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trogerswriter.bsky.social
@trogerswriter.bsky.social
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annelouiseavery.bsky.social
#OldFoxAdventCalendar
The Fourteenth Window. The Christmas of 1930, Sea Otter had decided to organise a spot of carol singing in the harbour to raise money for the new motor lifeboat. He'd marshalled a good group. They were mostly, of course, from the chapels – some very skilled singers, all very enthusiastic. They met at the Secretary of the Art Club's little white-box cottage on Street-an-Pol, agreed the set, readied the thermoses, distributed collecting and biscuit tins, draped bright woollen scarves and pulled on warm hats and gloves. At half-past three, as the lamps were being lit and the gulls were calling over the darkening sea, they walked down to the wharf, formed a semi circle, and began to sing. The carols were both ancient and modern, and had rather an international character. One, "A minuit fut fait un réveil", was a French carol, another, "The Rocking Carol", was Czech, translated in 1920 by the great liturgist Percy Dearmer. But the ones which drew the most change in the tin, the most applause and swelling hearts and hanky-dabbed eyes were the old Cornish "curls" – ending with "Hellesveor", which every member of the audience joined in singing – their voices deep and cracked, young and old, tired and joyful rising above the harbour and over the waves, far over the wild Atlantic swell until they became as one with that clear, still night of Christmas, 1930.
December 14, 2025 at 10:25 AM
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annelouiseavery.bsky.social
#OldFoxAdventCalendar
The Thirteenth Window. Since being taken up to London to see the Ballets Russes perform Stravinsky's ballet Le Renard, the Little Girl had wanted to learn to dance. She didn't tell anyone, because her legs were still weak and they ached unbearably if she stood or walked for too long. But she dreamt of the costumes and the music and the way that Diaghilev's dancers could share the deepest hurts and the highest comedy and the most heartbreaking of passions without a single word. One morning, when Old Fox came to call, she told him, in a rush, and he understood and made her feel that it was perfectly reasonable and they spent the whole of elevenses (Florentines and sweet tea) talking about Alice Nikitina and Serge Lifar and Nina Verchinina, and how wonderful the dancer playing Renard the fox had been. Eleven days later, on Christmas Eve, the Little Girl opened a beautifully wrapped parcel, all pale grey-green velvet ribbons and silvery tissue paper. Inside was an exquisite pair of white satin ballet shoes, made by Elmina of Paris. The Little Girl hugged them to her for a long moment, then put them very carefully and very reverently back in their box.
December 13, 2025 at 1:43 PM
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annelouiseavery.bsky.social
#OldFoxAdventCalendar
The Thirteenth Window. It was Little Yule, St Lucie's Day and according to the old reckoning, the shortest day of the year, the turning-point of the light. Let us walk up together onto Maygad Hill just before dawn, with the icy wind whipping in from the sea and the snow hard and frozen beneath our boots. Look down, across the sweep of ridge-and-furrowed fields – do you see Old Fox's cottage? Ablaze with candles in the winter darkness. Candles in the parlour window cheering visitors along the lane, candles in rows of painted green Majolica in the Morning Room, each staff shaped as a ruffed and doubleted courtier, candles in the winters-worn Männleinleuchter sticks glimmering on the library desk, candles in the High Attic, fixed hard in sailors' lanterns, beaconing the sea road, candles on the kitchen table, scarlet red & golden orange, friendly rushlights by the chatter & the morning porridge, candles in the bedrooms in sweet porcelain dishes decorated with ivy & winter ferns, & candles in the drawing room, the oldest part of the cottage, blazing in the Christmas spruce's arms, glising the glass baubles, and a dozen beeswax rowels, as sweet as roses, on a candelabra wheel, made in the local smithy centuries back, braced high on the ancient oak beams like a crown of gildy stars in the Midwinter sky.
December 13, 2025 at 8:15 AM
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annelouiseavery.bsky.social
#OldFoxAdventCalendar
The Thirteenth Window. The scene: the steps of a brightly-painted circus wagon, early morning, a fallow field near Long Bredy in Dorsetshire. The characters: a small patch-eyed dog, known throughout the noble cities of Europe as a supreme acrobat and juggler, and a girl, a dancer and accordion player, dark hair, dark eyes, holding a pack of tattered cards. It's St Lucie's day, she said, let's read our fortunes. Supposed to be last night, but it's still dark. Pick one, go on. The dog reached out a paw and chose. The girl turned the card over. It was a picture of a honeyed stone house, with a tower and a balcony. That looks like that place we saw near Lyon, he said with a big sigh. I'd like to settle down one day, leave the circus. Garden. Sleep. Eat. Let's do another one, then, said the girl, see when you can do that. The dog picked again, a card half-hidden in the middle. The girl pulled it out with a flourish and gasped. Look it's the ship – that means soon! The dog spun round in happiness - soon, soon! Lazy living for me! Do one for you, now. The girl shuffled the pack, closed her eyes and chose two, right next to each other. The first was a beautiful lady in a crimson velvet dress and a golden cloak made of satin of Cypress. That's me, she said, a great beauty! And they both giggled. Next, said the dog. It was the sun, blazing in the centre of the card, blazing in the darkness of that long-ago winter morning. Ooh, said the girl, that's the best one – it means I'm going to be the most famous dancer in the whole world – headliner every time! Come and see me in my French castle, though, said the dog. Course, said the girl, won't forget my best friend! And somewhere, crowned in light, St Lucie looked down on the scruffy pair in their little wagon in that muddy Dorset field, and sent all the blessings that a saint can send, which are considerable blessings indeed.
December 13, 2025 at 11:22 AM
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annelouiseavery.bsky.social
#OldFoxAdventCalendar
The Twelfth Window. Now the magnificent spruce tree in the old hall was decorated, at Vesper-tide, in the grey-blue shadows of dusk, Old Fox would perform his nightly candle-teening. With a long taper, he would light the dozens of beeswax candles clipped to the branches in little brass holders. One by one, they flared brilliantly in the darkness, as they always had done in Old Fox's cottage – back, back, back though rustling thatch and creaking wood and embering fire, back through the nesting birds and the blossoming orchards and the snows and the springs and the summers and the autumns and the births and the deaths and the tragedies and the joys of centuries, back, back, back, further, further, further, to when the Midwinter fires were built on the high downs and songs were sung of fight-lacs and silver-scaled dragons and cups of gold and the great ruined cities of giants which once scattered the Dorset lands.
December 12, 2025 at 11:02 AM
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annelouiseavery.bsky.social
#OldFoxAdventCalendar
The Eleventh Window. Old Fox was going up to London, and Babcia had gone to see him off at the train station. Afterwards, she walked back to the village square to do a little shopping for the day. At the grocers, which was very festive with Christmas trees and garlands and wreaths for sale and fancy tins of Huntley and Palmers, she bought some coffee and laundry soap and a Fuller's chocolate cake, and was just fastening her purse and preparing to leave when the owner emerged from the back and asked if he might possibly have a quick word. He was a tall, broad man with dark curly hair and big bristling eyebrows. Old Fox always said he could play a marvellous Mayor of Casterbridge if he ever felt inclined to join the Hardy players. He was gruff but kind and had a very sweet tooth, which was mirrored in the inventory of his shop, which had one of the best selections of cakes and sweets and chocolates in Dorset. Yes, said Babcia, looking sternly over her lunettes. I was just wondering, Madam, said the Shop Keeper, clearing his throat, if there, were, um, any, um, delicacies from your Poland that you would like us to keep. I asked my supplier and he said they can get most regular things, I believe, from the big cities. We at the store, want you and your grandson to feel most welcome, you see, and I knows how sometimes you miss things from back home, even when you're settled right in, as you are, with Professor Fox. Babcia looked up at the Shop Keeper, who was mopping a bead of sweat from his brow, and extended a paw. That is very good of you, she said, I will consider this very carefully and bring you a list. And she managed to say goodbye, and walk across the Square and then across the Green and down Lace street, until she was enfolded by the rambling scarlet-hawed hedges and arching trees of their own quiet lane, and could have a little cry, blowing her nose with a tiny frilled hankie embroidered with snowdrops. For kindness of that kind to immigrants and people and … Babcia The Village Shop
December 11, 2025 at 1:52 PM
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annelouiseavery.bsky.social
#OldFoxAdventCalendar
The Tenth Window. It was just before six & Dorchester was deserted apart from Bear, who was unlocking the church hall to set up the soup kitchen for the day. It was bitterly cold and the North wind was howling angrily up and down the High Street, but he turned the oil heaters on & lit a fire in the old grate too, albeit more for jollity than warmth. At seven, the doors opened to a long, shivering queue, and there were piles of soft, woollen blankets & well-knitted socks and jumpers to hand out & sturdy bags of coal & Christmas sweets and parcels for the young & old, & the heartiest breakfasts in the whole of Dorsetshire. The image is a linocut portrait of Bear.
December 10, 2025 at 3:07 PM
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annelouiseavery.bsky.social
The Ninth Window: The Dragon of Kensington Church Street, accompanied by his best friend, a lady who ran a charming flower shop on the High street, had just hailed and climbed into a cab.
The Dragon of Kensington High Street. Illustration by Debra Macfarlane. The Three Bears by Arthur Rackham. The Chelsea Palace.
December 9, 2025 at 2:00 PM
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annelouiseavery.bsky.social
#OldFoxAdventCalendar
St. Nicholas Eve. Peter had been sent to bed very early that night. He had an awful cold, and, because of his diabetes, the Doctor had been called. Bed rest, he'd said, plenty of fluids, just bread and milk for supper. I'll call back first thing in the morning. And don't worry, he'll be fine, he said to Peter's mother, who always did worry, with some reason. Peter didn't feel that bad, but his nose was red and sore, and his head throbbed and his eyes hurt when he moved them around. He fell deeply asleep at seven, and then woke suddenly at midnight, not knowing what day or time it was. He felt rather feverish and giddy. The room was bright with moonlight, and he knelt on the bed and opened the curtains of the little window which looked out across the sleeping hamlet and beyond to the downs and the sea. He heard an owl calling and another replying politely from the far woods. Then, suddenly, the unexpected clip-clop of a horse, the delicate jangle of bells, the creak of carriage wheels. Descending the steep road from Gleydestow farm, was a wagon, gaily painted in bright reds and blues and pulled by a silver horse with a long silver mane, threaded with silver stars. Holding the reins with capable paws was a white fox with bright amber eyes. At the turning to the hamlet, the fox slowed his horse, and looked directly up at Peter for a long moment, and then carried on down the hill into the heavy mist which had risen from the frozen fields. Peter opened the window and tried follow its course, but to no avail. The Newcomer, he said to himself, excitement bubbling up inside, the Newcomer is back, he's back! Christmas is near, Christmas is near! And he closed the latch, drank some water, tucked himself back into bed, and fell straight to sleep. When he woke the next day to his mother and the cheerful Doctor, smelling of cold air and iodoform, he felt as though he'd slept for days. I feel fine now, said Peter, my nose isn't even running any more. My word, said the Doc…
December 4, 2025 at 7:23 PM
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annelouiseavery.bsky.social
Advent Sunday & London was bitterly cold and wreathed in a damp fog which smelt of underground rivers and coal smoke. The Dragon of Kensington Church Street, however, was exceedingly well wrapped up in a Sèvres blue muffler and matching mittens.
The Dragon of Kensington Church Street (illustration by Debra McFarlane) The Red Squirrel (photograph by Mark Sisson) St Mary Abbots Church, Kensington, 1904. Historic England.
November 30, 2025 at 4:45 PM
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annelouiseavery.bsky.social
It was half past six and pitch black in the hamlet when Peter woke. From his bed, he could still see a cold, white scatter of stars & there was noble Jupiter high and kingly and benevolent in the west. His mother had lit a fire in the little grate and he quickly washed and dressed and packed his satchel. Marbles and cigarette cards were as vital as his Latin homework, and were placed and checked with care. He had a good selection of cards to swap that week, courtesy of the Doctor, who always saved them up for him. He clattered downstairs to the kitchen and breakfast: porridge with cream and warm, white doorsteps and butter. His mother's breakfasts were always the best. She had the knack, like Old Fox and the Bears, of making even the most humble food taste delicious. When he wheeled his bicycle to the village road, the sky was lightening into that very particular blue of late November mornings and the grass was stiff and glittering with frost. "Be careful on the ice," called his Mother, and he called back, "I will!" and he was off, careering down the hill, the magnificent view of the village and the downs and sea before him, his breath billowing, face stung by the cold – oh, what it is to be young and happy on the sacred edge of Christmastide!
November 28, 2025 at 3:30 PM
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annelouiseavery.bsky.social
After the storm, Wolf had gone for a long tramp in the woods and along the rushing ditches and the boggy slade by Brimstone farm. He, alone of all the walkers that day, full-entered those enchanted November lands, their wistful, unappreciated, delicate beauty veiled in smoke and mists and soft rain, blood-scarlet berries pricking the dun-greys and the dun-browns and the marish greens.
November 13, 2025 at 3:01 PM
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annelouiseavery.bsky.social
As the church bell sounded the last deep toll of the eleven, the wet, mizzling rain suddenly stopped and in the silence, a blackbird began to sing in the apple orchard by the memorial. Standing in his old great coat, still flecked with mud, the Doctor remembered another little blackbird calling in a wood where bodies lay. These were songs of God, he thought, longing for a cigarette, of a God who fell in strips of light in cottage parlours when the telegrams were read in trembling hands, in the piping larks who rose above the shelling, of the sudden singing of the Welshmen along the trench, rich and dark and as holy as Christmas night.
November 11, 2025 at 10:07 AM
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npr.org
Bob Trumpy has died. While he leaves a fine legacy as a Cincinnati sportscaster, his best moment might have been the two hours he spoke with a desperate and depressed woman who called into his show. n.pr/3WOlNh0
Opinion: Remembering Bob Trumpy — NFL great, broadcaster, and life-saver
Bob Trumpy has died. While he leaves a fine legacy as a Cincinnati sportscaster, his best moment might have been the two hours he spoke with a desperate and depressed woman who called into his show.
n.pr
November 8, 2025 at 6:43 PM
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onenerdsopinion.bsky.social
In case you missed it, I recently posted the children’s book version of this meeting on my Patreon. Read it for free at the link below.
onenerdsopinion.bsky.social Matt Ramsey @onenerdsopinion.bsky.social · Aug 8
It’s been 1 year since a little orange fluffball climbed my leg in the parking lot at work. Since then Dandy has grown to be a part of Spike’s and my family. She’s also gained a bunch of aunts and uncles here and I hope has brought some joy into the world. Happy Gotcha Day Dandy!
October 28, 2025 at 10:09 PM
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bfitzinar.bsky.social
If a story touches your heart, send Anne a hot chocolate (Ko-fi) in appreciation. If they all do, join her Patreon. All tiers have access to all the tales (& recipes). Wolf & Old Fox will send you a very sweet welcome card when you do. Today is a good day to subscribe.
annelouiseavery.bsky.social Anne Louise Avery @annelouiseavery.bsky.social · Oct 20
☕️ If you like my stories, then why not support my daily writing and buy me a nice hot chocolate over on Kofi. It's very, very helpful at the moment, as I can't work as much as I would like because of my health. ko-fi.com/annelouiseav...
A fox in an autumnal wood
October 20, 2025 at 2:00 PM
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npr.org
Susan Stamberg, an original National Public Radio staffer who went on to become the first U.S. woman to anchor a nightly national news program, has died. n.pr/4qjVMDS
NPR 'founding mother' Susan Stamberg has died
Susan Stamberg, an original National Public Radio staffer who went on to become the first U.S. woman to anchor a nightly national news program, has died.
n.pr
October 16, 2025 at 7:32 PM
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annelouiseavery.bsky.social
🍂🐻🍐On my patreon today, a perfect October pudding: very simple, comforting & luxurious: the Bear of Moscow's delicious version of Auguste Escoffier's Poire belle Hélène! Join for autumnal cheer & thousands of seasonal stories & recipes! Wolf will even send you a card! patreon.com/annelouiseav... 🍐🐻🍂
The Bear of Moscow Mouse sitting inside a pear Poire belle Hélène surrounded by apples, pears, quinces and a vase decorated with autumn leaves
October 8, 2025 at 12:48 PM
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annelouiseavery.bsky.social
The Harvest moon was vast and gold over Old Fox's Dorset, soaring over the banks of Michaelmas daisies, over bramble and oak, thatch and hurdle, chalk and flint, plough and apple and earth. Walking from Stinsford, where he'd attended a concert in the church, Old Fox stood still in the water meadows and watched in wonder, moved to tears. As a Classical fox, old hymns to Selene came to mind, and he spoke them there, in the damp fields by the Frome, just as they had been spoken many, many centuries ago on the very same mead on the very same eve by a sharp-eyed civic fox of Durnovaria.
October 6, 2025 at 12:36 PM
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ricksteves.bsky.social
In my public television special “The Story of Fascism in Europe” (www.ricksteves.com/fascism), we learn from Europeans whose families lived through fascism that a strong democracy requires vigilant and engaged citizens. We are all participants, we are all responsible, and freedom isn’t guaranteed.
September 23, 2025 at 12:23 AM
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annelouiseavery.bsky.social
The Equinox had fallen on a day of such beauty and unexpected sunshine, that Old Fox had set up the long trestle table in the garden for an early supper. It was draped with the old green velvet tablecloth and there were vases of Michaelmas daisies & decanters of blackberry wine and village apple juice, artichoke soup with fine white bread & bowls of buttered potatoes & golden pies with elaborate crusts, a quince pudding with rich hot custard and a cinnamon plum cake with yellow cream. The light was golden and not quite of this world. It was the colour of old buried treasure hoards, of earth-dimmed torques and Gaulish coins, and a little breeze sent leaves pattering from the trees. To dear Autumn, toasted Old Fox, raising his cider cup to his friends, may She be a merry and gentle one!
September 22, 2025 at 3:23 PM
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theunhurriedreader.bsky.social
206 years young ...
arealmofwonder.bsky.social Cian McCarthy @arealmofwonder.bsky.social · Sep 19
Written 206 years ago today.

• John Keats •
September 19, 2025 at 7:23 AM
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theunhurriedreader.bsky.social
I've just been watching All The President's Men and now I want to scribble in spiral notebooks, type really fast and frantically feed coins into a payphone in the dark.

#RobertRedfordRIP
September 18, 2025 at 2:53 PM
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npr.org
A movie star to his core, Robert Redford has died after a visionary career in cinema, including founding the Sundance Institute that transformed the market for independent films.
Movie star and visionary Robert Redford has died at age 89
A movie star to his core, Robert Redford has died after a visionary career in cinema, including founding the Sundance Institute that transformed the market for independent films.
n.pr
September 16, 2025 at 1:24 PM
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paintingsoflondon.bsky.social
'My Back Garden', St John's Wood by Sir George Clausen

(Tate)
September 12, 2025 at 2:23 PM