Finley and the Critsberg Oktoberfest

Merlin and I had called in at the Bear Pit Club to have a snack and a mug of the club's citrus shandy. Part of the appeal of these visits is to see if the landlord, Finley Osbourne, has any new tall tales to entertain us.

On this occasion, vibrating lips from a noisy sigh suggested Finley had something else on his mind.

 

"Problem, Finn?" I asked.

"Uhuh. Oktoberfest," he said, clearly unhappy.

Bertram Bamboo, drinking nearby, overheard.

"We're getting an Oktoberfest?" he said, hope bordering on excitement.

 

"Not us," said Finley. 

Bertram's shoulders slumped. "Aw, shame. Good ales, Charlie Furbanks with his hot dog van, pretzels from Appleblossom’s bakery... It would've been good."

 

"No Bertie, it's being held at Critsberg."

"Not too far then," said the panda. "I'll have a word with Charlie and see if he's going. Maybe he can give me a lift."

  

Bertam thinks...

 

Bertram thinks further...

 

Where is Critsberg?. Well, if one were to cross Mellowdene bridge and take the road towards JollyOakFields, about halfway there you would pass an area of sparse woodland on your left bordering a country lane. This leads to the small village that is Critsberg. A few years ago the inhabitants decided to try and raise the profile of their village, holding a few events ostensibly to attract newcomers to join their population. An Oktoberfest was probably one such event.

Why would this be a problem to Finley? I asked him.

"It's to do with Mellowdene Day approaching. Did you know it's five years since the last formal celebration?"

"Is it? Oh, I suppose it is. It was the time Newton did a little presentation about how Mellowdene got its irrigation."

"Yes. Well, I had it in mind it was only four years ago. I only realised my error this morning, that I would need to arrange a beer tent and a large supply of ales."

Merlin nodded sagely. "The Oktoberfest would give you supply problems."

"Spot on. I contacted Marcus Tan at the brewery but the organisers at Critsberg have reserved all his extra stock. I've got my regular order for the Bear Pit but by all accounts Marcus won't be able to add sufficient ale to his stock before Mellowdene Day."

"That's unfortunate."

"I've only got myself to blame. Marcus gets a finite amount of hops from his wife's family. The Huntingdons grow a decent sized crop but they can only harvest a certain amount."

"So what are you going to do if the brewery can't help you with enough ale?"

"Look further afield, I suppose."

"Does it have to be ale?" asked Merlin. "Horace Honeybear might help you produce mead. The sea cats should have access to grog. Tanner Blackberry might have enough apples for cider."

"Potcheen," said Bertram. "Get some potatoes."

Finley inclined his head, presumably considering this. "Marcus is making a delivery today. I could ask him if he could do that."

 

An accented voice cut through. "Oi could do what, Finn?"

Marcus Tan had entered the room. Finley summarised our conversation and Marcus shook his head.

"T'would be nice, " - he pronounced the word as 'noyss' - "but the equipment is different. Oi'd need stills to make potcheen. Sorry, Finn. It's a shame, though. My Oktoberfest contact really wanted more variety than the beers oi makes."

"Really?" commented Merlin.

"'Tis roight. It'd help you, Finn, if oi could've obloiged 'em. You could've had half of the beers oi've reserved for 'em."

Merlin glanced at me before rejoining the conversation. "Chunglewood," he said.

We all turned to look at him and he went on to answer our unasked question.

"Because they brew their own drink from a mix of vegetables and other edible plants. Owen Quiller calls it whoopsuckle juice..."

"Good name," said Bertram.

"I suppose so. Owen had a flask of the stuff and he have me a little to sample. It was... very pleasant. Anyway, Owen told me they make a lot more than they can consume. The surplus alcohol is used for heaters and other equipment they need to power. Still drinkable nonetheless." 

"What are you thinking, Merle?" I prompted.

"If we could ask them to trade their excess whoopsuckle juice for some equipment that wouldn't need the alcohol to run..."

Marcus nodded. "...and, provoided it's decent, oi can replace maybe half of the Oktoberfest beer with this other stuff. It would help you too, Finn." 

"We'd need to give it a good taste test," said Bertram.

We all looked at him and he had the good grace to laugh. "Well, I'm an aficionado of fine beverages." 

Nodding slowly, Marcus turned towards Finley. "Speaking of foin beverages, Bevan Acaster is waiting in the wagon outsoid. Are we okay to unload the barrels?"

 

"You are, pal," said Finley. "The store room's unlocked."

"Roight. We'll get on."

With that, Mellowdene's much appreciated brewer made his exit to join Bevan.

 

 

Our thoughts returned to the promise of whoopsuckle juice.  

I wondered how the trade might be approached. "I'd recommend having a word with John Silk to see how best to do business with the Chunglewood people."

"I agree," said Merlin. "Jackson's been there and I've had extensive discussions with Owen. Although it might be only be a one-off deal, you'd want to make a good impression so that other trading opportunities are looked upon favourably."  

"Excellent point," mused Finley, "And if all goes well it would make my contribution to Mellowdene Day more of an Oktoberfest."

"Novemberfest," said a voice. It was George Mulberry. He had been sipping his ale, quietly paying attention to the conversation. 

He smiled at our confusion, adding, "'Cause Mellowdene Day is in November."

A fair point.

o 0 O 0 o

o 0 O 0 o

  

Autumn in Sylvania

Given the time of year in Mellowdene, I'd like to share a poem by my friend and workmate Chris Snow-Warren. 

Autumn in Sylvania 

When Summer's eyes grow heavy and the season starts to doze,

when woodlands in Sylvania see Billy Sun work less,

then many leaves decide its time for them to change their clothes

and critters watch the fashion show and (wow) does it impress!

 

The russets, dark and richly red - the elegance of Fall -

that Adrianne (the Hopkins mom) loves 'til the leaves are shed, 

she brings a bottle there to toast the beauty of them all,     

foregoes the Champagne in her name and has a glass of red.

"The leaves are orange like my burger bun," young Aiden claimed.

"That's true," said David Doughty, "or the hairs upon my head,"

"And what about my dress?" Rhianna Dappledawn exclaimed.

"The tree's a Maple; I am too. Related!" Jasper said.

 

Accreditation: Background trees taken from an image by Andrey

So it went on as critters claimed their kinship with the trees,

declaring Autumn's colours as the best that they had seen.

They sadly knew the leaves would go; "it only takes a breeze."

One grey bear smiled. "Not all," he said. One Forest Evergreen.   

o 0 O 0 o

A Taste of Honeydew

 

When Cecile and I went to the Blackcurrant Café for a light lunch, Francesca Osbourne was behind the counter. 

 

This prompted me to tell Cess about my recent decision to write about different village news sources - in particular regarding Finley Osbourne. When I began to give her further details it emerged that none of my overview surprised her. She'd already heard of the fate of the Timbertop and Evergreen boys from Francesca on a previous visit to the Blackcurrant Café. Obviously Finley and his wife pool their news.

 

"Francesca is a hive of information too," Cecile commented. "She passes on most of Finley's tales. The true ones."

I supposed this was a reference to Finley's occasional habit of telling tall tales. Pearl Babblebrook's pie that wasn't a pie. Ernest Evergreen's vision of a flying dog. Ken Furbanks' acting job where he had to impersonate a tree in a shopping mall. Other tales where he'd reel the unwary listener in, making them almost believe the most preposterous things until the final reveal. He'd always end such stories with the phrase, "...and of course, if you believe this, you are sillier than me, and that's saying something." We would join in with the "and that's saying something" part, laughing as we did so.  

"He does tell a good tall tale," I replied.

"I don't doubt that, my love. I've sometimes wondered if Kat Periwinkle does that, but so far, she assures us that her tales are true. Some are just... a touch odd."

Katherine Periwinkle is one of Cecile's friends from the Cake Club, and since Cess renewed her association with the club, I have heard her repeat a number of anecdotes originating from the members. I asked her to remind me about one of Katherine's stories about her family, and Cecile obliged. I will summarise later.

Kat's parents are Selwyn and Selina Honeydew, an active couple who help out with the care of Allen & Kat's six children. Before you remark... yes. There are other big families in Mellowdene - not just the Buttergloves. But this story is not about Kat's immediate family. It's about other Honeydews.

First, some background.

Everett Honeydew (Katherine's elder brother) works at the Mellowdene Bank. My cousin Jonathan Butterglove works with him sometimes and has reported that Everett is a quiet, diligent office worker.

 

His beloved wife isn't as quiet. Vivienne is a down-to-earth, practical, out-of-doors worker who specialises in woodland foraging. She is the force behind her family. 

Their children are as different from their parents as Everett and Vivienne are from each other. They are called Britney and Button.

Britney is obsessed with ballet dancing and would dedicate all her time to it if not for the distraction of her best friend Rene Sparkle. Rene is equally obsessive about cheerleading, but somehow the two girls recognise the obsession in the other, holding back their excesses.

 

Button is... well, it's hard to define. Not exactly hyperactive, but his eyes miss nothing. He is known to disappear for hours to find something out, but always returns in time for his meals. A moderately clever boy. He is probably above average academically, but not outstanding - but... well, as I say, it's hard to define. Moderately sociable, and unpredictably curious. Probably the best way to describe him is 'bright'.

 

Although not relevant to this story there is another Honeydew that I should mention - one that Darcy Fielding has mentioned before - and that's Sawyer Honeydew.

Sawyer is another of Katherine's brothers, and he's best known as a master chef. He creates dishes for Basil Hazelwood and Gordon Doughty for their catering establishments.

Okay. That's enough background. On with the story.

o 0 O 0 o

Vivienne Honeydew entered their kitchen, pushing her son in front of her.

"...and if I catch you running off into the forest again, there'll be trouble."

Button twisted to look at his mum. "I didn't run, mum. I just sort of... ambled."

"Do you really want to argue with me?"

 

"Not arguing, mum," smiled Button, "just clarifying."

Vivienne raised her eyes in mock despair, then settled her sight on her husband, shelling squidge peas into a bowl. "Everett. You talk to him." And with that, she left the room.

Everett looked up from his task. "Hmm? What was that?"

Moving to his father's side he peered into the bowl of squidge peas. "Mum wants us to talk."

"What about, son?"

"I went into the forest whilst mum was dealing with Mrs Cornflower."

"Betsy Cornflower? Was that something about mushrooms?"

"Yes."

"Did you go alone?"

"I started to, but Brady followed me. Her son, you know? We went on together. I wanted to compare trees and Brady knows a bit. The trees were amazing."

"And your mum wants us to talk about that?"

 

"If you like. I'm curious about trees."

"What about them?"

"Why don't we grow as tall as trees?"

Everett blinked and rubbed his cheek. "Er, because we're rabbits, I suppose."

"Yes, but why don't rabbits grow that tall?"

Everett looked at the door but it appeared his wife had long gone. His hopes were momentarily raised when the door opened but it was Britney who emerged, dancing as usual.

"La la la," she sang as she glided around the table and did a pirouette. 

"Britney," said Button, "Why don't rabbits grow as tall as trees?"

"I can be a tree," said Britney, moving her arms artistically. "There. I'm a weeping willow."

"That's lovely," said Everett.

"But not answering the question," persisted Button, leaving his seat to block his sister's movement around the table.

Britney stuck out her tongue.

Hoping to distract his son from responding to this, Everett suggested an answer. "Trees are made of wood, aren't they? If they were made out of rabbit they'd be too bendy."

Button returned to his seat. "I see. If I was made out of wood, I could grow taller."

 

Britney raised her arms above her head and struck a pose. "Now I'm an oak."

"Did you say 'joke'?" said Button, dismounting again.

Britney stuck out her tongue again, and then recommenced gliding around the table. "La la la..."

"So the question is really 'why aren't rabbits made out of wood'," Button reasoned, dismissing his sister and returning his attention to his father.

Everett knew that such surreal discussions could last hours if not forestalled. Nevertheless, he had started this thread. Maybe he could end it with a suitable response.

"Well, Button. If you were made of wood, you'd find it hard to move around. If you had roots, how would you get here for your lunch?"

"That's a fair point, dad."

At that point, the door opened again but this time Katherine Periwinkle entered.

"Hello all," she said, "how are my favourite nephew and niece?"

Britney did the splits. "Timber! Oh, hello Auntie Kat."

Button stepped in front of his aunt. "I can eat carrots because I'm not made of wood."

 

"That's good to know...", Katherine responded slowly. "Why carrots, Button?"

"I like carrots."  

  

"Oh." She was a little confused. "Everett?" 

Everett Honeydew nodded towards the bowl on the table. "Squidge pea, sis?"

o 0 O 0 o

I know. Maybe not odd, but certainly surreal.

 

o 0 O 0 o