Notes from the Potting Shed

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☕️ Visitors' Advice

by Virgil Twobyfour (dictated to Keith, who kept sighing)

First off — welcome, wanderer. If you’re reading this, then you’ve either been sent here by a dream, a misaddressed postcard, or you’ve clicked the wrong button and now find yourself spiritually ankle-deep in the Little Country.

Either way, I’ve put the kettle on.

🧳 Before You Arrive

Pack for everything. Sun, fog, sudden outbreaks of 1952, possibly amphibians.
You won’t need a passport, unless you intend to visit Lower Cleft where they’ve declared partial independence after the incident with the ploughshare.
Don't trust the sat nav. It’ll get you as far as the Dog & Gullet, then insist you’re in Belgium.

🚷 Places to Avoid

The path behind the butcher’s. It moves. No one’s quite sure how or why.
Pennybottom Wood. Only enter if you’re already lost — in which case, you’re meant to be there.
The Well of Ian. It isn’t a well, and it isn’t Ian’s anymore.

🦆 Wildlife Warnings

Ducks are territorial. Especially of benches. Sit with care.
Never look a hare in the eyes after sunset.
If the sheep speak, let them finish.

🗓 Local Customs

On Wednesdays, the village observes Quiet Noticing, so all comments must be made internally or through humming.
Don’t mention vinegar after Whitsun. Long story.
If offered a biscuit from a blue tin, ask who made them. If they say “We don’t know,” refuse politely and back away.

🕰 Timekeeping

Local time follows the Parish Clock, which is five minutes fast and six weeks slow.
If the pub clock runs backwards, go home immediately and put something made of iron on your head.
We do not observe daylight saving time. Or any time, really.

🛏 Accommodation

There is one inn, The Slumbering Beekeeper, which is currently being fumigated for concept wasps.
Try Mrs Gribble’s instead. She runs an informal B&B (the second “B” stands for "breakfast if you bring it").

🧭 Departing the Village

If you find you cannot leave by ordinary means, wait until the next seasonal boundary (equinox, solstice, large funeral).
Alternatively, ask Keith to reset the blog. He usually knows what button to press.

Please enjoy your stay, however conceptual or imaginary it may be. Should you require tea, guidance, or protection from minor folkloric entities, knock once on the shed door and mutter "Virgil sent me."

I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve dealt with the jam.
It’s gotten out again.

Yours, in bits,
Virgil
(Penned on the back of a postcard of a steam fair, dictated to Keith over three sittings, one of which involved custard)