Stories to be Explored

The wind swept briskly over the course moorland, carrying with it the scent of heather and the distant call of curlews. Amid the patchwork of green and gold, a lone figure stood, flat cap firmly in place, his gaze set upon a scatter of woolly dots grazing under the ample sky, though one, inevitably, was nibbling suspiciously at his bootlaces. Jack’s father was a shepherd before him and would often say, ‘Shepherding is equal parts learning and trust. Neither ever stops.’  Jack rose to his feet, pressed a battered old whistle to his lips and with a practised breath, he coaxed forth a high, lilting note, a sound as familiar to the moor as the rising sun. At the whistle’s call, all motion paused for a heartbeat, and then, as if compelled by magic, a sleek border collie sprang into action. Jess, the dog, responded to Jack’s tune as if the notes were stitched into her very bones. Her eyes flicked to him for guidance, then to her flock, every muscle taut with intention. At another whi...

There’s a saying in North Yorkshire: “If it’s not drizzling, it’s probably raining.” For Jack Trelore, humble sheep farmer and part-time philosopher, it seemed there was always a cloud overhead – quite literally. His farm sat on the edge of a moor that rolled away into heather and fog, with his sheep, wife Mary, and sheepdog Bess, and the odd hiker for company (not necessarily in that order, of course).  was a practical man, fond of strong tea, strong opinions, and, above all, order. But where there is order, there is always the lurking threat of chaos. Enter Molly, a sheep of such unbridled spirit and insubordinate fluff that the neighbours whispered she was the reincarnation of a circus performer. From the day she arrived, a tiny, belligerent lamb with a shock of wool like a haystack struck by lightning. Molly had made it her mission to challenge every expectation. The trouble began on a Monday, as all good trouble does. Jack was patching a fence and humming tunelessly when h...

 This morning's thoughts and words, after meditating on Lau Tzu's poem. So often we get caught up in the doings of things, that are of no concern to us. Our involvement is not necessary and we have many more issues to address. To watch is to be an observer, to notice is healthy - to have concern for others and to pray, is good for our soul too.

  A story of truth and hope. I was returning to my home in Bethlehem, having been away for almost three days. Trading had been good, and the donkey and I were coming home with an empty cart and a full purse. The various pathways were busy with people as there had been a command to register each person’s origin. Times were difficult, with political unrest and there had been uprisings from those persecuted and held in bondage. Increased taxes beyond what many felt were unrealistic. It was futile to object or try to hide one’s income. Something had to give! My donkey became my confessor as we walked side by side. I told her the story of my life, my troubles and woes, occasionally she would give a gentle brae, letting me know she was listening. The light had faded, and I was unlikely to be home before dark. Perhaps I should not have allowed myself to stay for one more drink at the Tavern. Not to worry, I thought – the path was clear, and I would not be long now. It was then that I sa...

  Nettlebed Farm was home for nine-year-old Sam, he had known nothing else. A strange name for a farm – perhaps the first people there had a nettle bed. His father had told him, that nettles had been used to make material as far back as Saxon times. This quaint little farm was tucked under a hill and sheltered by trees. There were just enough fields for a few crops and a handful of animals. It was Sam's job to look after the chickens and a silly old goose they called George. There was never a dull moment, for there were often things to do. Mending fences for one thing – though the animals seemed content to stay, where they were fed and well cared for.         Once Sam’s jobs were done, he loved to run and explore beyond the farm fences. That afternoon he had been his furthest yet. Out towards the ridge where he could see for miles – to the point he could not make out one field from another, as the colours and shapes merged into one greeny grey. Th...

  The scent of pine and cinnamon wafted through the air, wrapping the living room in a warm embrace. Flickering lights twinkled on the tree, casting a soft glow that mingled with the sounds of laughter and nostalgia. It was Christmas Eve at the Harper house, and for the first time in several years, the family had gathered together, each member filled with mirth and memories of childhood days spent in the very same room. “You remember the snowstorm of ’98?” Charlie said, leaning back into the cosy couch, his eyes glimmering with mischief. “We built a fort in the backyard that could’ve housed half the street!” Laughter erupted around the room, and his sister Emma chimed in, “And we had snowball fights until Mom called us inside, claiming our cheeks were as red as Rudolph’s nose!” Their mother, now greyer but still sprightly, emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “Don’t forget the cocoa! I remember making endless pots of hot chocolate to revive you all after you...