001 The Gogs receive bad news
Long, long ago, even before dinosaurs, fossilised fish bones, and pencil sharpeners, the Gogs (or the 'Gog massif' as they still prefer to be called) towered high above what was eventually to become rural East Anglia. From the snowy summits of these isolated but gargantuan peaks, the entire coastline of Scotland, England, and Wales could be seen. And with a little squinting, but better still by using a high-powered pair of binoculars, the rugged outline of the French Alps could be seen in the far distance.
Sadly for the Gogs, the passing of the years had taken their toll. Age and erosion reduced these once-proud peaks to shadows of their former selves and by the late 20th century their now green tops rose a mere gnat's breath above sea level.
Then, one rainy morning, the Gogs received a dire warning from a passing atmospheric scientist (well, actually a retired postman who had done some reading in the local library and liked to scare small innocent hills and other diminutive landscape features). Soon, he predicted, the sea would inundate the whole of East Anglia. Global warming, he said, would sound the death knell for the Gogs.
Shaken by the news, the Gogs called a lunchtime meeting in their venerable local pub, the Cat and Bone, a pub that had been there as long as any of the Gogs could remember.
The thought of high tide lashing at their feet did not sit well with any of the Gogs. Being British they had, after all, an intense loathing of water and they were not particularly fond of salt. What's more, the recent rumours that the local council was about to build a pier on their slopes, had suddenly turned from another preposterous idea into a conceivable reality, a reality that would pin them to the surrounding landscape forever.
The elders, who had for some time been disgruntled with the incessant drone from the traffic on the nearby dual carriageway, were soon agreed that it was time for the Gogs to move on. All of them, that is, except Hercamlow Gog, the oldest and most conservative of the Gogs and the one most fond of a quick half or ten.
So, without packing their suitcases or waiting for the cover of nightfall, not even lingering to hear this week's lotto results, the Gogs simply finished their nth glass of the Cat and Bone's best bitter, pulled up their stony roots, and headed north, disrupting the despised traffic on the A1307 as they went.
All of them, that is, except old Hercamlow. In all the excitement, no-one noticed that the venerable old Gog had slid quietly off his chair and was curled up under the corner table, fast asleep in the company of the pub's scraggy old dog, Tiddles.
Hercamlow in the company of Tiddles
Where will the Gogs sleep on their first night away from home?Find out in the next episode.
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