest.

        ‘Watch out for mountain bikers!’  I warned Julie.  The Forest is criss-crossed with graded mountain bike and walking trails but today there was only the soft twittering of a robin waiting to inspect our footprints for grubs.  We pottered up through the dark Sitka trails, past mossy rocks and fallen toad tools to the forest edge.  Stepping out of the forest was like coming through a heavy curtain on to a brightly lit stage.  We almost took a bow as the sun-spotlight picked us out.  A roof-less, rust-coloured moor stretched into the distance. 

       ‘What’s with the stripes in the heather?’ asked Julie. 

       ‘They’re for the black grouse, the males need room to show off in the spring so strips are cleared.  I’ve been up here at 5 am and seen the males at their Lek, flashing their frilly bloomers, sticking their chests out, acting the big ‘I Am.’ If they could just see themselves, they’d die of embarrassment.’

      ‘Do you think we’ll see any today?’

      ‘Doubt it, they’re probably hiding in the heather, watching us.’

A thoughtfully placed boardwalk took us across the boggy bits, past frost-coated pillows of moss sparkling in the watery sunshine.  Then, just as we stepped off the moor at World’s End, a black grouse leapt out of the heather and flapped its short wings like crazy across the ice blue sky.  I don’t know who was more startled, us or the grouse.

We crossed a ford under limestone features more reminiscent of Northern Italy or Yosemite than Wales and squelched our way towards the spectacular Eglwyseg Cliffs.  We searched the crags for peregrines but were just as happy to watch the ravens tumbling above us.  In places the narrow path traversed scree-covered slopes.  ‘This reminds me of walking in Nepal, without the yaks or the scary bridges,’ I said as I tried to watch my feet and the ravens at the same time.

                                                                               

We ate our sandwiches looking up at the ruins of Castell Dinas Bran, silhouetted against the darkening sky.  Julie continued on to Chirk, I dropped down into Llangollen to rendezvous with a hot chocolate and a lift home.

And all because the lady loves...........

Some women get chocolates and flowers, my man has just presented me with a box of 50 suet balls and a 20kg sack of birdseed.  I am overjoyed - so are the birds for that matter.

Watching Sparrows Sleep

Have you ever watched a sparrow sleeping?  We have a nest box with a camera and the pictures are beamed into our living room.  The female sparrow has the box, he doesn’t get a look in.  I think he sleeps on our security light outside the backdoor.  We go the long way around to gain access to the back garden after 4pm, when he’s settled on the light.  Of course, we have removed the bulb.  Shame she doesn’t let him in to snuggle up. 

Before I go to bed I watch her on my telly.  Her tiny body pulses in and out.  It’s very soporific and I feel my heart beat slow to the same rhythm.  Sometimes she wakes up suddenly, as if from a chasing-blue-tits dream.  She looks around like she doesn’t know where she is , then she preens, yawns, stretches out one twiggy leg and tucks her tiny head back under her wing. 

World Sparrow Day is in March (there’s a web site).  Sparrows have lived alongside humans longer than any other wild birds.  But, they’re in serious decline.  Once they were so numerous they were regarded as pests, raiders of cereal crops.  During the reign of Elizabeth the First, farmers could take the heads of sparrows to the parish church where they would be paid a bounty.  During the First World War, Rat and Sparrow Clubs were formed ‘in order to save food for human consumption’.   Hundreds of thousands were killed.  3d was paid for a fully fledged sparrow, 2d for an unfledged bird and 1d for an egg.  But in the towns and cities, the disappearance of the horse in favour of the car had even more of an impact as sparrows could no longer rely on pinching the horses feed or sorting through the droppings for undigested grain. 

Sparrows  have continued to decline and are now on the Conservation Red List meaning they are a species in need of urgent action.  The authorities in Delhi have adopted the house sparrow as the state bird in a bid to halt any further decline in their numbers.  ‘We will take steps to ensure that the sparrow returns, feels safe and is able to live peacefully in the city,’ said a Chief Minister.  

I like that they want the sparrow to ‘feel safe’.  My bird looks safe in her box.  And in the morning, she won’t have far to go for food, though she’ll need to keep one eye out for the sparrowhawk.

Passer domesticus  

                                          

Scruffy urchins of the bird world,

street-wise, cock-sure

surviving by your wits

and your hard-faced cheek.

Angels with Dirty Faces,

In your crop-eating-outlaw days

you had a price on your head,

were picked off for pennies

by persecuting posses.

Then you learned which side your

bread was buttered and muscled in

on small town gardens.

You were chased away from

feeders by people who preferred

the glamour of goldfinches,

the ballyhoo of blue tits.

But now you’re rather rare

and they want you back,

will gladly sacrifice

their finely tilled seed beds

to your early evening dust bath.

Smelly Birds

According to the Rare Bird Alert web site, there are 1000 waxwings in Kyle of Lochalsh, an American Buff-Bellied Pipit in County Down, a Lesser Yellowlegs in Lancashire and Long-Billed Dowitchers in Gloucestershire.

I think I should report that there are 15 cocky sparrows on my bird feeder, 6 gaudy goldfinches squabbling over nyjer seed, 3 blackbirds dribbling a piece of apple across the lawn.

Today the frost is harsh and I scatter seed and best-cake crumbs with frivolous abandon.

To wake up my writing brain, I sometimes play the senses game - name at least 5 sights, sounds, smells, touches and tastes as quick as I can.  But today I struggled with smell.  No matter how hard I sniff, it's difficult to catch the scent of things when they're wrapped in ice.

If birds had smells..........a blackbird would smell of damp earth, sparrows would smell of toast, goldfinches would smell of Tutti-fruiti, like Opal Fruits - strawberry, lemon, lime.  Chaffinches would smell like just-dug-up potatoes and robins like Christmas tangerines.