**Storyteller's University**

Strolling along a country lane; my holiday to the ‘Old Country’ of my ancestors is half-way through. Up ahead, not too far, I see glimpses of a cottage. 

The hedges are high and dense; birds and animals will make good use of the undergrowth for homes, shelter and food source – a few of those animals that are using the hedge for shelter will, no doubt, become sustenance for others. Nature is a paradox and that’s for sure.

My great-granny was a wonderful story-teller so I’m told. I do remember her, but I was very small when she passed on. I had to hear the stories from my granny who admitted to me once that she was by no means as talented a storyteller as her mother had been.

Tales and stories of superstitious folk who treated our kind with a sort of wary respect came to my ears from someone who had been a child when they left  Éire’s shores to settle in England. She had been protected from the worst of the persecution, the anger, fear and misunderstanding. Great-Granny explained and excused their behaviour as ‘understandable under the circumstances’.

I promised my granny that I’d go back to the place of her birth and try to trace her steps on their journey to England. Granny passed on last month and her last words, just before the moment she saw something just out of sight for us mortals, the very last thing she said to anyone on this earthly plane was – “Don’t forget your promise.”

That’s why I’m here, in the place of her birth.

The cottage is old, it must have been ancient when my great-granny was born, but this is where they were both born. It wasn’t their cottage, no, Granny’s family never owned property until they came to England. A friend lived in the cottage and when times of difficulty arose, such as child-birth or severe illness, the occupant of the cottage opened her doors and allowed them in.

I approached the cottage, the walls were uneven and *hand-made* almost. The thatch looked worn and in need of replacing but the garden to the side and back was an array of glorious colour and fragrances. At first I didn’t realise I was smiling at the sight of it.

The front door opened right out onto the lane and the temptation to look inside the windows as I passed was too much to resist.

The first window opened out into a kitchen that stretched all the way to the back. I’m sure it couldn’t have been like that when my Granny was born there, she described the kitchen as tiny; a fire with a pot hung over it, a sink and a table and enough room for a pallet to be brought in in times of child-birth. 

This kitchen was modern and I sighed. Of course I couldn’t have expected anything different, modern times call for modern conveniences. I strolled past the window and paused for a second at the front door, my hand held up as though to knock.

I moved on to the next window and the living room that lay behind that window was also a disappointment and I began to move on again. The book on the table by the window took my attention – something had moved, I was sure.

I studied the book, a large tome, bound in dark, hefty fabric that could have been leather, I suppose. 

http://i.imgur.com/A1ieYn9.jpg

Before my curious eyes, the book opened; it was as though an invisible hand had taken hold of the cover and slowly opened it. A few pages came with the cover and then a few more were turned by the invisible hand.

As the pages halted, paused for a moment so invisible eyes could perhaps study the pages, I saw why my great-granny had become such a wonderful storyteller. She had been influenced by this book, that was plain to see.