Remember when Mole and Rat kicked up the fire again, drew their chairs in, brewed themselves a last nightcap of mulled ale, and discussed the events of the long day?
"Mole, old chap", said the Rat with a tremendous yawn, "I'm ready to drop. Sleepy is simply not the word. That your own bunk over on that side? Very well, then, I'll take this. What a ripping house this is! Everything so handy!"
I am, of course, quoting from "The Wind in the Willows", about which A.A. Milne, the creator of Winnie-the-Pooh, wrote, "One does not argue about The Wind in the Willows. The young man gives it to the girl with whom he is in love, and if she does not like it, asks her to return his letters. The older man tries it on his nephew, and alters his will accordingly. The book is a test of character ... When you sit down to it, don't be so ridiculous as to suppose that you are sitting in judgement on my taste, or on the art of Kenneth Grahame. You are merely sitting in judgement on yourself. You may be worthy: I don't know. But it is you who are on trial ..."
As for Mole and Rat's mulled ale, I'm just starting on my third glass of Glühwein before continuing with Chapter 5, "The weary Mole also was glad to turn in without delay, and soon had his head on his pillow, in great joy and contentment. But ere he closed his eyes he let them wander round his old room, mellow in the glow of the firelight that played or rested on familiar and friendly things which had long been unconsciously a part of him, and now smilingly received him back, without rancour ... He saw clearly how plain and simple - how narrow, even - it all was; but clearly, too, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such anchorage in one's existence ... it was good to think that he had this to come back to, this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome."
As Kenneth Grahame wrote, "For every honest reader, there exist some half-dozen honest books, which he re-reads at regular intervals of six months or thereabouts." For many honest readers - myself included - "The Wind in the Willows" is just such an honest book. Less of a book, really; more of a good friend with whom you simply must keep in touch, whose company always makes you feel a little more contend with life.
And it's especially so on a cold winter's night, with the chair drawn close to the fireplace, and a glass of Glühwein and some pretzels handy. It's good-night from me at "Riverbend" - or should that be me at "Mole End"?
