If you have been wondering what did happen to the missing capybara, she is still on the run. This unauthorised picture shows a capybara family who are not related and live at a different wildlife park, but you will know what you are looking for if you do spot her.
Not lost, but found was a genuine axolotl . It is only found in South America, but somehow ended up under a bridge in Wales and was found by a ten year old girl who loves wildlife. Picture may not be accurate representation of the rescued axolotl.
When you suspect that the environmentally friendly GREEN car you were sold may have been a scam.
I must have ticked the wrong box, how else did I volunteer to deliver leaflets for a candidate in the local elections? New in the area, I recalled filling in an on line survey for opinions on what the council should do for us. I had plenty of ideas. I did not tick the box for the weekly gardening in the park, that was my craft morning. I did not tick the box for the Sunday morning litter pick, I was Facetiming Australia.
I did put my email address to avoid revealing where I actually lived, so that was how I came to receive a message from Nathan Nabor, standing for election once again.
Thanks so much for volunteering to deliver our leaflets, your support is greatly valued. I shall bring them round tomorrow evening, let me know if that’s convenient.
I replied Yes, after all he did not know where I lived, that was probably a generic message to all his supporters.
The next day I arrived home from my part time job and there he was on the doorstep with a hefty bag adorned with a ChatGPT improved image of himself.
‘Mrs Gullible, delighted to meet you. New in the area I gather, divorced or widowed?’
I was a little taken aback, was this an appropriate way for a pillar of the community to speak?
‘DFL’ I replied.
‘Divorced from London?’
‘Down From London, making a new start, getting involved.’
‘Excellent, excellent.’
What on earth possessed me to say involved when I had dreamed of a quiet life as an artist? I wasn’t actually an artist yet, but it was worth a try.
‘Is it okay if I come in so I can show you the ropes?’
He was already in the hall with one foot in my little kitchen diner. The small table barely had room for the mound of leaflets and envelopes spilling out of the bag.
‘Letters addressed to engaged voters we have spoken to, leaflets for every home and a map. You’ll need that being new, even our veteran leafleteers need a map.
So it was that I found myself in a strong south westerly blowing straight off the sea, wending my way round steep lanes, among the cottages that had looked so full of character when I was house hunting. Every front door was accessible only by twisted flights of steps, worn down by generations of feet. Descent was more hazardous than the ascent. No two doors had their letter box in the same position. Occasionally a letter would drop in easily, but most involved a battle with the bristles. One was so tight I thought my hand was stuck. When I managed to pull it out, my engagement ring was missing. Good riddance, I had tried to sell it, but it was not worth anything. Would the occupant notice a piece of jewellery on their doormat?
The front doors that put up the greatest battles were also the ones with ferocious dogs on the other side. I tried to get out through the front gate before an irate owner opened his front door. I stumbled a few times, how embarrassing if I fell down and broke something. The poor householder who didn’t want a leaflet and was probably cooking dinner, would be confronted with a 999 situation in their front garden.
I knew many householders in this town did not welcome strangers judging by the notices on the door or fixed nearby.
NO CALLERS
NO UNSOLICITED TRADERS
NO CANVASERS
NO JUNK MAIL
NO JW.ORG
WE DO NOT SPEAK TO PERSONS TOUTING FOR BUSINESS, PLEASE LEAVE AND DO NOT RETURN.
I hoped election leaflets were not junk mail, but were they canvassing? I omitted some homes, erring on the side of caution. It was now raining, but I only had one more lane to do, 12 letters, 36 leaflets and a lovely view of the sea, or would have been without the rainy mist rolling in.
My mistake was getting over confident in my new mountain goat agility, the rain was making stone steps slippery. The leaflet ripped as I tried to slip it in a wooden door that had not seen paint or varnish for decades. I stuffed the torn paper in my pocket and started again with a new leaflet. Ferocious barking was followed by bellowing.
‘WHO THE BLOODY HELL IS THAT AT THE DOOR … SHUT UP RUFUS’.
I beat a hasty retreat, but one foot got left behind and the other foot left me behind. I ended up in a crumpled heap against the rickety front gate. My brain said I could get up, but my body disagreed. Please body, don’t tell me I have a broken ankle.
My body replied ‘What do you think that loud crack was and that horrendous pain?’
My brain said ‘Get your mobile phone out and dial 999 before that man comes out.’
But my phone was tucked safely in my back pack and I was lying on my back pack. At that moment the front door opened.
Have you ever been a leafleteer?
Non digital visitors are coming Chez Tidalscribe for the Easter holidays, who knows what will happen to my blog or Mrs Gullible…
There are at least four River Avons in England. This one has come from Wiltshire, through Salisbury, divided here, but reunited and united with the River Stour at Christchurch Harbour. There are River Avons all over the world perhaps? One in Christchurch New Zealand, one in Northam, Western Australia, famous for uniquely having white swans as the black swan is native to Western Australia.
Let us know if you have a River Avon or River Stour.
This exhibition in the café area of Russell Cotes Art Gallery and Museum compliments the art exhibition I featured recently. The museum has just reopened after it’s annual dust and vacuum.
Lottie almost faltered under the withering gaze of her agent Felicity Buchannon, but it was too late to change her mind.
‘Felicity, it was you who said I must take a break after losing Callum.’
‘A break, not permanent exile.’
‘I’m hardly leaving the country, it’s a lovely little place where I can get away from everything.’
Charlotte stopped typing. She had set herself to write the opening page of her Lottie Lincoln novel, now all she had to do was decide in which order to put all the chapters she had written so far. She could well imagine the reactions of Felicity and Lottie’s friends. She recalled her boss’s reaction when she had handed in her notice.
‘Where on earth is Hambourne?’
Once her boss realised Hambourne was not within Greater London, Royal Berkshire or Surrey, she lost interest and obviously decided Charlotte was a lost cause and did not try to dissuade her. After that, the longer Charlotte left it to explain to people she was moving away, the harder it became to tell anyone, let alone mention David’s situation. Her best friend from school days had recently departed to live in New Zealand with her new partner, so there was no need to reveal her change of address, thank heaven for emails.
So here she was in Hambourne writing, which was more than Lottie was doing as Charlotte had given her writer’s block. She started typing again.
When Lottie’s mobile rang and she saw Felicity’s name, she was tempted not to answer, but Felicity had been a good friend to her, she deserved better.
‘Lottie, how are you, we’re worried about you.’
‘I needed time to think.’
‘Did you ring that number I gave you for the grief counsellor?’
‘I don’t need counselling, a walk by the sea helps.’
‘So how’s your novel coming along?’
Novel? She hadn’t even unpacked the few chapters she had written, so much had happened to her, Puddleminster was not the quiet place she had expected. After Callum’s tragic death some people had advised her to have a complete break from writing and work, while others had insisted she must keep busy, keep writing.
‘Are you still there Lottie? I don’t want to push you, but we have got a publishing deadline to meet.’
‘I can’t do it Fliss, maybe I’ve got writers’ block. If I do write it will be something dark, this is such a strange place it’s given me new ideas.’
‘Darling, we don’t do DARK, what on earth would all your readers say, they want romance and escapism.’
‘I’ll write under a pen name then, look I have to go, I have an appointment…’
Five minutes later Lottie was on the beach and happy to bump into Geoff the pathologist out with his friend’s dog.
‘Hello Lottie, my wife was just talking about you, wondering when your next book was coming out.’
‘Oh dear, my agent just rang with the same question. I think I’ve got writer’s block. Maybe I should write something different, about a pathologist or a forensic scientist, what is the difference?’
‘For a start hasn’t that already been done and my wife certainly doesn’t want to read about bodies, being married to me. Mind you, I have got an interesting case on the slab, elderly lady, quiet life, living alone with her pot plants, not an enemy in the world and she has been poisoned with a very unusual substance, the sort of thing arrows in the South American jungle were tipped with…’
Lottie wasn’t sure if there was a code of conduct among pathologists and if he should be telling her this, but her interest was piqued.
‘Ohh, was it a local lady?’
‘No, no, way the other side of town. I would not be telling you if it was local.’
‘Are you sure she was murdered? Would the plants still be in her house, did she have exotic plants?’
‘No idea, why?’
‘My aunt had plants, house like a jungle my father used to say. Anyway, she liked her tea brewed properly with freshly boiled water, so she would empty her kettle before using it, distilled water for her beloved plants. If your lady had an exotic plant and the kettle spout touched highly poisonous leaves, is it possible the poison might end up in her tea….’
Geoff laughed then looked thoughtful. ‘I am not an expert on tropical plants, but it would be amusing if an episode of Gardener’s World was devoted to plants that killed their owners.’
‘Oh yes, those viewers’ homes where they can hardly move for plants.’
‘…and you were right about the headless body in the park…’
Charlotte passed for a moment, what fun, this could be a further step to Lottie becoming an amateur detective.
Two weeks had passed with Lottie writing not a single word, while frantic emails from Felicity became more and more frequent. She had joined a walking group and a widow’s support group, where she was of great interest because of her novels and the unusual circumstances of Callum’s death. But she had to face the fact she had no idea in what direction her life should go.
As she walked on the beach one morning she looked up to see Geoff striding purposefully towards her waving.
‘You were right, house full of exotic plants. More than one type highly toxic. A gradual build up of poison in her body, it would not have killed you to have one cup of tea with her, but… ‘
Charlotte closed her lap top, no need to decide tonight how poor Callum had died or what might happen next in Puddleminster-on-Sea.
Gabriella tied back her springy blond hair and trotted down the stairs.
‘Gabby, surely you are not going out dressed like that, you’ll freeze.’
‘Muuum, this is my jogging outfit, I’ll soon warm up running.’
‘Do be careful and don’t go into the woods.’
‘But the woods will be perfect on a morning like this, sunny and frosty.’
‘Not now they have started that new scheme.’
‘Don’t believe everything you read on Facebook.’
‘… and I do wish you would have breakfast before going out on a cold morning.’
It was a beautiful morning as Gabby trotted off down the road and took the footpath into the National Trust woodland. They were so lucky to live near a forest. She waved to a couple of joggers she knew by sight as they passed by.
‘Lovely morning, happy new year.’
‘Same to you…’
Further along Gabby glanced at her Fit Bit, she was doing a good time, maybe she would go in for the local half marathon and then who knew what next. She took the right fork for the first time to increase the length of her circuit. It was a pretty path but more challenging with an incline and rougher going. Gabby began to wonder how much further this was than her normal route. Then she began to wonder when she would come across a familiar path. After a while she began to feel hungry and a bit light headed. Perhaps she should have had a yoghurt or banana before setting out. Still, she must keep going and not lose her rhythm. Her aim now was not preparing for a marathon but to get home and persuade her mother to cook her a nice breakfast.
In the distance she could see a shape, a cottage, a run down cottage? Strange, nobody was supposed to live in these woods, that’s why they were perfect for the rewilding project. Probably abandoned decades ago, but why could she detect the delightful scent of wood smoke? As Gabby drew closer she could see smoke gently spiralling up in the cold air. Must be some poor homeless person, sensible to make a cosy home for himself, better than sleeping on the pavement.
The path led close by the ramshackle cottage and she felt like an intruder. Should she rush past or take a diversion? No she must stick to the path, the trees were really thick here and she didn’t want to get further lost than she was already. As she ran round to the other side, she noticed the door was open and there was the unmistakeable smell of porridge. She realised just how hungry she was now and wished she was back home eating porridge and watching breakfast TV. But despite her misgivings she could not resist having a peep inside.
To her surprise it looked clean and homely and on a wooden table stood three bowls of steaming porridge. There was no sign of the occupants. Now she was so hungry she thought if she took a spoonful out of each bowl, nobody would notice. It tasted divine, the fresh cold morning air had given her an appetite.
The cottage was silent, she took a few more spoonfuls, just enough to boost her energy so she could get away before the mystery occupants returned. But as she took her phone off her belt, thinking of looking at Google maps to get her location, she had an idea. She must take a few quick snaps to show her friends and put on Instagram and it would be a shame not to take a quick shot upstairs.
The old worn wooden steps creaked as she crept up and came straight out into a single room with a sloping roof, just big enough for three beds. With their clean fresh duvets it all looked unlikely to be a hidey hole for a homeless person or someone on the run from the police. As Gabby stared she realised how cold she had become since she stopped running. It would be a sensible idea to climb under the duvet and warm her limbs up for a few minutes, as long as she did not fall asleep.
The next thing she knew she was startled by a noise, a lot of noises, loud men’s voices in a strange language. All she could do was hide under the duvet and hope they would sit down and eat their porridge and not come upstairs. Her hands were shaking as she tried to look at her phone, but who should she call?
At that moment she felt a heavy hand press down on her shoulder. She let out a muffled scream and somehow managed to scramble out of the bed and stumble down the stairs. Her nimbleness getting out of the door was her only advantage against the two very large figures downstairs.
At the Reursinement headquarters several people were observing all the monitors.
‘Any sign of them?’
‘No, but that’s only to be expected, we can’t have CCTV all over the forest.’
‘What about the tracking devices?’
‘They stopped working days ago.’
‘So are you saying we have no idea where they are?’
‘Yes, no, surely the idea of rewilding is just that, letting them get on with their own lives, looking after their young without us intruding and they should be hibernating by now.’
‘Hopefully, but do rescued circus bears actually know how to hibernate?’
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 