Love and romance bloom in the fields of heather as young maids seek lads in the farms and countryside. A favorite pub song, grab a pint, gather with friends, and wish for faerie magic to take you to pull wild mountain thyme in this rousing realization of the classic ballad.
"Daf, they be. No sense. Dim as night withoot moon.”
Standing with a ripe blueberry she carried quite a way for sup, Button looked at him with wonder. For centuries he knew all folk be daft, and no faerie need waste good eating time saying big ones be no too bright. Surely, it be true, but there be none more need said.
Understanding Bow only frustrated with young lad he be watching; she was just as bewildered by the lad — and her misfortune hearing more of him. Looking at the blueberry, she was entranced by how plump the thing was, wishing to be eating the beautiful find.
"Talkin’ no gettin’ me fed, now tis it? Nor do I see you eatin’ any, with all ya pointless talk. I have ya know I fought off giant rabbit who be wantin’ berry too. Fierce I was, Bow. I stuck him with sharp stick! Then flew up and punched his nose. Still, he stood, ohh, a big un, an’ posing mighty harm to me wee body. Hovering o’er his giant ear, I shout fox be comin’ and he be off. All that I do, jus’ for this sup. I be hearin’ no appreciation comin’ my way from ya.”
Being hungry too, Bow looked at the dew on the blueberry and how excited Button was about her find. He delighted in her tale of battling giant rabbit. She was prone to expand tales of her foraging might.
“Button, be ya sure it twas giant thing? I saw wee bunny scampering ‘way. No much bigger than sparrow new in nest. Be ya sure tha’ was no the one ya challenged so fierce?”
Laughing, both knew it was a wee new bunny on its first outing she shooed off. Saying no more, he loved her tales of battle with every manner of woodland creature. Button was fearless, and had it been giant hare she would still have won the berry.
It was the purple time of year, the one they loved most. Blueberries grew so ripe they fell to the ground. The thyme was rich, all manner of plants sprouting purple. Lavender was about, helping air smell purple. Most purple of all, butterfly bushes; a sight to cherish.
“Button, do ya know what daf’ ones be doin’ wit’ berries fine as this?” Thinking them rather limited in all things purple, she had an answer that she be sure of.
“What else but baked in pie? All sugared an’ roasted ‘till berry be gone. They bake all good tings in pie. Woodland creatures, wee fish, mushrooms, tangy apples. If rocks they could eat, they be bakin’ rocks in pie.”
Giggling at the notion of a rock pie, Button suddenly stopped and stared at Bow with a look of worry.
“Bow, uh jus’ had fearful thought. Folk have sleepy time rhyme sung to wee ones, ‘bout bakin’ blackbirds in pie. Ohh, tha poor little things. Ohh, they pluck them from nest, put in pastry. Feathers ‘n all. Beaks pokin’ out crust. Ohh, Bow… What if they e’er should find us? Dey’d be bakin’ faerie pie! Ohh, ya wee feet sticken’ out crust! Me wisps of wings wit’ sugar on ‘em. We mus’ no be seen or surely we be dessert.”
Bow had a look of terror. He agreed, fearing such fate.
“Ya be right. There be no thing, livin’ or up from ground, they don’ bake up without buttry crust on it.
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