by Taffy Thomas
The kitten said he should skip the story but still give her the fishing lesson on the morrow.
The following morning, the two cats yawned, stretched and padded out of the barn and down to the riverbank. The black cat demonstrated that, to tickle a trout, she should put her paw in the water with her claws out, and when the fish swam over her paw she should flick it out on to the bank.
He demonstrated this several times and then announced that she could fish in that spot. He, however, was going a bit farther downstream. He knew somewhere better to fish, but wasn’t prepared to give away all his secrets at once.
Excited, the little white kitten approached the water’s edge. She put her paw in the water with her claws out and, as soon as a fish swam over them, she triumphantly flicked it out on to the bank next to her. She was proud she had caught her first fish, because she was young and fast.
Downstream, the old black cat wasn’t doing quite so well. He was older and slower. He put his paw in the water with his claws out, but when a fish swam over his paw he was too slow, and by the time he tried to flick it out on to the bank, the fish was away and safe under a stone. Although he fished the whole of the morning and the afternoon, he couldn’t catch anything; he was just too slow.
As the sun started to dip behind the fell, he gave up and went back to see how the little white kitten had fared. Seeing him coming up the bank, the kitten stood proudly over her catch and arched her back in a threatening manner. This was her first fish and she was proud, and planned to savour it for supper.
She called to the old black cat, asking him how he had done. On hearing he had been unsuccessful, because he was too old and slow, the kitten started to laugh. The old cat pointed out that one day she too would grow old, and anyway his lack of success didn’t matter because she had caught a fish and they could share it.
The kitten pointed out that it was her first fish and she had no plans to share it. So the old black cat reminded her that he had taught her how to catch it, and that every night he told her stories, so perhaps now she should share. The kitten again stated she had no plans to share.
And so the argument began. The two cats howled, yowled and hissed at each other. They made such a row that they awoke old Daddy Fox in his den on the fell-side, for the fox hunts at night and sleeps during the day. He came down the fell-side to investigate.
As soon as he spotted the fish by the kitten, he licked his chops, for Daddy Fox liked to eat fish, too. He complained that the cats had woken him up and asked what their problem was.
The old black cat explained that they were arguing about which cat should eat the fish for supper.
Daddy Fox offered to be the decider. First he asked who had caught the fish. The kitten proudly stated that she had caught it and so it was hers. The black cat said that he had been her teacher and so deserved his share.
Daddy Fox realised the situation was more complex than it had first seemed, but he had a cunning plan to resolve the dispute. He pointed out that they had quarrelled for so long, the moon was out in the sky. Now, we all know that cats sing to the moon. That is why Daddy Fox’s idea was a singing competition: the two cats should sing to the moon, and whichever sang the best would be rewarded with the fish supper.
The old black cat boasted that this would be him, as he knew all the old arias and folksongs, and what the young kitten called music – rap and rock – was just a noise.
The two cats put their heads back, drew breath, and started to sing: ‘meeeeeow, MEEEEEOW, MEEEEEEEEEEEEOW.’
While they were concentrating on their musical skills, they failed to notice as Daddy Fox stuck out his paw, flicking the fish towards himself. He seized the fish and took it back to his den to feed his vixen and his cubs.
The two cats sang on for another half an hour: ‘MEEEEEOW, MEEEEEOW, MEEEEEEEEEEEEOW.’
When they stopped singing, they looked down but there was no sign of the fish … and no sign of the fox. All they could do was return to the barn and go to bed hungry.
That was one night when the old black cat didn’t tell any stories at all.
TROUTBECK
The group of activities known as the ‘Arts’, which include storytelling and book reading, together with music, art, dance and drama, are an expression of joy and life. In most families, brothers and sisters can be quite competitive. There are lots of stories where the hero is a boy or man. I’ve found a story where the hero is a girl, although her two brothers are tidy and hardworking. So something for all of you in this joyful tale.
Somewhere in the heart of the countryside lived a farmer and his three children. He had two sons, who were intelligent, hard-working chaps. However, his daughter was a fun-loving partygoer. The farmer was in the autumn of his years – the time was approaching when he would die. He knew he had to make a will to say which of his three children would inherit the farm. He went into town and called on the family lawyer. He made a will stating that the day he was buried, each of his children were to be given £1; they would have to use this pound to fill every room in the farmhouse from the ceiling to the floor. But the farmhouse was enormous and had 161 rooms. This would be a test to see which of them should have the farm. He was safe in the knowledge that he had made his will, and a couple of weeks later took to his bed and died.
The day after his death, his three children took his coffin to the churchyard and buried him, full of tears. After the ceremony, as the family gathered in the farmhouse, the lawyer arrived to read them the will. All three were keen to know who would get the farm. The lawyer explained they were each to get £1: they had to buy something to fill all 161 rooms from the ceiling to the floor. Whoever could achieve this would inherit the farm.
The first of the intelligent, hard-working sons went out with his £1 and his horse and cart; he bought every second-hand feather mattress in the area. He returned to the farm and dragged the mattresses into the house. Taking his pocketknife, he slit the mattresses open and filled each of the 161 rooms from the ceiling to the floor with … feathers. The lawyer checked from room to room. It took so long to walk around 161 rooms that by the time he came to the last one, the feathers had settled and there was a gap between the top of the feathers and the ceiling. The lawyer told the lad he liked the idea but there was one room that wasn’t quite filled, so he had failed in the task.
The second intelligent, hard-working son took a dustpan and brush and swept up all the feathers. He then went out with his £1, and returned with a cardboard box: it was a box of candles. He stood a candle in each of the 161 rooms and lit them. He had filled every room in the house with … light. The lawyer checked from room to room. It took so long to walk around 161 rooms that by the time he came to the last one, the candle had gone out and it was in darkness. The lawyer told the lad he liked the idea but there was one room that wasn’t quite filled, so he had failed in the task.
That left the fun-loving party-going daughter. She went out with her £1 and returned with a small box containing a flute. She opened the door of every room in the house and sat cross-legged in the hall, playing a lively tune. All in the house started to smile and tap their feet; some even started to dance. She told the lawyer she had filled every room, not once, not twice, but three times. The lawyer was mystified and asked her to explain. She told him firstly she had filled every room in the house with music; secondly, everyone hearing it had started to smile, so she had filled every room with joy; and if you put music and joy together, she told him, you have life - so even at the time of her own father’s death, she had filled every room in his house with life. The lawyer - and even the brothers - were so impressed by her wisdom and spirit, they agreed she should inherit the farm. Whether she gave up going to parties and became a hard-working farmer or whether she carried on partying, or whether she did a bit of both, you would have to ask her … for she is the farmer’s fun-loving daughter.
AMBLESIDE, RIVER ROTHAY
Have you ever wondered why things are as they are? These days scientist
s answer a lot of these questions. In times past, storytellers explained a lot of things in ‘pourquoi’ or ‘why’ stories. There are others in this collection. The story that follows explains why rabbits have long ears and bobbly tails.
Many years ago before Noah was a sailor, in the Rothay Valley there was an animal called a coney. Now the coney was a little bit like a squirrel; he had tiny ears and a big long bushy tail.
One day Mr Coney was hopping along the bank of the River Rothay, which is the river that runs by the famous Bridge House in the middle of Ambleside. He had just reached the Stepping Stones when he spotted some small trout shining in the stream and wondered how he might catch one for his tea.
Who should come stomping down the river bank but old Daddy Fox.
‘Ah! Mr Coney,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you how to catch a fish!’
He waggled his bottom and flipped the tip of his red tail into the water. He sat patiently waiting for a bite. He was using his tail as a fishing line.
As soon as a fish nipped the end of his tail, he pulled it out gently, seized it in his mouth and strolled back up the fell-side to feed the fish to his vixen and cubs.
Mr Coney decided to try the same ploy. He waggled his bottom and flipped the tip of his white tail into the water. He was sat patiently waiting for a bite when who should come slithering upstream but Jack Frost. The river turned to ice, trapping Mr Coney’s tail.
He was stuck fast by the tail when who should come flying majestically over the ice but the heron, or as she is known in Lakeland, the jammy crane.
Being a friend of Mr Coney, the heron paused to help. She seized one of Mr Coney’s little ears in her beak, flapped her wings and pulled, stretching the ear. Next she seized the other ear, flapped her wings and pulled so that Mr Coney’s ears were so long they met over the top of his head. The heron then seized both ears in her beak, flapped her wings and gave an enormous tug. There was a snapping noise as Mr Coney’s tail broke a few inches from his backside, leaving a bobbly tail like a lump of cotton wool.
Confused, Mr Coney shook his head, discovering he had long floppy ears. He looked so different with his long floppy ears and his bobbly tail that all of the other animals stopped calling him Mr Coney and started calling him ‘rabbit’ or ‘bunny’. When in time he fathered his own young, they too had long ears and bobbly tails so they were also called ‘rabbits’ or ‘bunnies’.
So it was then and so it is now. However, if anyone ventures to a fur shop (hopefully they wouldn’t in this day and age), and if they attempted to buy a coat made of the fur of this animal, the label on the coat would not say ‘rabbit fur’, it would say the word ‘coney’. This reminds everyone of the story of how Mr Coney became ‘rabbit’ or ‘bunny’, a story that a man called Charles Darwin never heard.
PARTON
A young girl lucky enough to have grandparents who lived in Lakeland had very special holidays visiting them. These visits would sometimes uncover old stories that live here, giving her some unusual things to eat or leading her to magic places … even a smuggler’s cave. This tale came just from her helping to clean a strange old piece of pottery.
Grandma’s cottage in the Lake District, in the village of Parton, near Whitehaven, was completely different from the flat where the granddaughter lived in the city. The city flat was quite sparsely decorated, just the necessary furniture, a TV and a few books. When the girl visited her grandma her chores were always to help dust, clean and polish the brass and china ornaments that covered every shelf and filled every cupboard of the tiny cottage. Whilst doing that on one visit, the girl for the first time noticed a dish with writing on its side. The writing said:
Butter to show her the richness of life,
Sugar to show her the sweetness of life,
Nutmeg to show her the spice of life,
And rum to show her the spirit of life.
When the girl asked her grandma about the dish, she told her it was a Cumberland rum butter dish. When the girl asked about rum butter, her grandma told her she’d give her a bit to taste with her bedtime glass of milk. She went into the kitchen and came back with a glass of milk and a finger of Grasmere gingerbread covered with a brown sweet spread – rum butter.
The girl loved it, and asked why rum butter was special to this area and why her grandma had the dish. The old lady told the girl that if she put on her pyjamas she would answer all those questions with a bedtime story. Settling by the fire in her dressing gown, the girl listened as her grandma became a storyteller.
‘In midwinter this coast can be bitter cold. In your great-great-grandfather’s (my grandfather’s) day, ordinary working people like him liked to warm themselves with a glass of rum on cold winter nights. The government in London, hearing of the Lakeland folk’s love of rum, increased the tax on it, so folk up here couldn’t afford it. They were so cold and miserable they started to smuggle it in from abroad.
‘One night, a group of men including the vicar and your great-great-grandfather were waiting on the beach for a big three-masted sailing ship to moor in the bay. As soon as they spotted the ship through the dark and mist, they rowed out to meet it. A large sack of dark brown sugar was lowered down into the smugglers’ tiny boat. This was quickly followed by a tiny package containing nutmegs, and a small wooden barrel of Jamaican rum. All this made the tiny boat wobble, so the smugglers rowed for the beach. As they unloaded the goods on to the beach they saw lantern lights heading along the shore towards them. It was the excise men, or customs officers. The smugglers knew they were in trouble. They rolled the barrel and lugged the sack up the beach into a cave. Shaking with fear, the men knew they had to hide in the cave until they saw the lantern lights going back along the shore towards the town.
‘This was in the days before fridges were invented. The farmer’s wife from the farm nearest the beach used that cave to keep her butter cool in the summer. She had a big slab of butter cooling on a flat rock in the cave. The smugglers were hungry. Luckily the vicar had brought a few biscuits with him. The men mixed together some of the butter with sugar, rum and nutmeg. It made the first ever rum butter. This was spread on the vicar’s biscuits, which he shared with the other men. A couple of days later the smugglers were pleased to see the lantern lights heading away from the beach, north towards Whitehaven and Carlisle. The smugglers headed home with their swag, and of course a new recipe.
‘Ever since that day, Cumbrians have made and loved rum butter, having special dishes made to give to children at their christenings. So that dish was my christening dish,’ Grandma continued. ‘After we’d eaten the rum butter, the dish was passed round for people to put money in for me. Wasn’t I lucky?’
The girl thought she was lucky to hear the story, and took special care in cleaning the dish before going to bed, dreaming of smugglers, ships and Excise men with lanterns on the beach. The next day she would ask her grandmother to take her to the cave.
SIZERGH
You probably know the old Russian story about the people of a community co-operating to pull up a giant turnip. In the tale that follows, here in Lakeland the villagers work together to save a trapped cow. The story ends with a homophone much loved by you and me.
Now I could tell you about the iron winter. In the iron winter the snow in the Lake District didn’t melt until 1 July! When it did melt, the farmers had to borrow ladders to get their sheep down from the treetops.
But I won’t. I’ll tell you about the soggy spring, when frogs wore flippers, goats wore galoshes, water voles wore wetsuits and Farmer Merryweather’s cow got stuck in the mud.
She was stuck in the mud from her bottom to her bonce.
Farmer Merryweather was worried. He took two hand-turns of her tail …
… and he tugged
and he twisted
and he pulled …
… but he could not pull that cow out of the mud.
Luckily Bessie Blood the Butcher was passing, and she came to help.
So Bessie Blood
held on to Farmer Merryweather and Farmer Merryweather held on to the cow …
… and he tugged
and he twisted
and he pulled …
… but they could not pull that cow out of the mud.
Luckily Billy Bun the Baker was passing, and he came to help.
So Billy Bun the Baker held on to Bessie Blood, Bessie Blood held on to Farmer Merryweather and Farmer Merryweather held on to the cow …
… and he tugged
and he twisted
and he pulled …
… but they could not pull that cow out of the mud.
Luckily Patricia the Postie was passing, and she came to help.
So Patricia the Postie held on to Billy Bun, Billy Bun held on to Bessie Blood, Bessie Blood held on to Farmer Merryweather and Farmer Merryweather held on to the cow …
… and he tugged
and he twisted
and he pulled …
… but they could not pull that cow out of the mud.
Suddenly, there was a loud snap!
And they all fell on their bottoms in the mud!
All except for the cow who was still stuck.
Now if that tail had been a little bit stronger …
… this tale would have been a little bit longer.
LYTH VALLEY
This fragment of a very old folk tale told to me at Brockhole National Park Visitor Centre, Windermere, is very relevant in a time when some people are having to use food banks to feed their families.
Fruit is good for you, and you probably enjoy eating plums. The Lyth Valley in the Lake District is famous for a slightly sour, tasty plum called a damson. Originally called Damascus plums, they were first brought back to this country in the twelfth century during the Crusades. Every January, Crook Morris Dancers and friends wassail the damson trees in the Lyth Valley. This year, 2016, I adapted the old wassail chant to one that they could use to wassail the damson trees.