Sitting on the train today, feeling luckier than a leprechaun sliding up a rainbow towards a pot of gold, I happened across a story in the recesses of my brain.
The Bear Story
Before I tell you this tale, I must tell you of its origins. When I was a good deal smaller than you are now, my Dad took my sister and I camping. Neither of us could sleep, scared of the bears which roam so freely in the New Forest. And this story was born. From then on, it became a firm favourite for holidays, journeys, and unsure moments, told and retold.
I’m sure this story altered with time and retellings, and in its many forms it is an integral part of me. A part which I try now to meld into one, passable version that I may share it with you:
Once upon a time, deep within a thick forest, stood a cave. And in the cave, lived a big, shaggy-haired, bear.
“Wuurrrgh!” Said the bear, stretching as he awoke from his sleep. “I’m hungry!”
So the bear got up, and went to look in his larder see what he could find for breakfast.
But there was nothing there save a little butter and a solitary nutmeg.
“Urrr!” he said, sadly. “I guess I shall not be having breakfast after all.” And as his belly rumbled, he added “and I’d better go and find something for supper, otherwise I shall be very hungry indeed!
So the bear gathered up his basket and set off, out of the cave and into the forest.
He hadn’t gone very far before he stopped and sniffed. Mushrooms! Sure enough, a little way off, on an old fallen log, there were 3 big, soft mushrooms, and not far from that, sat a clump of delicate yellow fungi.
“Urr!” he said, in amazement. “Bears like mushrooms.” And the bear followed the mushroomy trail, gathering them all up into his basket, until he came to a huuuuuge tree trunk, so huge in fact that it blocked his path. He was about to go alter course and go around i, but his ears pricked, catching the low hard-working sound of bees. Glancing up, he saw a hive, hanging from the lower branches.
“Urr!” he said. “Honey! Bears like honey!”
So with that, the bear quickly scaled the tree and, using his big, sharp claws, sliced away a section of the hive, its honeycomb dripping with honey.
The bear placed it in his basket, next to the mushrooms.
“Mushrooms. And honey. Honey and mushrooms.” Mused the bear. “Bears like them, but there’s not a lot that you can make with mushrooms and honey, butter, and a solitary nutmeg. It won’t be very filling.”
So the bear carried on with his walk, keeping an eye out for anything that might be good to eat.
The bear walked, and sniffed, and walked some more, until the sun rose high above the tree-tops. His stomach growled.
He was just about to turn around, and make do with a plate of mushrooms for dinner, when he spied a fallen nest, cradling 6 blue-ish eggs. One of them had smashed, but the bear gingerly rested the others in his basket.
“Bears like eggs.” He said. And then he surveyed his finds. Mushrooms, and eggs. Eggs and mushrooms. And honey. What can I do with mushrooms and eggs?” The bear thought for a moment, and it came to him. “I shall make an omelette, a honey and mushroom omelette!”
And that, is exactly what he did. And though it was rather sticky, it was very nice indeed.
