Perhaps it’s because my pending Halloween party is on my mind or maybe the folk lore article I’m currently researching caused it, but the sight of the little Dunnock peering at me from the side of the footpath yesterday took on an added significance when the post arrived this morning …

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Was it Halloween that night? It must have been somewhere around that time as I remember tissue paper leaves blowing in rustling drifts through the lavatory door and apples rolling under our feet as we crunched our way down the twisting paths of my grandma’s rose garden to our nightly ablutions.

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It's Halloween or Samhein on Friday and the start of what the Celts called the Long Dark which means lots of velvety evenings by brightly burning fires supping something warming and frightening ourselves witless with the weird and wonderful! Hopefully I'll be doing just than at our Halloween party, starting with this poem!

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If you think that sounds like the start to a piece of clichéd fiction you would probably be right, but this really happened …

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I wrote this for my son who rang while I was walking the Lakeland fells. He wanted to know what it was like!

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