Becca Neal (Conservation Youth Worker: Green Pathways), investigates.
Break out the whisk and get the oven hot; its British Yorkshire Pudding Day! As if anyone needs an excuse to eat Yorkshire puds!
I think it’s the best bit about being vegetarian; being allowed extra Yorkshire puddings. Mmm! Crispy, gooey in the middle, with gravy. Our family have a tradition of eating them with chunky pickle. I am salivating at the thought.
What has this to do with Froglife I hear you cry!
Well it’s tenuous and really just an excuse to write a Croak but here it is: Yorkshire puddings are made from batter and usually eaten with a roast. If you’re skint, which lets face it, many of us are, the alternative to a roast is…yes…toad in the hole.
Toad in the hole is basically sausages with batter poured over them, baked in the oven. I have just looked on-line and the recipe websites say “serve with leafy green veg”; I don’t think so; serve with mash and baked beans and lots of tomato sauce.
So whilst you are tucking into your baked batter meals this weekend, spare a thought for the real toads in their holes, who will be waking up and on the move shortly. Here’s a piece of creative writing on the subject that I recently submitted for my evening class. The challenge was to write a story in 250 words or less.
If you know of a road where toads are run over near you or want to help out at a local toad patrol crossing, contact your nearest active site by visiting Froglife’s interactive map and follow the instructions.
How many words is a toad’s life worth?
The toad blinked her golden eyes and stretched a warty limb or two. She felt a fidgetiness she hadn’t experienced since the autumn. Time to move.
It was an effort to tunnel out from under the log but she emerged victorious to a fanfare of late evening bird song. She felt the light touch of misty drizzle and breathed in the excitement of a new season. Time to move. Time to move.
The dark woodland was rustling with action; it rustled a bit less as she stumbled on a few careless beetles. The draw of the pond was tugging at her body and her legs crawled onwards. Time to move. Time to move. Time to move.
She could taste her pond; feel it, smell it, hear it. She trudged on and on, pulled by its invisible thread, and eventually rested under some wet leaves when the birds started singing again. The day was spent restlessly dozing and then as night arrived she was irresistibly drawn once more. Time to move. Time to move. Time to move. Time to move.
She met another. And another. And another. None were acknowledged. One hitched a ride. He was heavy.
Things were different but the draw was the same. Wet leaves turned to damp gravel, turned to smooth black rocks. There were bright lights, loud noises and the ground shook. Time to move. Time to move. Time to move. Time to move. Time to…