1881. Cross that bridge

It was inevitable, when Zelda said she didn’t believe in trolls, that something terrible would happen.

She didn’t have to say it just prior to leaving for a bicycle ride with her twelve year old daughter and ten year old son. We shall cycle up the valley on that old dirt road. There are three ancient bridges and wild terrain to see. And what is more, it might be uphill on the way there, but it’s downhill all the way home.

“But what if there are trolls under the bridges?” said ten year old Mario.

“I don’t believe in trolls,” said Zelda. And that was the invitation to disaster.

Off they went! Heading for the hills! Heading for the old dirt road with lots of ancient bridges and no trolls!

They had barely crossed the first bridge when Chiara got a puncture in the back tyre. “That’s no matter,” said practical Zelda who had brought her puncture-fixing kit in her haversack.

Before long the puncture was fixed. Off they went! The second bridge was a little more dangerous. It was a very old bridge used years ago by the forestry trucks. It had no sides. It crossed a narrow ravine with a ribbon of river far, far below. Mario’s wheel got stuck in a crack between the bridge planks. He fell off his bike and almost plunged over the side. Thank goodness he didn’t plummet into the ravine. His jammed bike was rescued. Off they went!

The third and final bridge was crossed without an event.

“Time for the homeward journey,” said Zelda, turning her bike around. “See! No trolls!”

Will that stupid woman never learn? Apparently all hell broke loose somewhere between the third and first bridge.

1775. Life’s not a bed of roses

Some think the life of a goat is easy; especially the life of a billy goat. They think that all I do all day is stand around and eat grass. Well that’s certainly not the case.

I am the sole male in a herd of forty or so milking goats. Don’t you think that keeps me busy enough? A while back, it seems like yesterday, I butted a troll hiding under a bridge. I butted him to smithereens. Do you think I enjoyed having to do such a thing? Well, I did actually. So there!

Only yesterday, Constantia, the most productive of all the goats, went and ate a shirt hanging on the farmer’s clothes line. How selfish is that? It was the only garment available and she kept it all to herself.

To make up for it, this morning I went and had a good feed of the farmer’s roses. The red roses were the tastiest, followed by the white. I didn’t find the yellow particularly appealing but to each their own.

The farmer’s wife has just announced that I’m going to the abattoir. I suppose that’s a fancy French word for some tourist resort where they have petting animals for children. Or maybe it’s simply a lush new pasture. New horizons, that’s what I’m hoping for! Who knows what it might be? The farmer’s wife is such a snob.

823. The horrible troll

Once there was a horrible troll who lived underground in an old mine. He was really ugly, with warts on his nose; just like the witch who lived next door to him. She had warts on her nose as well.

You should have seen the troll’s teeth. They were sharp as a razor. He could bite the head off a person as quick as anything. And his incisors were so sharp that they reckon he could turn into a werewolf and suck blood like a vampire.

Every night the troll would go out and capture a little girl and have her for his dinner. No one ever saw him, but they think he hides under little girls’ beds and comes out at night when they’re fast asleep.

So, Sweetie, that’s the end of tonight’s story. I shall turn out the light. Try and get some sleep.

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