A return to the riverbank featuring some familiar characters, but not as you have read them before.
Mole awakes to an irritating, personal rash, but why is everyone else in foul humour?
Ratty (now vegan and identifying as Vole) is off his chump on mushrooms. Badger is apoplectic as his truffle beds are plundered, and Reg, the translocated otter, groans from indigestion.
Oddball rewilder Georges Montgofiere needs the Toad estate to realise his grandiose scheme. But he could do without inconvenient business partner Horatio Toad who only sees profit in a safari-based theme park.
A new wild order? Others will have their say, and the outcome will be beyond Montgolfiere’s wildest imaginings.
A sideways, humorous, take on rewilding with adult content.
A return to the riverbank featuring some familiar characters, but not as you have read them before.
Mole awakes to an irritating, personal rash, but why is everyone else in foul humour?
Ratty (now vegan and identifying as Vole) is off his chump on mushrooms. Badger is apoplectic as his truffle beds are plundered, and Reg, the translocated otter, groans from indigestion.
Oddball rewilder Georges Montgofiere needs the Toad estate to realise his grandiose scheme. But he could do without inconvenient business partner Horatio Toad who only sees profit in a safari-based theme park.
A new wild order? Others will have their say, and the outcome will be beyond Montgolfiere’s wildest imaginings.
A sideways, humorous, take on rewilding with adult content.
The mole, wrapped warmly in an ancestral moleskin pelt, was slumped in his armchair and dreaming of hot pursuit. His whiskers twitched as he saw the rump end of his quarry escape from view again. How long had he chased her at the tail end of the season, to no avail? He began to stir, his eyelids flickered then opened, closed, and reopened. A shaft of sunlight flooded the earthen floor of his den, warming his feet ‘Half-past April’ he muttered, in surprised disbelief. Just as spring’s sunlight had awoken his father, his grandfather, and all his ancestors right back to the illustrious Mole of lore, whose pelt he bore, spring, so very long in its arrival, always came as a surprise. On one day only did the sun’s rays penetrate the long passageway to his inner sanctum. The mole shifted in his seat, yawned, stretched, blinked in the brightness, and promptly grimaced. His paw went to his groin and although he knew better than to scratch, he couldn’t help himself. ‘Oh, not again’ he hissed through gritted teeth. Fishing in his pocket, he brought out his spectacles, spectacles that were his best yet and fashioned from fragments of glass, the bottom of bottles he had chanced upon during the mating season. Barbed wire encircled the 1 glass with the barbs acting to anchor the spectacles in the deep fur of his head. Warily, he turned his attention upon his smarting todger and sighed heavily at the sight. It resembled a poisonous mushroom, bright red with white spots ‘Fly Amanita, that its name’, he recollected, bitterly. He thumped the arm of his armchair with his free paw, but then brightened as he reflected ‘what does it matter now? Season’s over in any case.’ With that reassuring thought, he made his way up, up, upward, toward the light of day. It was always a little discombobulating initially, being wholly above ground for the first time in months. There was the brightness of course and the sun’s heat to contend with, not forgetting his mother’s warning ‘Moles that don’t look up, quickly go down.’ The mole now scanned the sky; what a boon these spectacles are, he considered; he was the only mole he knew of with ingenuity to make them. Hawks didn’t stand an earthly. His attentions now turned to his field, his patch, and he marvelled not only at the number of mounds created, but at the plethora of ridges that zigzagged crazily as far as his eyes could see. ‘No wonder I’m shagged out’, he mouthed. He bent to examine a mound ‘one of mine’ he declared, noting with pride his trademark swirl at the mound’s peak. ‘Hello, hello, who’s this then?’ Bending down to sniff a molehill, not of his own, he was met with the fragrance he had been chasing for weeks. ‘Next year my girl, next year.’ He muttered, determinedly. Still, the mole savoured the scent and breathed it in deeply and, for an instant, the heady perfume made his head swim. This was of an order he had not encountered before. Exotic was the word that sprang to mind. Straightening with difficulty, for his back was playing him up, his smarting todger then insisted that a balm be found. Skirting the hedgerows, he went in search of stinging nettles 2 for, nearby, dock leaves were sure to be found. Having found a couple of leaves, he was now in search of a sapling Willow to strip; the bark would act as a tie. The mole reckoned the riverside to be his best bet and, as he rounded the end of the hedgerow, a panorama opened before him. The valley lay below with its little braid of silver threading through it, the river. Memories of that river, his own recent adventures, and the stories passed down generations, flooded back. And so, it was with renewed vigour that the mole scurried downhill toward its banks. Now was he filled with the joys of spring, aches, and pains were forgotten, and his nose, his most reliable organ, took in the blackthorn, honeysuckle and the, oh, so delicate, primrose. He found his sapling willow, stripped off the bark and sat by the river’s edge to bandage his less-than-fragrant todger. The coolness of the dock leaf, still wet from the morning dew, provided an instant balm. The mole sighed with relief and looked up dreamily at billowing, white clouds sailing by. Turning his gaze back on the river he started, his back stiffened rigid and adrenalin coursed through him. He couldn’t move, he was petrified. At the river’s edge, two wet, black eyes held him transfixed. The head, of whatever animal this was, poked above the water’s surface. The animal’s nostrils flared as it sniffed audibly. ‘Fuck me, you don’t half pong mate! said the animal, jocularly. The mole, less than reassured, remained silent. ‘Mixture of fear, mole… and yes if I’m not mistaken, gone off fungus. Yuk!’ Still, the mole had not the courage to speak, although he felt his back relax a little. ‘I ain’t interested in you, am I? Bleedin ’ell, I’d rather starve.’ 3 Hesitantly, the mole made to speak, but the animal beat him to it, yet not before belching loudly ‘Fer fuck’s sake that bream just won’t go down slimy bastard…you was about to say something?’ Stutteringly the mole asked ‘What...are you? I mean what kind of…? The animal looked offended. ‘Not you un all’. It turned to look ruefully downstream. ‘What is it around ’ere? Anybody would fink I dropped in from the sky fer Pan’s sake.’ ‘I didn’t mean to offend, far from it…it’s just that I’ve never seen…never seen a you.’ The animal rolled its eyes. ‘Well, you ain’t no river-banker I suppose. I sunshine, I am an otter.’ ‘Well, I’m very pleased to meet you Mr. Otter’. The mole replied, ingratiatingly, not quite having conquered his fear. The animal laughed. ‘Mr. Otter? I’ve got me whole family in ’ere. What you gonna call em? Listen, call me Reg.’ The mole looked baffled, all the animals he knew were simply known as Rat, Badger, Fox, Hare and so forth. ‘Wot they call you then?’ The mole looked puzzled. ‘Yer name mush?’ Reg, the otter, pressed. ‘Look, you ain’t the only mole about ’ere are yer?’ As no answer was forthcoming, Reg fished up a name. ‘Brian, I’ll call yer Brian. You’ve gotta ’ave a moniker, incha?’ The mole, anxious to please, agreed to the name, even though he’d never heard of it. The pair then fell into a conversation, although this was a little one-sided as the mole’s description of his territory, where he had lived his whole life, was quickly exhausted. 4 Reg made the running, and it was immediately apparent that he was unhappy with his current situation. ‘Fuckers dumped me in ’ere didn’t they? Not so much as a by-your-leave. Me and the missus, we was unceremon iously dumped. Then wot ’appens? She gets up the duff and we’re stuck.’ The mole, unsure who they could be, simply punctuated Reg’s diatribe with– ‘reallys’ and ‘oh dears’ as Reg, well into his stride, carried on. ‘I mean to fink that we once dined on salmon, trout, crayfish, and the like. If push came to shove, we had grayling at least, but in ’ere? Chub? Rubbery, bony fuckers Roach? You need dozens to feed a family and as for bream…’ Reg belched again and went on. ‘And don’t get me started on the turds; when it rains they all shit in the water, it’s a fuckin’ disgrace that’s wot it is.’ Reg angled his head, cocked it to one side to listen. ‘That’s the missus. Listen Brian, I’ll catch you around.’ With that Reg slipped beneath the surface with barely a ripple and was gone. The mole sat in bemused silence for a while, he wondered if all otters were as coarse as Reg. The last time he had heard such vulgarity was when he was in the woods with the badger. ‘Ignore them Mole, they don’t know any better’. The mole’s attention was then caught by a Heron on the opposing bank. ‘We don’t talk with him,’ the bird said imperiously, indicating downstream with her long beak. ‘Greed is so unbecoming in an animal. One simply takes what one needs and leaves the rest for others. Barely a fish left in the river since his arrival…and his rabble,’ the heron concluded disdainfully. She fixed the mole with a stare, and then took to the wing. Some animals seem to have got out of bed on the wrong side, thought the mole. Such a beautiful spring day and all I 5 hear are gripes and groans. It wasn’t like this last year…or was it? He was unsure of the answer. Memory plays tricks. Anudge in the shoulder had him spin about in alarm, but oh, how quickly it fell away, for his nostrils filled with the very fragrance he had been chasing for weeks. Coming now into focus, was the object of his dreams. ‘Hey you. Catch you at last,’ said the newcomer with an impish grin. Mole, once again tongue-tied, felt a crimson flush invade his cheeks. ‘Ooh la la! You chase me all the season, and now you have nothing to say?’ The mole’s first impression of Taupe, for she was a French mole, was that she was uncommonly attractive, not beautiful in the classical sense, but glamorous. His second, that she had the strangest accent he had ever heard. Next, that her ancestral coat was a vivid green, suffused with perfume. There reigned an aura of mystery about her. The mole, in two seconds flat, was smitten. ‘Brian,’ said Mole, extending his large paw formally. ‘Quoi?’ shot the disbelieving response. ‘Mais, ce n’est pas possible!’ What? But that’s not possible. Anuncomprehending Brian simply hunched his shoulders in response and was quite taken aback when two paws clamped him firmly and kisses were planted either side of his muzzle. ‘Taupe, they call me Taupe, zat is French for Mole. Brian? Your mother call you that? It mean king of course, which is quite nice I suppose, mais…’ ‘No, no, Reg just named me that. Really? It means king?’ Replied Brian, encouraged. ‘Reg? Who is zis Reg?’ ‘Oh, just an otter, you know,’ Brian replied nonchalantly, hoping to sound worldly. The pair fell into an easy conversation and Brian found himself quite at ease as he expanded on the virtues of 6 spectacles and their manufacture. He let Taupe try them on. He was too much of a gentleman to comment on how his beer-bottle lens occluded Taupe’s eyes. He was all too conscious of his own; he was sure that one of his eyeballs was circulating clockwise whilst the other orbited in the opposing direction. Certainly, Taupe was in raptures with the spectacles. ‘C’est incroyable I can see the other side!’ She shouted excitedly as she stared across the river. ‘Oh Brian…yes, I will call you this, for only a king mole can be clever enough to make these lunettes, they are formidable!’ Brian, puffed-up with pride, then went on to make an utter arse of himself on several occasions during the ensuing conversation. Yet it didn’t appear to matter one jot, save for a few quizzical looks from Taupe that went unnoticed by him. Taupe’s green pelt turned out to be not just a fashion accessory, as Brian had thought, but an essential piece of survival kit. She threw herself on the ground and in a coquettish voice said ‘Moley, oh Moley, if you find me, I have somesing for you!’ Without his glasses, Taupe still wore them, Brian felt an idiot in not locating her quicker than he did. She had rolled into the long, grass, pulled the pelt coat over her head and drawn her legs up into it. It was only when Brian fell over her, something he did deliberately as he had spotted her outline when close, that he received his little something, another kiss. ‘You see, in my country, we have some very big birds. Zis is called camouflage. C’est bon, n’est pas?’ Lying next to this heavenly vision, and looking upward at the scudding clouds, Brian’s one regret was that it was half-past April. Taupe then rested her head upon his chest and Brian truly felt like a king. Somewhat less so however whenTaupe began to sniff audibly. 7 ‘Hmnn…Moley, is there somesing you need to tell me?’ she asked, pointedly. If Brian’s face had flooded crimson when Taupe first kissed him, then it turned scarlet now. Obfuscation, his initial recourse, proved hopeless and he was powerless to prevent Taupe from getting to the root cause. As she removed his dock-leaf bandaging, he was buoyed by two thoughts, firstly that she was concerned ‘need to tell me’ surely this hinted that sex, at some point in the future, was a possibility; secondly that due to the malady, his todger had swelled to twice its usual size. Chamomile in conjunction with sage was Taupe’s prescription and she returned with both in a matter of minutes. She then tended expertly to, a still mightily embarrassed, Brian. Her jocular, bedside manner put him at ease and, if it were possible, she endeared herself even more to her love-struck patient. ‘Bloody-fucking glad I tunnel faster than you, ’ she joked. And that was it, this was spring, this was love and new beginnings. Brian was in raptures. He walked the banks in a daze. She had gone as quickly as she had come and yet he knew he would see her again, if only to reclaim his spectacles. Some minutes later, Brian chanced upon a small raft of Mallard ducks. The group of females referred to the male as Rear-Admiral Canard and the name seemed apt as they were evidently dragooned by him. Brian sat unnoticed as the females chatted. He smiled because, whenever the Rear-Admiral plunged his head to eat, the women would make barbed comments at his expense. Brian caught himself ruminating on the inequities of the mating game. Here he was out of action and with almost a year to wait for his chance with Taupe, whereas ducks always seemed to be at it every ten minutes. This puzzled him greatly and, if anyone could shed light on the matter, 8 then it had to be the Rear-Admiral. Brian coughed to draw his attention. ‘I say, Rear-Admiral, why is that we moles have only a moment to mate, while you lucky ducks are at it all summer long?’ The females broke into uproarious laughter at the question, whilst the Rear-Admiral took umbrage. ‘Silence in the ranks!’ he commanded. He then rose in the water and flapped his wings and for one horrible moment, Brian thought he would fly at him. ‘Never, in all my days, have I been asked such an impertinent question! Here is your answer.’ To his fleet, he quacked loudly ‘come about!’ All ducks turned about. ‘Present...wait for it, wait for it...present arses!’ In unison, the flotilla went tail-upward and one arse, that of the Rear-Admiral, waved and waggled at Brian for all it was worth. Affronted, he didn’t regard his innocent question as having been impertinent, Brian sauntered further upstream. The late morning sun was beginning to bake the black fur of his head and he made a mental note to fashion a new twig hat that evening. Through the still-growing reeds, he glimpsed a hat he knew well. A straw-boater drifted past accompanied by the sound of oars in rowlocks. Excitedly, Brian rushed to a gap in the reeds to peer, as best he could, (how he now longed for his spectacles) at a rowing boat gliding past. At the oars, he was certain he could distinguish the form of the Rat. But what on earth was that awful smell? ‘Rat, Ratty, it’s me the mole!’ he cried. There followed a long pause. The rowing had ceased, but no reply came. ‘Ratty, is that you? I can’t make you out, it’s me the mole...you know, the mole, we picnic every year.’ The boat came a little closer and Brian could indeed make out the rat who now took a long drag on what looked to be 9 an outsized cigarette, tipped up his snub snout and exhaled. Once more, Brian was greeted with a waft that he found objectionable. ‘Rum days mole. Bad vibes on this river. Got to keep rollicking on my friend,’ came the plaintive reply and with that, the rat took up the sculls and went on his way. Brian walked slowly back to his abode with a strange melange of emotion coursing through him. At one moment a wave of exultation as Taupe passed before his eyes, the next an emptiness in the pit of his stomach at being neglected by his best, his only, riverbank companion. He sighed and hunched his shoulders. Everything will be fine tomorrow, you’ve just been underground too long, every animal is mad up here, he told himself. A spray of fry caught Brian’s attention as they scattered manically on the river’s surface. Old Esox, the pike, hunting his lunch again, he thought, but two brown backs arching from the surface suggested otherwise. Otters, he recognised them now. Old Esox won’t be happy about that, he imagined. He was close to his abode when it happened. Deep in thought, he wandered a few metres out from the hedgerow. A black shadow appeared suddenly at his feet and Brian froze in abject terror. The very next thing he knew was being pulled violently by the arm and falling to the ground, banging his head on the trunk of a tree as he fell. He caught sight of the bird as it batted its powerful wings and ascended, and he gulped at its enormous talons, just before they retracted. He then caught the rough edge of someone’s tongue. ‘What you do?’ screamed Taupe. ‘Bloody-fucking idiot! Henearly have you!’ Brian looked up at a face, incandescent with rage. ‘I should have let him, you such a cretin. What you think, I amyour mother? I can’t be here all the time.’ 10 It was some time and some tears later, first shed by Brian and then by Taupe, before the pair made their way tentatively to Brian’s abode. It was only after several reviving drams of Brian’s distilled root hooch, which Taupe declared degueulasse disgusting that peace prevailed once more. Taupe, unused to root-hooch, had drifted into sleep in Brian’s old armchair. Brian’s heart had grown too large for his ribcage, she had saved his life. And yes, he was indeed a bloody-fucking cretin, a plouc a hick-country-boy an idiot, and every other insult he could no longer recall, all merited, all warranted, he considered. Before she had fallen asleep, she had told him that she was pregnant. Only twenty days to go before she gave birth. Brian had offered his spacious caverns to her, they were larger than her own apparently, and the children would all be gone before the summer’s end in any case, he estimated. He was left wondering who the father was, yet as he had no idea of how manychildren he had sired, he didn’t think it his place to enquire. She had arrived in the ‘root ball of a garden tree.’ That’s all he knew about the mysterious, sleeping beauty before him. Gently, so very gently, he lifted his spectacles from her. He took out his workbox and by the time she awoke, she had a pair of her own. How she delighted in them, and how she had laughed when Brian mentioned distractedly ‘Actually, we’re all a bit short-sighted in my family.’ ‘Tu es un vrai cretin Brian!’ You are a real cretin, Brian
Colin Childs’ Willows Rewilded is a creative twist on Kenneth Graham’s The Wind of the Willows, reintroducing familiar characters for nostalgic readers and new readers alike. This thought-provoking story has a vivid, whimsical style while also addressing more serious topics such as ecopolitics.
What sets this retelling apart from its inspiration is its interpretation of contemporary environmentalism in relation to capitalism’s threat to the environment. Georges Montgolfiere proposes a “rewilding” project to reintroduce the forests, wetlands, and meadows that were previously home to animals that once roamed the land. This rewilding project would take place on the land of Horatio Toad’s estate, who has other less environmentally conscious plans for the land: a safari theme park.
As someone unfamiliar with Kenneth Grahame’s original The Wind of the Willows, I still enjoyed this book and did not feel I was missing any vital background information. Certain aspects of the story were exaggerated and felt like caricatures of real-life archetypes. Still, it seemed to work as a metaphor for the absurd ecological and political disputes in modern society. My main critique is that the pacing of the setup up to the revelation of the main plot felt very slow and lagged until about halfway through.
The characters were eccentric and complex, with their own stories occurring alongside the main plot. Mole has a persistent rash in a private area and has a potential new French lover. Reg, the new otter in town, gives everyone a name. Ratty now identifies as a vegan vole experimenting with psychedelics. Badger is agitated over the ruination of his truffle beds. Unlike the original novel, this story contains adult themes and racy humor. Everything just seemed very “camp,” which assisted with the humorous effect executed by Childs.
Overall, this book is a mix of nostalgia and modern social commentary on the state of the planet and the priorities of its occupants. The book will make readers question whether progress occurs at the expense of something irreplaceable–the environment.
I recommend this book for those who like quirky animal stories, whether you read the original or not; it stands well on its own.
3.5 ⭐️