Witches, wind turbines and cracking tales from the Fens

Where's my dinner? Reg loves vegetables in cold weather

PLEASE accept my apologies for the lack of blog activity. It's been some time since I fiddled with my faddle! November, in fact.
So much has happened during that short time. Christmas and a new year have been and gone in a flash; the mad weather in this country continues to defy all logic; floods, replaced by snow storms, freezing weather, a hint of Spring and now a combination of the lot. Our paddocks are half submerged ... and that is not going down well with our pygmy goats, who confine themselves to barracks - otherwise known as the stable - when it gets really bad. And they chomp their way through a considerable amount of hay and chopped vegetables. In fact, they do that all year round but cold weather means extra large portions. Not that our animals are spoiled, you understand. Greedy buggers.

Winter wonderland: Down the garden just a few weeks ago

    Random highlights in my absence: Catholics have lost a German Pope and gained an Argentine replacement - the hand of God? - while the wacky world of politics continues to dominate headlines, as always. What ARE your views on the findings of the Leveson Inquiry and the outcome? Do you give a monkeys? You should.
    Barack Obama is sworn in for a second term, while there's no swearing in the care home as my mother-in-law continues to happily hold court from the comfort of her armchair alongside her 99-year-old sidekick; the UK is not, apparently, in a double-dip recession but has been downgraded to a AA credit rating - limited battery life, presumably.
My son's Autumn wedding date is fast approaching, far too quickly for the credit rating of my wallet and no doubt that date in court is also looming far too quickly for Blade Runner Oscar Pistorious. So many jokes, such bad taste. But keep them coming.

Muddy hell: Heavy rain hasn't gone down well with our gang

Man United are out of the Champions League, but the Reds march relentlessly towards another Premier League title - with the help of record-breaking Ryan Giggs - under the guidance of footballing deity Sir Alex Ferguson (should have done the Pope line here); but Man City, without headline-maker Mario Balotelli, have surrendered their crown. Oh, and well done to Wales for retaining their Six Nations Rugby title after giving England a right good thumping.
There's more, so much more that's happened in the outside world while here in the windy, mucky, muddy, expansive Fens, life moves on at a predictable rate in pace with the seasons. The local surgery is about to gain a GP as the current doctor eases into semi retirement, while plans for housing developments continue to be proposed at an alarming rate - almost as quickly as it takes town councillors to declare an interest and leave the room. Wind turbines are still appearing on the Fen horizon; blow the villagers, but more power to the landowners who line their pockets. Green energy? No, it is really about greenbacks

There has been so much going on in our household of late, although that really isn't an excuse for not rattling off a few paragraphs every now and then.

Witch way? The village sign
 Wikipedia

My long-suffering wife is back on her feet after her fall last year and the hip injury has healed well. She has returned to work and she is now based about 15 miles away in a place called Warboys, famous, or infamous, for a dark past. 
The Witches of Warboys is the phrase used to describe the accusation of witchcraft, trial and execution (by hanging at Huntingdon) of Alice Samuel and her family between 1589 and 1593. If you delve into this sordid chapter, you'll discover that the Cromwell family feature prominently and the episode has left an indelible mark on the village which now has a sign of a witch on the clock tower, on the village signs and even on the school badge. And it also possible to see the Manor House next to the church where the alleged acts of witchcraft took place.
But I digress. It isn't far to work for my wife so the journey is a doddle for her, even without a broomstick!! Do I leave that in at the risk of testicular bruising? Yep, I'll take my chances.
Another nearby village about 11 miles away and just across 'the border' in Norfolk (pronounced Norr-fock) is also associated with witchcraft. Upwell was visited by Matthew Hopkins, infamous Witchfinder General, in 1646. It seems this unpleasant fellow was absolutely obsessed with his (very well paid) job - such a bonus when you get paid for something you really enjoy, don't you think? - and was apparently responsible for the death of more than 100 women in East Anglia before he met his own end after suffering from consumption - tuberculosis or TB to you and me.

Water wonderful view: the village of Upwell

Upwell is a smashing little place, with a 'creek' passing through it carrying canal boat tourists in the summer. There are some imposing houses harking back to a more wealthy age, and a couple of excellent old-fashioned butchers. And I must mention the superb chippy called Navrady's. It's well worth the 22-mile round trip just for the cod and chips, as my wife and I can verify.
The ducks are the only ones who seem to appreciate this horrible wet weather. They have a decent-sized compound which keeps them safe from foxes but I now allow them to roam around the paddock for a few hours most days if there is someone about. And they show their gratitude by laying three big, pale turquoise eggs every day. The bantams, who have real attitude, have also started to lay their delightful smaller eggs while the big girls - Martha and the Vandellas - are down to one egg during the winter, although they are whoppers. In fact, we have so many eggs we're now giving them away almost as quickly as they are being laid ... and relying on folk to supply us with empty egg boxes in return for half a dozen of our finest. At least they don't have to shell out because they really are quite eggspensive (sorry about cracking that poor yoke).
Right, I'm calling it a day, but I won't leave it so long to post more stuff about what's going on in the Fens.
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