A Well-being Coach

 


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The Road to Bethlehem

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  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...
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The Woolly Wisdom of North Yorkshire

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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...
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The Mouldywarp

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  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...
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