The Wombles Go round the World by Elisabeth Beresford

was as white as snow. He looked even older than Great Uncle Bulgaria.
    â€˜You,’ he said, pointing to Wellington, ‘please explain yourself, mm?’
    â€˜I, we, that is, sorry, oh dear . . .’
    â€˜Mm. Where is your home burrow?’
    â€˜Wim-Wim-Wimbledon,’ stuttered Wellington.
    â€˜ Ach , really. Speyer, Heilbronn, pick up your stick and your basket. Tsk, tsk, tsk , such behaviour. Well, well. You must forgive their bad manners, but they are very young. And your names are?’
    Wellington and Tomsk told him and the very old Womble nodded gently and asked, ‘And, may I ask, what you are doing here, mm?’
    Between the pair of them they managed to explain and at the finish the very old Womble nodded his head and said, ‘If that isn’t just like young Bulgaria Coburg. He always did have unusual ideas. Come, let me take you back to our burrow for some small hospitality before you once again set off on this adventure of yours. I find it all most amusing and interesting. Allow me to show you the way, mm?’
    Wellington and Tomsk, keeping very close together, followed the very old Womble, while Speyer and Heilbronn came last, whispering behind their paws.
    The Black Forest Burrow was so well hidden that even Tomsk’s sharp eyes didn’t spot it, until the very old Womble knocked on what looked like the bottom of a fallen tree. The gnarled roots parted and an opening appeared, leading deep into a bank.
    â€˜Cor,’ said Tomsk, while Wellington was past saying anything at this point. The burrow was lit by dozens of flickering candles in carved candlesticks. There were carvings and pictures everywhere and Wellington, who rather likes reading old history books, began to feel that he was stepping backwards in time. There were obviously no machines in this burrow, because even the Workshop had only benches and rack upon rack of hand tools.
    â€˜All handmade,’ said the very old Womble, stroking a line of chisels which would have made Tobermory turn green with envy. ‘You see, Wellington and Tomsk, we Wombles of the Black Forest have decided that here we can keep all the old crafts alive. If we don’t do it, they may die away and become lost for ever. This is one of the oldest Womble burrows in the world. Very few Wombles even know that it still exists, which is why we are not marked on any of your maps. Mm?’
    â€˜Mm,’ agreed Wellington.
    â€˜In the winter we are very quiet here, but during the spring, summer and autumn we have some tidying-up to do – although not very much.’
    â€˜Isn’t it a bit dull?’ asked Wellington.
    â€˜Oh no, not at all. Our young Wombles go off on expeditions to study wildlife and to draw pictures and collect all kinds of things. We specialise here in paw-craft and from their earliest years our small Wombles are taught a trade. Allow me to show you round the burrow.’
    As it was early morning, and therefore by tradition in the Womble world tidying-up time – even if there was extremely little to tidy up – the burrow was nearly deserted. Which was just as well, as there was so much to see and take in without having to meet Wombles as well.
    Every single room, even the Womblegarten, had the most beautiful furniture in it. There were tables with carved legs and highly-polished tops with lovely inlaid designs. There were chairs which ranged from little rockers to a most imposing throne-like affair which had Wombles carved all over the back and down the arms.
    Wellington couldn’t believe that this lovely furniture had been made from old bits and pieces, until he looked at the underneath of a pretty little stool and saw the letters . . . YFFES BANANA stencilled on it. It made him feel quite homesick for a moment.
    There were thick tufted mats on the polished, wooden floors, wonderful woodland paintings and Womble portraits on the walls. There were many highly-carved dressers, displaying