❄️Attention! New Christmas stock in my Etsy shop! Lots of new delightful antique prints, perfect as stocking fillers! Reindeer! Arctic hares! Polar bears! Edwardian children's illustrations, Shell nature posters and Japanese woodblocks! Signed copies of Reynard the Fox! etsy.com/shop/SourisdesMoiss… ❄️

Old Fox's Ghost Stories: The Roman Road "Because of the thick mist which rises from the marshes, the atmosphere in this region is always gloomy" (Appian, Roman History, III.14.6-8). The Mink lived in a tall, pale blue house on the main village square. From time to time, to make ends meet, he took in paying guests. Before making their breakfasts, he made it a habit to go for a swift constitutional, sometimes leaving before dawn. His usual route was across Church Green, right up Spindleberry Lane, down Vicarage Road, turning off at Honeyzuck, then back in the square and home. But that Hallowtide morning, he suddenly fancied a change and set off instead along the straight Dorchester road, an old Roman road, which ran east towards the river. He could barely see ahead of him in the darkness and fog. There was no-one around. Everything was still, even the birds were asleep. He passed rambling thatched cottages, some with oil-lamps lit in upper rooms, until he eventually reached the ancient bridge, where he lent on the stone parapet and looked down to the river. Here the fog was the heaviest and densest he had ever seen, it rose from the water in strange undulating waves, swirling around him, soaking his fur and his scarf and his hat. He couldn't tell where he was, nothing of his dear, friendly village remained, and a strange panic came over him. Then, in the near distance he heard muffled sounds of voices and the clopping and ringing of hooves, and a tramp, tramp, tramp of heavy footsteps. He turned around, but something deep within him told him to stand back, to press himself as far as he could into the weathered stones of the bridge away from the centre of the road. A few moments later, they came. First, the horses, grand and gleaming, ridden by figures in shining armour with golden helmets plumed with scarlet, then a long trail of men looking cold and tired, but resolute. They crossed the bridge and as they passed he could smell their bodies and the horses' sweat and a faint odour of wine and fish. Then they were swallowed up in the thick grey rouk and were gone and all was silence once again. The Mink couldn't move. He stood there transfixed, unable to even begin to think about what had happened, what he had seen. He forgot about the breakfasts and his busy day, and he would have probably stayed on that spot, mid-bridge, until evening, had not Old Fox, walking up the road to visit a friend for elevenses, came across him, realised something was terribly wrong and gently helped him home.

❄️As the autumn deepens, it's time to sign-up to Old Fox's Advent Calendar! Throughout December, I will be writing one wintry tale every single day. German glass baubles, tracks in the snow, field-fares and scarlet berries, London department stores & Dragons with influenza - a cornucopia of stories throughout the month! Either join my patreon at a paid tier or buy me a chocolate (or two!) on Ko-fi. Write Christmas in your message & I will add to you to my list of 24 windows! Ko-fi: ko-fi.com/annelouiseavery Patreon: patreon.com/annelouiseavery ❄️

The Doctor and Old Fox had driven over to see the Stoat of Cliff Cottage. Once a fortnight, Old Fox brought him a basket of supplies from the village shop, things he couldn't get from the nearby farm – coffee, cocoa, biscuits, sugar, flour, toffees, paraffin oil, ink, blotting paper. Thank you very much, said the Stoat, and gave Old Fox a small tatty brown envelope, which Old Fox refused to take – a necessary ritual they always performed with the same result each time. After the Stoat had put the envelope back in its rusty old tin, he turned to make them all some tea and toast. It was past five now, and beginning to get quite dark. As his visitors sat and talked and smoked and the Stoat busied himself at the fireplace, they could hear the sea raging below and the wind beginning to howl. "A storm's coming," said the Stoat, spooning tea from a caddy, "the ghost ships will be sailing tonight." "The ghost ships!" started the Doctor. Old Fox continued buttering his toast. "They come from time to time in the dark of the year when the weather's bad. Silvery shadows in the black billows. Old echoes of the Great Gale of 1824. Worst storm we've ever seen down here. Destroyed the pier at Weymouth, swept away the village of Chiswell, hundreds dead, white capped, churning sea pouring down country lanes and port parades. And the wrecks, dozens of them! Creaking and groaning, men clinging to the shrouds, scrawling their names on tags around their necks, so their remains can be sent to their families. As grim as you can imagine. A Danish brig, packed with fruit, gone! A West-Indiaman, the Corvile, laden with rum, gone! A Dutch ship full of the finest cheese and butter, gone! All gone in a moment, broken on the rocks." They all shivered, imagining that night. The Doctor walked over to the window. Somewhere in the darkness a light bobbed and flickered and was gone. It all felt suddenly too close to his own shadows from the War and he heaved the conversation back to things of vitality and light and normalcy as a helmsman turns the ship's wheel in a squall.