cuddlewick farm

about the cuddlewick series

One book leads to another and each can widen the reader's interest and knowledge of life. Many people will discover this and it will certainly enrich their lives. Being filled with amazement your heart and your step will be lightened by the many adventures which will delight both young and old alike.

An extract from Cuddlewick ‘Winter’; it is hoped that reading the Cuddlewick books may replenish the brilliance of life to individuals and society.

Bobbit Comes Home

Beyond the orchard was a little place called bunny hollow where the rabbits tell their fear by thumping their hind legs and where the beehives range in the orchard half hidden by the tall weeds. There in the undergrowth stood an old shepherd hut looking rather worse for wear, the curtains drawn, and the door locked; under the third step was the key.  Above the door was a small plaque with the name ‘Bobbit’ beautifully painted, but who was he?  Many myths had grown up around him; he had been presented as an ascetic, a recluse, even a village mystic.

One fine morning after a walk with the dogs Bob returned to the cottage. “You’ve been a good while this morning Bob,” said his wife.  “Yes, I’ve been to bunny hollow, I think we should spend a bit of time giving the old place a wash and brush up now that the snow has gone.  And perhaps a lick of paint, I’ve a feeling the roof may have been leaking and needs some attention.”  “That’s a good idea Bob; I’ve been thinking that for a while, it must be very damp in there by now, I’m sure the gentleman wouldn’t mind if he should return to a warm and cosy hut.  Let’s have a look inside; we’ll take some kindling and light a fire.” They made their way to the hut and lit the fire. As they stood and looked around, the hut did indeed feel and smell very damp, the roof had been leaking and had stained the paintwork, the curtains hung in tatters, the rug and bedding were threadbare.  Mrs. Cuddlewick knew exactly what was needed. 

The walls inside the shepherd hut were free from pictures. He had the use of a little cabinet and hidden underneath were several of his notebooks written in a cursive hand. One sentence inscribed ‘My alone and wondering self’, on another the script read ‘If tomorrow starts without me?’  His feelings were woven into threads of poetic adventures. On the rest however, the ink had faded to an illegible watery faintness and the script was indecipherable.  As thoughts danced through his mind, a little smile played upon Bob’s face. Was this poetry or the lyrics to a song?  He couldn’t make up his mind.  Above the cabinet was a plaque which read ‘Please leave this little book in view, for the next person may need it more than you’. This played heavily on Bob’s mind. They were very careful as they moved the mystery man’s possessions over to the bed, laying them down just as they had been so as not be disturb their order when they put them back. “We’ll make a start later Bob, I know now what we need to bring.”

After all the farm work was done, and with the fine weather continuing the animals were able to spend some much-needed time outdoors. Bob and Susie made their way to the hut armed with everything they needed to make the hut warm and cosy for Bobbit if he should ever return. Within the week the old shepherd hut had a new roof, the walls were re-painted and new curtains hung at the windows. The beautiful wrought iron bed was made up with warm and cosy bedding and a new fireside rug completed the homely touches.

Shortly after whilst looking out of the window to watch the mist stealing over the landscape. Bob saw a pennant of smoke rising from the shepherd hut and a man approaching the cottage. Could this be the traveller we had heard about so often, but whom had remained unseen for the last two years?   A bearded man in his sixties, bohemian in appearance and slouching under a wide-brimmed hat.  He was sparsely built and gently spoken, an educated man with an accent which was an unpredictable compound of lazy London vowels and rich west country ones.  The man knocked on the door of the cottage with Prince the guard dog at heel, this then confirmed to Bob that he was indeed Bobbit.

He told Bob that the horse in the meadow is lame and presented him with some wild herbage wrapped in a piece of hessian to make a poultice to ease his pain. To most people they are just weeds but both Bob and Bobbit knew that weeds are plants whose virtues haven’t yet been discovered, they are emblems of freedom. “That’s Rocky,” said Bob, “he’s as gentle as a lamb and will be no trouble at all.”  As they made their way to the meadow with an excitable Prince by his side a torrent of talk followed.  As they worked together applying the poultice to Rocky’s troublesome foot, it was obvious to Bob that he had an affinity with animals.  Bob could think of no other venue where they could have fallen so easily into conversation or learnt so much of each other in so short a time. He firmly believed that their friendship boded well for the future.

Several days later as Bob and Bobbit looked across the meadow, they witnessed action untied from strings as Rocky’s flowing breath showered in a prolific splendid extravaganza.  With the hush of his lips Bobbit’s glance was calm and commanding; he then tossed the slouch of his hat and closed one eye expressively as an answer.  Bob soon became aware that he felt a kinship of similarity.  Suddenly a frisson of recognition rifled through his mind; he felt it was himself, his real self, and one which felt strangely good.

A heavy silence fell that night, and as they lay in bed, Susie snorted softly but Bob was preoccupied with thoughts of that day.  It isn’t hard to understand the dense rush of association that this scene must have aroused in Bob. Although the door of the shepherd hut was now never locked, Bob felt strange to have been in Bobbit’s home and felt shamefully like a licensed burglar. He knew that there was something strangely mysterious about their encounter, and only time would tell.

Susie decided to contact Mrs. Swift, the previous owner of the farm.  She spoke in the most cheerful and exuberant tones, and it was tempting to think that Bobbit’s eager company was responsible. Having been informed by Mrs. Swift that he had a profound and lasting influence on everyone he met, but very little is known about him privately. He spoke very well for a travelling man although he wore a suit of clothes that were travel worn.  However, lurking in his voice were the remains of a rural accent, a soft rolling of R’s and a richness of vowels that seemed appropriate to this place.

With her unfailing curiosity Susie wrote a little note composed in a burst of inspiration.  Wherein she welcomed Bobbit back to his winter home of many years past.  As Susie made her way to bunny hollow, she could see the smoke curling gently from the chimney pot. Quietly she left the note on the step of the hut and walked away. Perhaps Bobbit was touched by her solicitude, as the next day he made his way to the cottage. But his agitation began to over master him, causing him to pause before the doorway of the porch. Finally, he knocked, the door opened and there stood Susie her face half enveloped by her hair and dusted with flour but pleasantly surprised.  Bobbit told her how he had missed this place and his dear friend Prince.  He told her that he felt strangely good, part nostalgia, part clean air and clear skies, but also part solitude.  He thanked Mrs. Cuddlewick for making the hut a lovely home for his return and that he was overwhelmed when he stepped inside. His wish now was to stay at bunny hollow. He confided in her that many of the threads yoking him to the past had now been broken and he was no longer in touch with anyone. Susie was delighted and told Bobbit that he was very welcome to stay here for as long as he wanted and felt sure that Bob would also give his blessing.  She watched him leave, his step free and elastic with Prince running on, sly like a loose thought.

In the cold half-light and silence of the early morning where the low clouds clamp the land, squeezing the air between, an eerie shroud of mist loitered in the hollows, and the place now felt as sweet as old honey.  As Bob walked to the old bridge crossing the little stream, he could see the old shepherd hut which now looked a Shangri-la of warmth and comfort. Bobbit lived here alone, some would say hermit fashion, but he loved the sense of being alone, insignificant and unstoppably free.  Although his cheekbones gave his face a harsh character, there was no harshness in his eyes, giving the impression of being a man ever alert to greet a redeeming quality in others.  The motives however that impel him to tramp around the countryside were unknown.  Bob felt the struts may have been knocked from beneath his faith, but hoped to mine a little deeper into the character of Bobbit.