The Wombles Go round the World by Elisabeth Beresford Page A

painted plates and mugs, and heavily-embroidered curtains covered all the doors.
    Finally they reached the kitchen where the cook, Frau Heidelberg, wearing the most wonderfully embroidered cap, apron and cuffs, had set out two steaming mugs of acorn juice, topped with thick daisy cream, and two enormous helpings of very rich-looking pudding which, she told the two by now speechless young Wombles, was her special fir-cone-and-moss strudel.
    â€˜Eat up, eat up,’ she said. ‘You are so thin for Wombles! Here we are getting much snow in the wintertime, so we have to eat to keep out the cold. Another helping? No? Tsk, tsk, tsk. I have heard so much of the fame of Madame Cholet, but perhaps she does not make strudel for you?’
    By now both Tomsk and Wellington had realised that Frau Heidelberg answered her own questions, so they only shook their heads.
    â€˜ Tsk, tsk. So I have taken the liberty of writing out the recipe for her, and together with it is this little wooden spoon which I feel she might like to have. Yes? It has the small Womble carved into the handle, which is nice. Mmm? More acorn juice? No! Tsk, tsk, tsk. Well, I hope you will come and visit us again at some time, but not during the winter when it snows. The snow often is more high than we are, so you would get lost. Now then, here are some little sandwiches, buns, rolls, chocolate and biscuits for your journey.’
    And Frau Heidelberg handed over a large and bulging embroidered satchel, patted Wellington and Tomsk on the head, told them at least three times to give her fondest, best wishes to Madame Cholet and, in fact, was still talking as they thanked her and backed out of the kitchen. Her voice followed them down the passage to where the very old Womble was waiting for them by the front door. He, too, was holding a package which he gravely presented to Wellington with the words, ‘I should like you to accept this small gift for young Bulgaria Coburg, which I present to him on behalf of the Wombles of the Black Forest. We are rather out of the world here and, having no Womblex machine, we of course knew nothing of the proposed Vol. Ten . However, I think this small gift may make one short chapter in the new modern History.’
    Tomsk and Wellington bowed, said ‘Thank you very much’ and ‘Rather’ several times and were slowly and solemnly escorted back to the balloon, where Speyer and Heilbronn were waiting for them with their arms full of flowers and ferns as their parting gift. Everybody shook hands, lift-off procedure took place and the two Wimbledon Wombles rose up into the sky. They waved and waved until their Black Forest relations were out of sight, and then Wellington put the balloon on automatic and sat down. Tomsk was already sitting, with his legs straight out in front of him and a totally blank expression on his face.
    â€˜If it’s that strudel whatsit that’s worrying you, I’ve got a touch of colly-wombles myself,’ said Wellington. ‘Golly, what a burrow!’
    â€˜Mm,’ said Tomsk, gently rubbing his stomach. ‘Mm. Orinoco would have enjoyed that.’
    â€˜Mind you, I don’t think I’d like to live there. There was too much of everything somehow and it was too quiet. I can’t imagine those Wombles ever having a really good, noisy game of Wombles and Ladders . . .’
    â€˜Mm.’
    Wellington looked anxiously at his silent friend.
    â€˜You’re not going to be sick, are you?’ he asked.
    Tomsk roused himself slightly and shook his head. He tried to think of the words which would describe what he felt about the Black Forest Burrow. He settled on one.
    â€˜Cor,’ said Tomsk. ‘Cor!’
    â€˜Yes, I know what you mean. And I’ll tell you something else, we never found out the name of that old, old Womble. He’s so old, it didn’t seem polite to ask somehow. Perhaps he’s put his name on this present for Great Uncle