The Worship of Conies.

The eve of the big day and a quick stomp up Hut Hill at Knettishall.

I am starting my celebrations after the festival of 9 lessons and karaokes.

I wonder if it will begin with the well known ‘Once in Royal Dave’s City’ This is only fair given the rise in the prominence of certain members of an undergraduate drinking club!

A grey day at the stricken tree but I am intrigued later by the appearance of red and green conies. Obviously this is prime evidence for the lost tribe of Athapascans that turned left at Siberia rather than right.

I have heard stories from old boys in Suffolk pubs with greasy flat caps that fit into ridges in their heads. Their trousers are belted with bailer twine and coats held fast by hemp rope tied in a knot that requires a specific gene to understand how to secure it. They have mentioned ‘ogans, sweat lodges, blessed ways, and then looked furtive, glancing to either side.

I return home to the watery, winter, Anglian sun setting across the winter Anglian fields. Still the glass is now half full and rising.

An aside for those brave enough to attempt the festive XWD.

Additional clues, it being the season of good cheer, cryptic parts only.

12 – Woody plant with child, soldier?

18- It’s difficult to blink

20 – You may be on the right lines, sounds like it.