My
husband licked his lips in anticipation, about to tell one of his
favourite stories. “This road,” he said pointing to the map once
more, “Used to be called Pilgrim's Wake. There is a story of a
woman walking this road, who finds a golden egg. How fortunate, she
thinks, scooping it into her pocket before she continues her journey.
After a while she hears a tinkling noise coming from that pocket.
She pulls out the egg, only to find it's turned to silver. That's
better, she thinks, it's less likely to get stolen. Onward she goes,
until she hears another tinkle and finds the egg has turned to stone.
That's perfect, she thinks, for a door stop, and on she goes. When
she gets home, the stone has become a real egg. Marvellous, she
thinks, something for supper. But when she comes to crack it, it
vanishes from her hand and a pixie appears on her table, giggling.
It tells her it is the Hobbled Kollop, and runs away laughing. Now
I've got a tale to tell, the woman thinks, and marvels at her own
good fortune.”
