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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Mouldy" data-source="post: 1774529" data-attributes="member: 25743">Middle-earth RevisitedSomething a bit off-track now, apologies if its not to everyones taste but every now and again I go off on one when the frustration gets too bad.Anyone who’s been with me a while may remember the fact-based spoof about a lost cause in middle-earth birding, The Lords of the Dip (posts 103, 107 and 112 this thread) I wrote last year after a particularly frustrating but really good day out with a couple of mates. Well, with the recent announcement that work is starting on the film version of the Hobbit, I thought it about time to revisit middle-earth for another fact-based birding spoof, this time a gothic tale of intrigue and legend in one man’s quest to tick a mythological bird, (with names changed of course to protect the guilty from embarrassment) and excruciatingly titled:THE HABITOneFriar Steven, as his title suggests, had been a man of the cloth, in fact for many years a worshipper of the mighty Golf, the god of pointless ways to spend an afternoon. He was defrocked, or got out of the habit (tenuous link to the title there) and denounced as a heretic when he discovered the true meanings of birdies, eagles and albatrosses, and instead became a worshipper of the delights of nature, and of birds in particular (the feathered kind that is, not the…. well actually he was partial to the occasional ale-house wench as well come to think of it).Anyway, he followed his newfound passion with reckless abandon, seeking out all the birds of the shire to build Ye Olde Patch Liste by visiting the sanctuaries provided by the Protectors of All Things Natural, a department of the High Council of the shire.One such place was a quiet meditating spot known as Ye Ponds of the Far Pasture, where the purpose-built sanctuary there had been constructed for people of the faith to visit when they needed to find peace and tranquillity, for it was guaranteed that nothing there would make them excited (anyone who’s visited the place recently will know exactly what I mean)Nay, to sit there in quiet contemplation was the norm, usually aided by the calming aromatic incense of Werther’s Originals, and only disturbed when a fellow worshipper would enter with the traditional chant of “Owt about?“, then allowing the heavy, orc-proof door to slam shut behind them, sending tremors through the flimsy wooden building and a wave of tidal proportions across the pond, propelling the zillions of wild creatures there into a panic; the duck, the coot, the swan, the moorhen, and maybe a dabchick on a good day. On the fateful day in question, Friar Steven entered the darkness of the observation cathedral to find two others present, one a young waiflike wraith throwing bread out of a window for the ducks, but she being so skeletal in her ghostly appearance (waifer thin?), the ducks were throwing the bread back for her. In the opposite corner sat a hunched figure all dressed in green with pointed ears sticking out from under a neatly woven hat. “Are you a goblin?” enquired Friar Steven.“No I always eat like this” replied the hunched figure, who was tucking into a sandwich of boiled boar and pease pudding (a classic north-east shire combo). The hunched figure munched and crunched, and when lunched began to talk, …and talk, …and talk, and Friar Steven soon realised that he was in the presence of what is known as an Old Wife, despite the name, a man, of a mysterious cult who’s sole purpose in life was to preach the philosophy of how much better things were in the old days (go on, we’ve all met one), a bit like a Jehova’s witness but without the aggro.Indeed, Friar Steven had encountered many from this cult on his travels in the cloth, collecting many an Old Wives’ tale himself, so was easily able to slip into a four-Yorkshire man style conversation with them thus appearing full of wisdom despite his relatively young age, and in this way gained their trust and confidence.So it was, this particular Old Wife confided in him that whilst out walking his cackhound a few nights previous, he had heard the trill and banshee-like song of a Jar of the Night, the mythical goatsucker itself, a nocturnal half-bird, half-bird (?) creature, the stuff of terrifying legend, at a place called The Gate of Stars in the west of the shire, some thirty years since they were last heard in the exact same spot.Friar Steven was intrigued, for a Jar of the Night would indeed be a major find in the shire. The Old Wife went on to explain how in the old days (yawn) the Jars of the Night used to inhabit the semi-heathland through the Gate of Stars where each year they were summoned by the Morris Men at the summer solstice, then attacked them as they jigged around waving white dusters above their heads at midnight.But both the Jars of the Night and the Morris Men had since died out, The Jars of the Night because man had expanded his range in the shire, burning and pillaging the wild areas as he does, paying little heed to the wild creatures being displaced. And the Morris Men, tired of being attacked every summer, changed the colour of their dusters to red, but then having been forced to dance in farm fields after the heathlands were destroyed, one fateful midsummer’s eve were wiped out by a stampede of raging bulls (when it was also discovered that standing still and shouting ‘stop’ does in fact only work with horses).This unsavoury episode became etched in shire history as the Massacre of the Little Big Horn, or known locally as Dusters Last Stand.So after quizzing the Old Wife for more details of this recent encounter, later that evening, armed with his newfound knowledge, Friar Steven donned his Indiana Jones hat and drove his chariot to the Gate of Stars, where he parked up at a safe distance to listen out for the distinctive song which would prove the return of the legendary Jar of the Night…………….To Be ContinuedUnless begged not to, but there's only one more chapter, honest</blockquote>

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