Fond memories of previous years by the Radstock Mayor.

A small but not futile attempt to maintain sanity in these straitened times, one of the goals I have set myself is to get fit. Twenty-five years of pen pushing and whispering sweet nothings to a visual display unit have done little to tighten up the stomach muscles and lose the odd stone.

I've always enjoyed walking and the Somer Valley presents some of the finest walking countryside I know. Whether in Harridge Woods, Holcombe or the Collier's Way, there is much to be discovered and admired. It might be the chaste blossom of blackthorn or the first spikes of this year's dogs mercury or the wheezy whistle of a great tit; Where ash trees dominate, scarlet elf cups -like glowing rubies- peep out from the litter of last year's twigs: there is always something that wasn't around last month.

In a previous incarnation I kept a few geese and March is the time when eggs are to be collected from wherever the goose has decided to lay them. She was not a good sitter, our goose, and often abandoned the clutch soon after laying.

One year we invested in an incubator and after several attempts, successfully hatched out Gazza, a precocious male gosling. Geese are programmed to follow the first creature to cast a shadow over the hatchling and so I became the 'parent.' Rather flattering to be followed round by Gazza until my son arrived from uni for Easter. Gazza's beak was clearly put out of joint and he spent a lot of time trying to separate us, pecking vigorously at son's ankles and flapping his partly feathered wings in a most threatening manner.

Eventually he feathered up and became increasingly interested in creatures of his own kind, whilst I suspect, like any parent, I was a bit of an embarrassment to him by this time!