‘Now in winter, fires are lit
And huddled round them we all sit.’
This exquisite couplet is from ‘Winter’, one of a quartet of poems in celebration of the seasons penned by me aged ten. The rest of this master-work is, mercifully, lost to posterity. I do remember that ‘Mother Nature’ turned up, suitably ‘be-gowned’ (to rhyme with ‘ground’), so many times that my own mother asked nervously whether I realised it was not actually a Real Person.
So much for art. Now, in Winter, Fires are Lit in the inglenook using an unending supply of plywood off-cuts from our Wood-Elf.
I’m not sure how we acquired a Wood-Elf. I know the pub comes into it somewhere. He arrives unannounced in a small red Citroen. This, like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag, disgorges impossibly large quantities of sawn-off timber, randomly studded with long, savage nails, which he stacks on our woodpile. He doesn’t wait to be thanked, and no money changes hands. He just flits off, to reappear magically whenever stocks runs low.
I have asked, of course. And here I have to be very, very careful. Like Tinkerbell, the existance of our Wood-Elf could be threatened by people who don’t believe in fairies. And who do believe in the Official Secrets Act.
Let’s just say that there are Very Large Things which are apparently imported into this country Very Discreetly by Government Bodies. These, being on the dangerous side, are packed for shipping in waste plywood (goodness knows why, in view of its flammability, but that’s not my problem). This plywood, being full of nails and so unrecyclable, is thrown into a skip. From whence it is promptly rescued by Wood-Elves like ours.
Our wood comes from all over the world – from Brazil to Kazakhstan, and other more controversial sources. But it all looks the same, ply off-cuts clearly being a standard global commodity.
As we sit toasting our toes in the warmth, and probable radioactivity, of our winter fire, we think of the Wood-Elf, and give sincere thanks.
It almost makes you believe in Mother Nature, doesn't it?
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Alison, I wonder if your Wood-Elf comes from the same patch of undergrowth as our Garden-Gnome? She also appears unannounced, and flits off just like your W-E, to 'reappear magically' whenever the garden looks ragged.
ReplyDeleteG-G is round and close to the ground. She favours rumpled tops and tight pants, and, like W-E, can carry impressive amounts of stuff. I bet you our gnome could give your elf a challenging few rounds of Indian wrestling. She's awesome, and we're very proud of her.
The only difference between them seems to be the season of activity. Your W-E is a winter man, while our G-G hibernates and only comes out in the 'growing' months, when she constantly peers up at the clouds and predicts rain.
-- I do enjoy your country blogs. Perhaps because I can relate to them so easily, living a village life, but more so because I find them light-hearted, honest and slightly quirky ... and of course well-written. The old fashioned in me still appreciates a good turn of phrase combined with faultless spelling, the correct use of words and uncomplicated grammar. English as what she's meant to be wrote.
Your style reminds me of a Victorian lady's journal (implied in your blog title?) - gentle, detailed and personal. It doesn't take much imagination to see this all transformed into pages of careful Copperplate, and illustrated with sketches and pressed flowers.
Keep it going, because you should be very pleased with your country voice.