Basil visits Stonehenge

This week I received another postcard from my brother Basil.

What? I never told you he was away? Oh, how remiss of me. Basil was deployed back in April. I’m not sure if ‘deployed’ is the correct word exactly, you see he chose to leave saying that he missed the structure and discipline of military life and accused Carrie and I of being feeble, lily-livered hippies.

He is travelling the globe, instructing new recruits and generally making a nuisance of himself. In any case, he has routinely kept in touch and sends his postcards via our reliable Brown Pigeon mailing service.

Dear Bergamot,

You’ll find me here in ye ‘ole England. Half a world away from yourself and that mangy cat. I’ve been instructing some of the recruits at the Barracks on the finer points of covert reconnaissance. Truly, they haven’t a clue.

I thought it best before I leave these shores to do a spot of sightseeing. A lanky specimen at a roadside stall encouraged me to visit this rocky outcropping. They call it ‘Stonehenge’. I’m convinced however that the scribe must have misspelled it, for this landmark is clearly no more than a ‘Stone Hedge’. Don’t misunderstand me little brother, though I may not be as ‘delicate’ as you, I do possess some aesthetic awareness and I can clearly see the allure of such a structure. For instance, it requires no watering and little to no pruning, though I must say it hasn’t really filled in over time. If their objective was to construct a privacy barrier, they’ve failed miserably, coverage is negligible.

The plaque here states that many of the aforementioned slabs are ‘bluestone’. They don’t appear particularly sad to me, or maybe they just hide it well. Stoney-faced perhaps, would be a more adequate description. Studies on the benefits of exercise and mental heath have been exhaustive (pardon the pun), and seeing as these behemoths haven’t moved in nearly 5000 years, well, need I say more?

Sincerely,
Basil

Brrrr

I am a light sleeper. Even the slightest stirring will rouse me from slumber. I presume this is a genetic throwback, useful for avoiding predators, given we mice lack the fancy weaponry of most other species. It’s true, we rely solely on our wits and approximately 46 minutes of sleep.

————————————

Last night, somewhere between my forty-seventh and forty-eighth bout of wakefulness, I dreamed that I’d landed a job as a taste-tester for the prestigious World Pastry Cup in Lyon. So many flans and fancies to choose from, I was just about to nibble the edge of a decadent chocolate torte when a most peculiar sound echoed around the hall,

Berr-r-r Berr-r-r

I woke immediately. What? What was that? The room was quiet. Puzzled but too sleepy to give it any more thought, I closed my eyes and hoped that I might get back to sleep, back to the Pastry Cup, back to that delicious chocolate torte….

Berr-r-r Berr-r-r

Alarmed, I sat up in bed but all was quiet. Maybe I imagined it? Twice? I let out a sigh, rested my head on the pillow and closed my eyes.

Berr-r-r Berr-r-r

I sat bolt upright. I’m not imagining it, it’s real and it’s here! I waited for the noise to come again but the room remained quiet. I pretended to lie down, resting on my elbows. Quiet. Feeling silly, I lay all the way down. No sooner had my head hit the pillow,

Berr-r-r Berr-r-r

“Argh!” I screamed and leaped out of bed. “It’s in my pillow!” I threw the pillow on the floor, stared at it for a bit, then stomped on it for good measure. I stood back and waited for the strange noise. Not a peep. Nothing. Just a crumpled pillow.

Doubtful that I would get back to sleep now and minus a pillow, I shuffled into my slippers and made my way into the kitchen. The sun was shining through the windows, it was morning. Oh well, it was time to get up anyway, I assured myself. I poured a generous portion of cereal (though I would have preferred cake) and sat down on the porch to eat my breakfast.

Berr-r-r Berr-r-r

You’ve got to be joking! I thought. My pillow is at the other end of the house! Carrie would know what it was. Probably an alarm of some kind. I walked back into the house in search of my human friend but she was nowhere to be found. In the front room I spotted Andy languishing in an armchair, preening himself.

“Andy?”

He looked up dreamily.

“Have you seen Carrie?” I asked.

He blinked.

“Well…. Have you heard a strange sound?” I imitated the annoying trill as best I could, ‘Brrrrr Brrrrr.’”

He tilted his head, narrowed his eyes, made a small hacking sound and went back to preening.

Incensed by his rudeness, I was about to give him a piece of my mind, “Well I–”

Berr-r-r Berr-r-r

It’s outside. I darted past the armchair, around the coffee table, vaulted over a pot plant and hurried down the hallway. I launched myself across the kitchen counter, out the back door and onto the porch.

Berr-r-r Berr-r-r

It’s coming from the veggie patch. I flew down the stairs and sprinted across the lawn. I’ll get you, I thought. I reached the radishes and realised I was still wearing my slippers. I kicked them off and tiptoed through the raised beds, pausing every now and then to listen. I heard something over by the fence, a ruckus of crunching leaves and snapping stems. “Got you!” I whispered. I leaped out from behind a clump of celery, “Ah ha!” I cheered.

“Argh!” Dainty Rabbit squealed and leaped back in surprise. “Oh my, it’s only you Bergamot, you gave me an awful fright,” she smiled and quickly hid a bunch of broccoli behind her back.

“It’s okay, you can keep it. I won’t tell.”

“Oh, thanks Bergie, I’m making Broccoli Bake tonight.”

“Dainty Rabbit, can I ask you something? Have you heard a strange sound today? Like a ‘Brrrr Brrrrr’ noise.”

She thought for a moment and then said, “Well, that sounds like a telephone to me. Wait, I’m expecting a call! Oh, I need to take that…..” and she hurried into the bushes.

Standing there, I felt foolish and a little disappointed.

Berr-r-r Berr-r-r

It’s in the wood shed. I jogged up the path and paused at the door to the shed, it was very dark in there. I stepped inside and wished I’d brought a torch with me. I hopped across a couple of logs and tripped on a piece of kindling.

A voice issued from the gloom, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Bergamot. Is that you Mrs Possum?”

“Oh, hello dear,” Old Mrs Possum called down from the rafters.

“Mrs Possum, have you heard a ‘Brrrr’,” I imitated the sound for her.

“A Bird?” she said.

“No, no a ‘Brrrr’.”

“A Bear?” she said.

“No, it’s a ‘Brrrr Brrrr’ sound.”

“That’s a terrible stutter you have my dear. I don’t know what you’re–”

“No, that is the noise. The noise goes ‘Brrr Brrr’.”

I heard her muttering and could tell she was confused.

“It’s okay Mrs Possum, I'm sorry to bother you. Bye Bye.”

This is a waste of time, I thought. I made my way back up to the house. Whilst walking past a very gnarly tree I heard the sound again,

Berr-r-r Berr-r-r

“What is that?” I shouted at the tree, paws on my hips.

“I thought it sounded like a woodpecker,” said a low voice from a branch above me.

“You heard it?” I shouted up, delighted.

A second voice corrected the first, “Did you learn nothing in school? There are no woodpeckers in Australia. I thought it sounded like a cat. A cat with a cold. You there, does your cat have a cold?” the second voice asked.

“No. I– I don’t believe so,” I answered. Looking up into the tree, I could see the feathery mass of two large Tawny Owls.

“But you heard it?” I asked. There was no reply, only snoring.

Head down, I plodded through the grass annoyed that I had given up my morning to chase a noise that was unfindable. I still hadn’t eaten any breakfast.

“Oi, Oi. What ‘ave we ‘ere?” said someone with a very heavy Australian accent. To my horror I looked up and saw two enormous Magpies standing in front of me.

“What are you doin’ then hey, little mouse?” said the bird on the left.

“Tasty lookin’ little guy,” muttered the the one on the right.

This wasn’t good, I thought. I decided it was best to hurry things along and get out of there, so I stammered, “Gen– Gentlemen. Ah, Sir and…Sir. I was hoping you could….. help me.”

They stared quizzically and then the Magpie on the right nudged his friend and whispered, “A talkin’ mouse, hey Bruce? What’s that about?”

The Magpie on the left, presumably Bruce, shrugged.

Getting on with it I said, “Okay. Ah, see, I’m bothered by this noise. It’s been following me or maybe I’ve been following it. I’m not sure? It doesn’t matter. It goes something like, ‘Brrr Brrrr’. Have you heard it?”

Both Magpies stood there for a moment then burst into laughter. Heaving, snorting and guffawing, the Magpie on the right chortled, “You ‘ere that Bruce, the little mouse went ‘Brrrr Brrrr’.”

“Shut up Barry,” said Bruce. Turning to me, “Yeah, no mate, I know that sound it’s ah, jackhammer.”

Excitedly I said, “Great! Who’s Jack Hammer? Where is he? Why is–”

Barry found this incredibly funny. “‘Who’s Jack Hammer?’ A-haha-haha. Stupid mouse thinks–”

“Shut up Barry,” said Bruce, giving the other Magpie a stern look. To me he said, “Yeah, no mate, listen, jackhammer, like the machine humans use. It’s called a jackhammer, not Jack Hammer,” he smiled. “Really annoying things they are, I’ve heard hundreds of ‘em, mostly in the city though, sound just like you describe, that ‘Brrr Brrrr’ noise.”

“A-haha-hahahaaa,” Barry was bent double, tears streamed from his eyes, he attempted to mimic the noise through fits of laughter, “‘Brr-r-r Brr-r…r…..r……r’.”

Bruce and I watched Barry writhe around on the grass.

“You finished?” scolded Bruce.

Barry’s chest was heaving, “Ahhh, yeah mate, yeah all good, ‘Brrrr’,” and with that he started to laugh again.

Bruce shook his head and smiled. I thanked the Magpies and made my way back to the house. A jackhammer? I pondered. Maybe that was it, at least Bruce seemed to think so.

Berr-r-r Berr-r-r

“I don’t care anymore,” I shouted out loud.

Just as I approached the porch steps, a flurry of activity caught my eye. Four lizard tails quickly disappeared through a crack under stairs.

“It’s all right, it’s only me,” I assured the Skink family, one of which peered though the opening, his head bobbed up and down.

“Oh, right enough! Hello Bergamot. Sorry about that, can’t be too careful.” He turned back and shouted to the others, “It’s all right you lot, it’s only Bergie.” He smiled, crawled out into the sunshine, “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine. And you?”

Skink nodded, “Yes, fine.”

“Skink, can I ask you something?”

He nodded once more.

“Have you heard–,” I paused, I was getting tired of asking this, “a strange ‘Brrrr Brrrr’ noise?”

Skink seemed to give this some thought and then said, “What does ‘Brrrr Brrrr’ sound like?”

“Well, it’s sounds like that, like ‘Brrr Brrr Brrrr Brrrr’.”

“Oh right, I see, sorry. Ah, let me think,” he was quiet for a moment then said, “No. But I make that sound when I’m cold, maybe you’re cold. I get cold very easily. Are you cold?”  

I sighed, “Noooo, I’m not cold. It’s not that. It’s not me. Oh, thanks anyway.” I stomped peevishly up the stairs, quite annoyed that I would never find out what was making that noise. Am I going crazy? I wondered. I reached the porch landing, took a step, turned and collapsed into my chair. I let out a huge sigh. I give up.

Berrr-r-r Berrrr-r-r-r

“Argh!” I screamed.

Berrr-r-r Berrrr-r-r-r Berrr-r-r Berrrr-r-r-r

“I’ve had it!” I shouted. “What are you! Where are you? Show yourself!”

There was a small shuffle, a stirring under my chair. I leaped up, afraid of what lay underneath. Slowly, I leaned over and peered under the seat. Squinting, I saw a small shape perched on the underside of my chair.

“Brr Berrr-r-r Berrrr-r-r-rgamot! Hellooooooooo!” croaked a tiny tree frog.

“You?” I exclaimed. “It was you all this time!”

He smiled and gave a little wave, “I’ve b-been trr-trrrying to rrr-reach you all day Berrrrr-r-r-r-rgamot. You’re a ver-rrrry busy mouse.”

__________________

Inspired by the Peron's Tree Frog. A meek little creature with a mighty call.

The Lumbermouse

Like a lot of mice my age I now have to work at staying in shape. An easy way to do this is to take a brisk morning walk. I’ve found that it’s made even easier if you start walking before you’ve completely woken up. An added benefit to walking outside, for me, is that I get to catch up with my garden friends, with the exception of the Skink Family who tend to sleep in. Dainty Rabbit will often inform me on the whereabouts of any particularly sticky cobwebs and Old Mrs Possum, back from her nightly foraging, will usually save me a piece of fruit - which she hurls at me as I race by.

    This morning, after a twenty minute walk and with Old Mrs Possum’s offering - a pawful of berries - I sauntered into the kitchen, poured myself a cup of tea and joined Carrie and Andy at the breakfast table.

    “Did you have a nice jaunt, Bergie?” Carrie asked. “It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?”

    “Mm hmm,” I agreed, my cheeks now stuffed with berries.

    “Did you see the mouse under the tree? Did you speak with him? Did he tell you why he’s here?” she asked.

    “Mmm? A mouse?” I said. “What mouse?”

    “A mouse, like you. Well, not really like you, well…” she paused then said, “He didn’t want to talk to me, that’s for sure. He seemed a little odd, or maybe he just looked a little odd. I don't know.”

    “Odd? How so?” I asked, casually popping another few berries into my mouth.

    Puzzled, she frowned, then said, “Hmm, he’s probably one of those brooding silent types, what with his little beard and his campfire.”
    
    Spraying a mouthful of half-chewed berries across the table, I stammered, “D– Did you say beard?”

    “Mmm? Oh yes. He had a little checked shirt and an axe too,” she giggled.

    No. It couldn’t be, I thought. No one in my family has ever seen one. No one I know has ever seen one. No one who knows anyone I know has ever seen one. “I have to go,” I shouted. I leaped off the table and sprinted out the back door…

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The full version of this story is available iN:

'BERGAMOT, EARL OF GREY: Farther Afield' VOLUME 2.

Cereal Killer

Developed by humans and I dare say with human consumption in mind, there is a most wonderful foodstuff that is the epitome of perfection to mice the world over. It’s called breakfast cereal. I must tell you that I have a soft spot for breakfast cereal. This most magnificent food is the ideal combination of nuts, grains, seeds and berries and is the go-to blend for any mouse in the know. Had you asked me a week ago which food I was most fond of (besides pancakes) I would have shouted “Cereal!” Today however, I believe I may have found a finer fare to feast upon…

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The full version of this story is available in

'BERGAMOT, EARL OF GREY Volume 2: Farther Afield'

Bergamot's Book

Yes, you heard it right. Our humble country mouse is about to publish a book. Go Bergamot!

He apologises for not keeping up with his blog these past few weeks, the poor chap has been snowed under editing his stories and adding a couple of new ones for you.

He tells me his book will comprise of the first 20 blog entries (which he has painstakingly revised), plus 3 brand new stories:

A Cat Poem: Andy pens a confessional piece about a once perfect life now in ruins.
Cream-Crackered: Bergamot seeks assistance from a Cockney Physiotherapist.
Born to be Riled: The brothers decide to go on a road trip with disastrous results.

Not to mention 45 glorious photographs and 37 colour illustrations.

He has almost finished his book and believes it will be available by June. Pre-orders will also be available shortly. You can fetch yourself a copy here or through my Etsy shop. More details to follow....

Thank you to all,
Carrie and Bergamot =^..^=

I Will Not Be Afraid

I will not be afraid as I lay in my bed,
On this cold and blustery night.
There is nothing to fear from the noises I hear,
Yet I sense that all is not right.

I will not be afraid of that whistling sound,
For it’s simply the wind round the eaves.
The house is secure, it is bolted up tight,
We do not have melodious thieves.

I will not be afraid as I open my eyes,
To assess the depths of the gloom.
The sinister shadows are tricks of my mind,
This is still my beloved bedroom.

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The full version of this story is available in:

'BERGAMOT, EARL OF GREY: Farther Afield' VOLUME 2.

Namby-Pamby Hogwash

Hi Folks, it’s Carrie here. I'm filling in for Bergamot today whilst he partakes in some outdoorsy male bonding with his big brother, Basil. Something I'd not have considered possible a week ago.

True to his word, Basil arrived Monday, the 21st of November at exactly 1400 hours. Bergamot and I were in the kitchen, having a lively discussion regarding the relevance and suitability of Deerstalker hats, when we were startled by a fierce knocking at the front door.

“Who could that be?” I asked.

When I turned to look at Bergamot, I saw that his eyes had grown to twice their normal size and I suspected that he sensed a threat of some kind.

“Mmmm?” he shrugged and edged toward the back door, which stood ajar.

When I asked him where he was going he made a rather flimsy excuse, waving his paw casually, claiming that the flowers needed cataloguing and this task would surely take him the rest of the afternoon. Before he could make his escape however, a thin length of rope tumbled down from the guttering and a stern looking ginger mouse wearing a dark green beret rappelled into view, his right paw against his brow in an unwavering stiff salute. Are you kidding me? I thought. I had to work to keep a straight face..........

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The full version of this story is available in
'BERGAMOT, EARL OF GREY' VOLUME 1. 

My Brother Basil

I was strolling through the garden this morning, as I do most mornings in fact, when a very strange sight caught my eye. Over yonder, under the apple tree, a very worried looking brown pigeon was pacing back and forth, head bobbing frantically, muttering something-or-other to himself.

I ambled over and called out, “Are you alright?”

He stopped pacing and turned toward me.

“Coo. Coooo?” he said.

“Oh, I’m sorry I don’t speak ‘Pigeon English’, only ‘People English’. My name is Bergamot. Are you lost?”

“Cooo!” he exclaimed and withdrew a small telegram from under his wing.

“Is that for me?” I asked, reaching for the letter.

I turned it over in my paws and quickly noticed the exquisite ivory paper, the impeccable handwriting and meticulous placement of the postage stamp. I found myself uttering only one word, “Basil”.

“Cooh,” spoke the pigeon, and his expression changed from high anxiety to sincerest pity.

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The full version of this story is available in
'BERGAMOT, EARL OF GREY' VOLUME 1. 

A Tail of Woe 2

I stand alone in a mossy clearing. Above me hang the branches of ancient elms and gnarly oaks. Pockets of dappled sunlight filter through the canopy and dance upon the ground before me. Echoes of melodious birdsong descend from the boughs, accompanied by the background rustle of scampering squirrels and hurrying hedgehogs. To my delight a warm and gentle breeze stirs, bringing with it the heady scent of lilies and… cat breath?

‘Thump!’ I receive an almighty blow to the chest. ‘Thump!’ Another.

Befuddled by this phantom assault, I look around in the hope of finding an explanation. In the distance, through the thicket and brush, I hear a voice. Although it’s out of place in this enchanted forest it does seem rather familiar and I know I must listen. Whilst deep in concentration, a most odoriferous wave of warm pungent air blindsides me. Cat breath. Again. In the forest?

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The full version of this story is available in
'BERGAMOT, EARL OF GREY' VOLUME 1.