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Chapter One

 

How It All Began

Her jaws only inches from my face, the Rottweiler uttered a low, menacing growl. I could feel her hot breath on my cheek and her big brown eyes glared, unwavering, into mine. Unable to move, I was pinned down by her weight and I could feel the power behind those jaws, her teeth and her huge shoulders.

I was alone in the house, my mobile phone was out of reach and there was no one within miles. This was her territory and I was an unwelcome intruder. I was terrified!

But hold on a minute, I’m getting ahead of myself. This all happened much later on. I’d better start at the beginning.

We had always had dogs. When my wife Sue and I met, I had a fully-grown Labrador called Jason and she had Sebastian. He was called Sebbie, for short, and he was a real farmyard poodle. By that I mean he was always scruffy and loved the outdoors; not the stereotyped manicured and well groomed lap dog. The Labrador and the poodle became the best of friends and we all lived in or near Harrogate, close to the beautiful North Yorkshire Dales in, arguably, one of the most scenic parts of England.

Eventually, as our dogs enjoyed each other’s company so much, and so did we, Sue and I decided that this was it and we should get together permanently. It didn’t take us too long to take it a step further and we set up home together with our dogs, not to mention the cat.

This was to be the beginning of a long and satisfying period of our lives, involving ourselves, our extended family and a host of various animals.

To start, Jason had been with me since he was nine weeks old and had been my friend and companion through an earlier unpleasant (aren’t they all?), albeit fairly tolerable, separation and divorce. You know, I took the dog and my clothes and she took everything else!

No, that’s not true. In case my former wife reads this, we did split everything amicably and had no legal arguments about who took what and maintenance etc. In fact, it was one of the most friendly divorces I have known of and all concerned were, and have been, on good terms ever since. My ex was even good enough to stop her lawyer from pursuing the “screw him for everything you can get” routine for which I am eternally grateful! And she did let me take the dog.

I well remember the joys of Jason as a puppy in addition to the many trials and tribulations along the way. Like all young Labradors he soon became an expert at chewing everything in sight and many other things that weren’t. Nothing was sacred and in his time he demolished several pairs of shoes, the whole of one side of a wooden door frame within his reach, together with most of the plaster beside it and one of the cross pieces under a dining table.

However, there is no other puppy as lovable, happy and boisterous as a Labrador and he was a constant source of pleasure and enjoyment and a great playmate for my daughter who grew up with him. Jason and I parted company with the rest of our family when he was around ten years old, two years before I met Sue.

Jason was twelve and a half years old when he suffered his first stroke, having gradually lost most of the use of his back legs over the preceding months. He went downhill all too rapidly and some weeks later I took poor old Jason for his final trip to the vet, leaving tearfully shortly afterwards, carrying only his lead and collar.

Those who have enjoyed the companionship of a trusty dog for any length of time and have suddenly lost such a good friend will know exactly how I felt. I would still hear him in my flat and step with care over the spot in the doorway between the sitting room and kitchen, where he always used to lie. Of course he wasn’t there, so there was no need to avoid stepping on him. But old habits die hard, as do old friends.

He was no longer at my side looking up with those big, hopeful, eyes when I prepared a meal, a sandwich or opened the biscuit tin on making a cup of tea. It took several gin and tonics each night to get me through the first few days without him.

I still recall good old Jason with great affection each time I pass the little wooded park, where he took his final walk, opposite the vet’s surgery, from which he never emerged.

Now Sue’s Sebbie was a very different dog. He was definitely not the kind of poodle that was manicured and coddled, more the type that rolled in horse sh.., liked being covered in mud and pretended to be a much bigger, more aggressive dog. In fact, he always thought he was a spaniel. At least Sue’s mother went out to buy her a spaniel all those years ago and came back with a poodle, which might explain a lot about Sebbie’s character. He had been a spaniel in his own mind ever since. He was never clipped, poodle fashion, and barely tolerated the occasional haircut now and again.

Sue and I both worked and after two years my job moved from North Yorkshire to Devon way down in the south west of England so we set about planning a weekend to look for a house and a more permanent relationship for us and the animals. We drew a circle on the map within a comfortable commuting distance from my new work place and wrote to various estate agents for details of properties in our chosen area and within our price range. As a good deal of the circle was in the sea our search area was fortunately much reduced!

We also obtained copious copies of the local papers. This was, of course, in the pre-internet era. Will that ever rate as famously as the abbreviations for Before Christ, or Anno Domini I wonder? No, I can’t see PI making the history books, can you? I suppose Pre Internet Era might be more memorable but maybe a little overcooked, as most of the dot com companies and other tech stocks on the world markets seemed to be from their inception.

Anyway, armed with a detailed schedule, and the dogs, we set out for pastures new on our two-day house hunting expedition to view properties throughout the weekend.

On our first morning we had looked at many, some good, some bad. We stopped to check our list just after coming out of a pretty little house called Apple Tree Cottage. After a short while a voice from nowhere said, in a broad Devon accent.

“Can I ‘elp you m’dears?”

From over the adjacent hedge a head suddenly appeared, followed more sedately by the rest of a white-haired gentleman of some years who looked glad of a respite from mowing his lawn.

“No, thank you very much,” we said. “We are just looking for a house to buy and are checking our next stop.”

He asked whether we knew that there was a cottage for sale not far down the road. It wasn’t on our list but it sounded as though it had potential so we decided to check it out. Despite his comprehensive directions we had considerable trouble finding the place. Eventually, after driving up an impossibly steep hill, twice round a small village green, up the side of a farmhouse, through a cobbled farmyard and up a narrow track, we came across a small cottage nestling in the side of the hill looking badly as though it needed new owners.

The sun shone on the rustic five-barred gate highlighting a carving of two elderly people. At the end of the path leading up to the cottage a beautifully carved wooden swallow perched cheekily on the side of a rose covered porch.

We said to ourselves that we might as well look at the cottage now we were here so we opened the gate and walked up to the old oak front door. A small cartwheel leant nonchalantly against the whitewashed front wall of the cottage as though it had rested there for a hundred years.

Surrounding the old, moss covered, slate-roofed building was a typical country cottage garden, delightfully untidy and with a colourful cornucopia of plants sprouting everywhere. Flowers and shrubs of all kinds intermingled with small lawns and a tiny pond. Away to the south the property looked over a combe and up the other side towards the Taw estuary. A rustic bird table leaning at an impossible angle completed the picture.

At our knock, a lady opened the door and we explained with some apology that we had heard the house was for sale and did she mind if we had a look around. She asked us in and we both stood in silence taking in the character and homeliness of the huge sitting room. It must have been at least thirty feet long and at least half as wide. At one end there was a “walk-in” fireplace complete with a huge, open log fire burning and a traditional bread oven. At the other, there was a smaller fireplace. It had obviously been at least two rooms knocked into one somewhere along the line in its history. The walls were two feet thick, the ceilings impossibly low and old beams were everywhere.

Later Sue and I both agreed that we had made the decision to buy the place as soon as we had entered the cottage. This despite the clutter, (there were boxes and bits and pieces piled to the ceilings everywhere) and the imminent need for renovation. We continued our tour of inspection humming and hahing (how do you spell that?) about the condition of this and the state of that, whilst assessing its potential, and left saying we’d let the owner know of our decision. Once in the car we decided that we had better keep to our schedule. However, we both knew that we wanted that cottage as soon as we had walked in and we were only going through the motions in looking at the rest of the properties on our list.

We were looking forward to viewing a “Pixie Cottage” in Dingle Dell. Yes, really! But we were disappointed to find that it was a modern two-up, two-down in a terrace on an overcrowded estate. However, as we had stopped outside, were half out of the car and the curtains were moving, we felt that we had better look as though we were interested and take a look at the place anyway. Why do we always feel embarrassed in such situations? It would have been easy to drive off but, no, we felt that we should give the occupants a chance to sell their neat little home. We were probably the only potential buyers they’d had all day!

The owners were kind to us, showing us round with great pride and offered us bed and breakfast at a reasonable price. We stayed the night and although we were non-committal, they must have thought that we were keen on buying as they offered to discount the purchase price by the B&B charge if we purchased the house. Even with this almost unbelievable offer, the thought never even entered our heads!

Early the next morning, we telephoned the owner of the cottage we had stumbled upon the day before, made an offer, which she accepted and we set off back for Yorkshire hoping that nothing would stand in the way of our purchase. Six weeks later the cottage was ours.

We were only later to find out a possible reason why we had fallen in love with that cottage at first sight and why, subsequently, we felt so peaceful living there. Either by design or pure coincidence, its name was Leys Cottage. We thought nothing much about the name at the time of purchase and wondered who Mr, or Mrs, Ley might have been but were intrigued later to hear about Ley Lines and the myth surrounding them.

Apparently, it all began with a man by the name of Alfred Watkins who, at the age of sixty five when riding across the Herefordshire hills just after World War One, saw a vision of the countryside crossed by glowing wires. He is reported to have said that they linked up all kinds of churches, ancient monuments and other religious or historic sites.

Now, allegedly, Mr Watkins had a more than average partiality for the products of the brewing industry. However, his supporters claimed, and still do, that this had nothing to do with his theory that such buildings or sites were linked together by a series of straight lines. Supposedly, this latticework identified lines of harmony, peace and serenity across the country.

However, there appears to be no factual evidence of the existence of such lines. Many historians dispel the theory as pure bunkum and simply the desire of a few misinformed people wishing to make money by writing books about Alfred Watkins’ vision, including Watkins himself.

Whatever the truth may be, there certainly was something special about the atmosphere in our cottage and its location, supposedly on one of these Ley Lines, and we were happy to leave the name as it was during the time we had the pleasure of ownership and residence.

We left Yorkshire for the big move to Devon in a raging snowstorm wondering whether our furniture would make the trip in the removal van lumbering its way slowly southwards behind us. We left it far behind and so had to sleep the first night on the carpet in front of the big log fire, furniture-less in our “new” home. No matter. We were young or, at least, younger then and it was all a great adventure. The carpet was luxuriously thick and the fire glowed through the night. Sebbie thought it was great fun to have us sleep downstairs and he did his best to snuggle up and help keep us warm.

By the time the van reached us the next day it had started snowing again and it was no easy task to get the furniture from the van to the cottage as our lane was so narrow that the van could get no closer than fifty yards from our door. Helping the removal men shift freezer, washing machine, dryer and other such necessities up a slope through slush and mud was not our idea of fun.

Nowadays, when we drive down lanes in Devon and Cornwall, or perhaps the Yorkshire Dales, we do appreciate the problems experienced by furniture removers and drivers of other large trucks

The snow settled and our cottage was cold by the second day after our arrival. We had been used to central heating in Yorkshire but the cottage was without such luxury, having only the two open fireplaces in the sitting room and a solid fuel Rayburn cooker in the kitchen. At least the Rayburn was always fired up and it was very efficient. It also provided a copious supply of hot water and heated a large towel rail in the bathroom.

I had reported to my new office, but Sue, fortunately, although her job had transferred with her, had the luxury of a few days off.

However, some extensive decorating was a necessity and Sue had started the daunting task, wearing her ski suit, warm boots and earmuffs. About halfway through the morning, in the stillness that only a calm, snow-laden countryside can produce, there was a knock at the door. Feeling foolish in her ski wear, Sue answered the door. Our new neighbours stood outside to welcome her with the question, “Would you like to come sledging with us?”

Well, what would you rather do?

“Hurray,” Sue said, and promptly downed the paintbrush. She was already dressed for it and off they all went. This was to be the start of a long, and still existing friendship, as we visit the family as often as we can if we are down in their neck of the woods.

Our beautiful cottage was situated about 10 miles north of Barnstaple in the hamlet of Churchill. Life was so good, both for us and Sebbie, that we acquired a fat, “free to a good home” spaniel named Fisky and the two of them would take us for regular walks in the rolling fields and on the beautiful beaches both winter and summer.

He had probably been placed on the “transfer list” as he was completely uncontrollable when he came to us, maybe because we believe he had been left alone all day in his former life. However, with Sebbie as permanent company he soon settled down and with, presumably, less food than in his previous life and certainly lots of exercise Fisky soon became a slim, and most obedient, spaniel.

The views on our frequent dog walks were superb. Rugged cliffs fell away into the sea and the unspoiled countryside stretched eastward to the wild, but impressive terrain of Exmoor. North Devon certainly has some beautiful scenery

I often thought how much Jason would have enjoyed being there and I was not to know that very soon we would acquire a replacement under unusual circumstances in the shape of Spey, a fully-grown Labrador who would come unexpectedly into our lives.

Spey, an unusual name for a male Labrador but here’s how it came about. Sue and I used to go skiing quite a bit in the Cairngorm Mountains near Aviemore in Scotland. In fact, a few years before, Sue had worked on the ski slopes up there for a short time and knew several of the local people. We were visiting a friend of hers once and were in the local pub when a seemingly arthritic old Labrador hobbled in. We petted the dog and asked his foreign looking owner how old it was.

“ ’E is not old,” he said, “I ‘ave ‘it ‘im wiz ze stick becos ‘e chase ze sheep.” We were shocked and angered by this seemingly guiltless confession and a little later spoke to the pub proprietor, who also happened to be a friend of Sue’s.

“If the owner ever goes back home or the dog is taken away from him, please let us know,” we said. “We will have him.” We left, wishing we could have taken the dog away with us right then.

Some weeks later Sue was back at home in Devon and I was away on a business trip to London. Sue received a phone call from our Scottish pub landlord friend. He advised her that the Labrador’s French owner, who had been a chef in a local hotel, had left the country and the dog was in the temporary care of a kitchen hand working in the same hotel. The dog was ours if we still wanted him.

Sue immediately telephoned me in London, thankfully pulling me out of a boring meeting. She explained the situation, and that night I drove straight up to Scotland. The next day I sought out the dog and eventually found him living in a decrepit old shack in the woods. The place was filthy. I wondered about the state of hygiene in the hotel kitchen but fortunately never had to put it to the test.

The dog wagged his tail with delight at my approach. He was in much better shape than when I had first seen him and looked years younger. He was obviously well fed on kitchen scraps but his personal hygiene left much to be desired! Still, that wasn’t his fault. I threw away his blanket, picked up his bowl and lead and left the shack. Without a second glance at his temporary home, he jumped into the back of my car and we drove straight down to Devon. The dog never looked back and from then on it was as though he had belonged to us all his life.

His French owner had named him after the well-known Scottish River Spey as he had been born and raised on its banks. It seemed an apt name, so we kept it. However, it did cause some interest later on. Many people thought it was Spade, or Speyed, and we had to tell his story countless times.

All three dogs loved the open fields and lived in harmony with the chickens, ducks, sheep, cows, our neighbours and us. Spey, with a little training, happily lost his desire to chase sheep. He loved the sea and would frolic (if that is the right word for a large dog) dangerously in the pebble-filled surf at Heddon’s Mouth while Sebbie the poodle would bark encouragement from the cobbly beach.

I would surf off the beach at Saunton Sands and it was difficult to keep Spey on the shore while I rode the waves. Spey would battle his way out through the surf with me and he could never understand how I could ride back on the board faster than he could make it back to the beach. Although Sebbie never liked the water, long sandy beaches were his favourite for walks. He would run even faster than Spey across the flat wet sand and bark furiously at the waves. His puzzled look as he went base over apex into a water-filled wave runnel in the sand, still makes us smile when we recall that moment.

 

Spey & Sebbie

On the cliff tops he would run unseen under the bracken whilst Spey would bound along appearing above the foliage every now and again like a hippopotamus surfacing for air.

On one crisp and clear winter’s morning we were out with our dogs when we came across the local hunt on our tiny village green. They had stopped to gather the hounds and there must have been twenty to thirty dogs milling around getting in the way of the horses and their immaculately clad riders.

Now, whether or not you agree with fox hunting in principle you surely cannot deny that a pack of hounds with horses and riders is part of our English country life heritage. I know that the hunt has been denigrated and often dubbed as the “unspeakable chasing the uneatable” but a hunt in full cry, or even at rest before the chase, does present a magnificent picture.

We had Spey and the spaniel on their leads but Sebbie, being the socialite that he was, insisted on talking to every hound in the pack and we could not catch him in the melee. Before too long the hunt master called for the hunt to move on and they all set off up the lane to continue the quest for their quarry. Sue was trying to get into the pack to rescue Sebbie but he thought that this was his opportunity for more fun and trotted off with the hounds before we could stop him. The whipper-in had seen Sebbie go and told us not to worry, they would only be twenty minutes and that he would bring him back when the hunt was over! Apparently their horseboxes were not too far away and they were almost at the end of their day’s outing. Sure enough, a little while later Sebbie trotted back with the pack as a fully-fledged honorary foxhound. He was covered in mud and exhausted but he’d had a great time.

You might have gathered that Sebbie really liked other animals and, in turn, they generally liked him. Cows were among his favourites. We just could not keep him away from them on our walks. Many’s the time he would be surrounded by these great beasts and they would lick him until he was soaking wet. He had absolutely no fear of them despite the huge difference in size. On other occasions he would unwittingly pretend to be a lamb and did a passably good imitation. He was lamb-sized and roughly the same shape and was often mistaken by the ewes for one of their own. It would only be when they were close enough to catch his scent that the sheep would realise their mistake and there’d be much stamping of forelegs and Sebbie would be firmly pushed away by over-protective mothers.

Of all the houses we have either owned, or in which we have lived, perhaps Leys Cottage is the one we remember with most affection. Peacefully nestling on a hillside off the beaten track yet it was not too far from my office, the nearest town of Barnstaple, and numerous beautiful beaches. It was the sort of place one could leave unlocked with no fear of intrusion at night or even if away for the weekend. We would wake up on summer mornings; the windows wide open and revel in the sounds of the countryside and adjacent farm noises. No alarm clocks needed when there are cows nearby to be milked!

I said peacefully nestling off the beaten track but that wasn’t always a good thing, or always the case either. I’ve already mentioned the problems we had moving our furniture and belongings into the house and we were to experience the same again when we left. However, we had a more potentially dangerous situation one morning an hour or two after I had left for the office. Sue was pottering around the cottage having had a leisurely bath after rising at a respectable hour, not having to work that day. The big log fire was making a good job of keeping the place warm and all was peaceful. Only the crackling of the fire could be heard above the normal sounds of the countryside.

Working in the kitchen, Sue realised that she could hear an unusual noise; a sort of roaring sound coming from the sitting room or, maybe from upstairs. She couldn’t tell which, nor could she readily identify the sound. It might have been a low flying jet. She went out of the front door to investigate and was confronted by one of our farmer neighbours running up the lane, yelling, “Your chimney is on fire.”

Sure enough, flames and smoke were spewing out of our chimney at a great rate of knots and it immediately became clear to Sue where her roaring noise was coming from.

The farmer had already called the Fire Brigade so there was not much that they could do but stand back and watch the display. After a short while they could hear the siren in the distance and watched as the fire engine raced along the road on the other side of the valley. The valley was quite steep at that point and the road zigzagged for a mile or so in order to negotiate the slopes. The Doppler effect of the siren echoed across to the assembled audience as the vehicle approached the spot opposite where they were standing and disappeared into the distance towards the junction which would lead to our hamlet. Time passed. Nothing appeared and they were astounded to see the fire engine again on the zigzag road across the valley; this time going in the opposite direction. Once again, the siren echoed across the valley.

By this time the flames and smoke had lessened in ferocity, Sue had checked inside to see that all was well and had come back out to talk to the, now gathering, crowd of neighbours. There was silence for a while, save for the sound of the fire, then came cheers from the crowd as the fire engine once again appeared on the road opposite going in the direction it was originally taking, still with siren blaring. Another few minutes passed and, as though triumphantly, the vehicle heaved into sight and stopped at the green. There were profuse apologies from the firemen. They had first gone to Mr and Mrs Ley’s cottage at the bottom of the hill in the next hamlet, not Leys Cottage and they had not been clear where ours was. Moreover, the fire engine could not make the turn at the bottom of that hill and probably could not have made it up the narrow lane and steep hill between Eastdown and Churchill.

Anyway, Sue told them that the fire was as good as out by this time. However, they insisted that, now they were here, they should check it out anyway. They then discovered that they could not get the fire engine up our lane. Sue could have told them that in the first place. Not to be put off, they dispatched one man with a stirrup pump and a bucket up the lane to investigate.

Now to those of you too young to know what a stirrup pump is, I can tell you that it is a very antiquated piece of (at least) World War Two vintage fire fighting equipment. It consists of a pump, much like a slightly larger version of a bicycle tyre pump, attached to a metal stand with a stirrup shaped bit, which rests on the ground. The bottom end of the pump end goes in a bucket of water. You put your foot on the stirrup to steady the whole thing then pump like mad with one hand to produce a trickle of water through a small hose which you direct at the fire with the other. Maximum capacity was two gallons. Maximum pressure, well, it depended upon how strong the operator was! They were probably pretty effective for putting out waste paper basket fires but not much use for tackling burning houses, I suspect.

Anyway, I suppose it was better than nothing and our personal fireman, nearly as wide as he was tall, with an absurdly large, yellow fireman’s helmet perched on his head, proceeded to check out the chimney fire. He did explain to Sue that, although the fire appeared to be out, there could be areas which might still be at risk. Our chimney was about five feet wide at the bottom tapering to about eight inches at the top. It was stone built at the base, changing to brick near the higher levels and it was still very, very hot. They could feel the heat in the upstairs rooms through which the chimney passed. The danger, the fireman said, was from timbers in the stonework near the chimney. Often they became so hot they would ignite even after the main source of the fire had gone out.

All was well, however, and the crew left happily advising us that, at least, we would not need to have the chimney swept for a while!

Thank heavens that fire, or any other, never took hold as we would have been at great risk due to the inability of the fire engine to get close enough to operate all its facilities. A good point to remember for future house purchases.

****

We were in Devon for the horrendous ice storms of 1982. Although we were once cut off from the outside world for four days, the magic sound of the tinkling of ice-covered branches and the sight of the sun glistening through the trees will always be in our minds and remind us of those days. Single blades and clumps of grass rose through the glistening ice fields looking like silver bluebells, and crystal chandeliers hung from the treetops, those that were not broken, that is.

Our cars were frozen solid to the ground, looking much like that old Colgate toothpaste advert where the tube is enclosed in an ice-cube. The freezing rain had made a “throw” of ice over the cars and draped to the ground. They were stuck solid for days due to long periods of freezing rain but it did not matter as all the narrow high-hedged roads were blocked anyway. The storm meant that I could not get into the office for four days and eventually only made it on a trailer hitched behind one of our farmer neighbour’s four wheel drive tractors. We still have the photograph of our next-door neighbour and me sitting in the back of the farm trailer, on hay bales, bundled up in cold weather gear over our suits with briefcases on our knees. Such loyalty to our employers!

We were “trapped” in our hamlet often by snow. However, it didn’t bother us too much, even when we lost electrical power for days on end. We had installed a bottled gas hob and had plenty of logs for the open fires and the solid fuel Rayburn to see us through.

One of our farmer neighbours still had to milk his cows even though the milk collection truck could not get through, so a couple of milk churns were left on the green for all of us to help ourselves.

We also had a good supply of candles, as one of our many finds in one of the outhouses on taking up residence, was a plastic barrel filled with half-burnt candles. As our predecessor in the cottage had worked in a local restaurant we assumed he had salvaged them from his place of work. We never ran out of emergency lighting!

The dozens of flickering candles, log fires blazing, the smell of wood smoke and a working stove and oven, courtesy of “Mr Rayburn” made our snow-bound episode a romantic and luxurious break.

It was in Devon just after we had married that Sue and I had our first experience of looking after animals other than dogs. We had borrowed “Teach Yourself Hens” from the library and had read up on how much to feed them, how many eggs we could expect from how many hens etc. We reckoned that six hens would supply us with enough eggs for ourselves, and some to spare. We expected to be able to sell the surplus, which would pay for their food.

Not quite self-sufficiency but some way towards it. Sue had always had ideas of more self-sufficiency. Perhaps a windmill, a thermal pond, solar panels or at least a decent sized vegetable garden.

Sue was away on a business trip in France when I collected six tiny, bald ex-battery hens in a crate from “Len the Hen” who was the local supplier of eggs at my office. Yes, bald, with clipped beaks, feet and wings, which certainly doesn’t say anything positive about battery egg production.

Feeling as pleased as Tom from the TV sitcom “The Good Life”, I brought them to their new home in our cottage garden. The poor shivering featherless creatures suddenly were to find themselves free, in a purpose-built run with their own hen house. You know, the wooden shack type, with a pitched roof, on cast iron wheels. A bit like an old beach hut. There was a roosting box along the length of one side and a ramp from ground level at one end up to the interior. The hen house was fully enclosed in a wired run, hopefully safe from foxes, and far enough away round the side of our cottage out of view, ear-shot and odour range! That afternoon I let them out of the crate and watched with great joy as they explored their new domain. After ensuring they had food and water I left them to enjoy their newfound freedom.

Later that night Sue telephoned from France and I told her of the additions to our “family”. We went through the checklist on how to keep hens happy and she finally said:

“Did you put them in the hen house at dusk?”

“Of course not,” I said, “the ramp door was open and I expected them to find their own way in.”

Quick as flash, she said, “Well, just go and check that they have gone in and I’ll call you back in a while to see how they are.”

No rest for the wicked, I thought. There was nothing else for it but to brave the wind and rain outside, in my dressing gown. So out I went, torch in hand, to see what the hens were up to, half expecting to come across six mangled corpses. There were foxes in the area so I was a little worried at what I might find in the hen run. My fears were allayed when I found them all huddled, in the dark under the ramp, cold but safe. It did not take me too long to herd them all up the ramp, shut the door and return, dampened by my unexpected and uncomfortable errand, to the warmth of the log fire. A few minutes later the phone rang again. Sure enough, it was Sue.

I explained that all was well and that the hens did not put up much of a fight. They were now safe, locked in their new home.

“Did you make sure the hens were on their roosting rack inside the hen house?”

My reply was probably unprintable. Certainly, I have forgotten exactly what I said but it began along the lines of:

“If you think I’m going outside again tonight to tuck a few hens in their beds ………”

In the morning the hens were fine. They tumbled down the ramp like penguins and began pecking at the dirt as though they had been doing so all their short lives.

They soon gained feathers, became beautiful Rhode Island Reds and started to produce eggs. We put lighting on a timer in the hen house to improve production through the winter and they enjoyed the freedom of our garden for the rest of our stay in Devon. I did my bit for the environment by using shredded computer printouts from the office for the hen house litter and it composted very well for our vegetable garden.

One summer, Alice, one of our hens adopted our neighbour’s brood of ducklings whose mother had disappeared - probably the work of a marauding fox. It was so strange seeing the hen strutting up and down the lane round the garden followed by a string of ducklings, not chicks. Even stranger when the ducklings took to the pond and the hen could only stand at the edge and wait for her brood to come ashore. The hen and the ducklings all remained firm friends, even when the ducklings became fully-grown.

Our cottage was in a hamlet, three farms, five or six houses or cottages, no pub, church or shops and well off the beaten tourist trail. The dogs all lived happily alongside the sheep, cows and other farm animals. As I mentioned, Sebbie was always in with the lambs and Sue was happy to help our neighbours out at lambing time. We didn’t know it then but our lambing experiences would come in useful in later years in our house sitting “career”, as you will see in due course.

On the darker side Spey, by being too friendly, accidentally crushed one of our neighbour’s daughter’s kittens - we were eventually forgiven - and we learned that Fisky, the spaniel, was a chocoholic. We only found this out one Easter when he ate a whole basket of Easter eggs and other chocolate “hidden” upstairs while we were out one day. I’ve never seen a dog drink so much water and I’ll leave your imagination to picture the results the rest of that day and through the night. Not a pretty sight! Needless to say, he slept in one of the outhouses that night.

At the time I wasn’t aware of the danger that “human” chocolate holds for dogs and cats. I am now. Apparently, the chemical theobromine, present in chocolate and harmless to humans, can cause vomiting, diarrhoea and convulsions in dogs. Fisky certainly suffered the first two, but thankfully not the third.

****

As ever, all good things tend to come to an end and it was with some trepidation that I received a phone call from the powers that be to ask whether I would accept another assignment, much sooner than I had expected, as I had been promised at least a couple of years in Devon. However, when they said the new position was in St. Louis, Missouri in the USA, my first reaction was to jump at the chance, although our expected stay in Devon would be cut short. We had been to the States on holiday many times but this was to undertake a three year task based right in the heart of the country and I could see the opportunity for travel and experiences that we could never have on short trips from Britain.

But if I were to take the job, what would become of our dogs? It immediately became obvious to us that Spey, Sebbie, and Fisky could not go with us - if only because of the “prison sentence” (quarantine) which they would have to undergo on their return to our rabies-free shores at the end of their stay. We also had no idea of exactly where we would be living, what sort of house, flat or whatever in which we would stay and so, reluctantly, we began to seek out alternatives for the dogs if we opted for the move.

Family was the obvious answer and we managed to convince my parents to take Spey, Sue’s mother to take Sebbie and my sister to have Fisky, the spaniel. No, I don’t know why the dog was given that name, perhaps her previous owner couldn’t spell Frisky - we’ll never know.

With the dogs’ future assured we could see no reason why we should not accept the exciting prospect of three years in a “foreign” country. It would be a good career move for me and although Sue would have to leave an interesting job it seemed too good an opportunity to miss, so I accepted the offer.

I must tell you that by this time, our ex-battery hens had been given a Christmas present by our neighbours in the shape of a magnificent cockerel, which we named Winston, as we lived in the hamlet called Churchill. I never fancied the eggs much after Winston arrived. No real reason! Sue laughs about it to this day, but they just did not seem the same. To complete the hens’ story, on our departure from Devon we gave them to our neighbours to roam free-range with their own hens. We felt good about the fact that we had liberated the hens from battery cage conditions into an open hen run and they would spend the rest of their days running free range with many others. At least they had had a far better life than before they met up with us and we had enjoyed unlimited “free” eggs during our stay.

Just before our departure from Devon we approached our neighbours and asked if they would mind if we held a farewell party in their farmyard. To our delight, they said that they were planning one for us anyway, so we combined our efforts and resources. We borrowed a huge rectangular marquee that just fitted the farmyard with the guys secured to various outbuildings. This effectively formed a complete roof over the farmyard yet still allowed access to the barns. Mike, our neighbour, spread sand on the uneven cobbled farmyard and we built a plywood floor over the entire area. We had a bar planned for one barn, a live band in another, barbecue in a third and salads etc in yet another. The large tent was for sitting out and dancing.

The arrangements were all well in hand and over a hundred people had accepted our invitations. It was early September in 1983 and the weather looked perfect when we had our rehearsal the night before. Well, beer needs sampling doesn’t it? And, after all, we did have several barrels lined up. We sat there with the fairy lights glowing on a typical warm, end of summer evening, thinking how it was a perfect time and place for our farewell party. It was a wonderful evening and the stars twinkled peacefully in a clear sky above us. We congratulated ourselves on our preparations and looked forward to a successful evening the following day.

Just before we went to bed that night, with growing apprehension we watched the late weather forecast on TV. The weatherman said that unexpected hurricane force winds and heavy rains were sweeping in from the west and would be upon us by the following nightfall. During the following day several of our guests phoned in to ask whether the party was still on and we of course said, yes. How could we cancel? Everything was organised; food, drink, the band, the whole nine yards and who can trust the weather forecast anyway?

The day wore on. From starting out as a perfect September late summer’s day the sky became dark and threatening and then the winds started to blow. We secured canvas walls to the marquee where the interior was exposed in the gaps between the barns. The tent pegs and guys were re-checked and polythene sheeting was strategically placed in case of driving rain. The guests started to arrive, the beer and wine flowed, the music played and then it rained. It rained and it blew - hard.

Our impromptu flooring sagged a little where the water swept down the lane and washed away most of our sand base. We slackened shrinking guy ropes as they became wet and gusts were lifting the two six inch diameter tent poles a good eight inches off the floor. Canvas was billowing in the wind and rain was blowing through all apertures. A trip to the loo in our house or our neighbour’s became an adventure and meant a soaking, but no one cared. The noise was horrendous but still the party went on. The guests were wet, the dogs were wet but everyone was having a great time.

The rain worsened. So much so, that the band had to stop playing for fear of electrocution as the rain was pouring through the old tiled roof of the barn and on to their equipment. However, a local old timer produced an accordion and the party continued well into the small hours. Having experienced that party I can well understand the hurricane party mentality of some residents of Florida and the Caribbean. Not that I think it is sensible to ignore evacuation advice or orders but partying under extreme weather conditions does have a certain buzz about it.

We are sure that our party is still a source of discussion in Churchill and the surrounding area. Whenever we visit our friends there, and we do as often as we can, we reminisce about the happenings that night. We recall that it was the same evening that the Bristol Flower Show marquees were blown down. Later, the weathermen likened it to a full hurricane and we considered ourselves really lucky that our soiree ended up with nothing more serious than a few wet and muddy people with well-earned hangovers the next day.

Regretfully, the day after the party we began packing our boxes and organized our furniture to go into storage. Sue and my sister, Raine, soon realized that as we couldn’t send any remaining alcohol into store (well, not any that might go off) or in our boxes, it had to go. The pair soon discovered that cornflakes and Baileys, coffee with Baileys and ice cream with Baileys could soon cure a hangover!

Sadly, all too soon, we said our farewells to our many good friends and neighbours in Churchill and its surrounds to set off for the “Colonies”.

I’ll cover a lot more about our stay in the USA, later.

****

The three years passed all too quickly. We missed our dogs but occasionally we did look after friends’ pets in the USA as you’ll see. When we returned to England we expected to resume our ownership of the four-legged friends we had left behind. However, my parents had become so attached to Spey and my sister to Fisky that they both asked to keep them. How could we say no? My parents had relished the company. Spey was added security for them and, perhaps more importantly, he had made them take more exercise than perhaps they might, had they not had a large dog to care for. Moreover, by that time, my sister had had Fisky longer than we had owned him.

On the other hand, Sue’s mother was more than ready to hand Sebbie back to us and so at least we had the company of one of the three. Sue was greeted with open arms by her mother and on opening hers for the hug, Sebbie was thrust into them with, “and here’s your dog back”!

She added, “Dogs are such a tie to a socializing lady of a ‘certain age’”.

We were happy in the knowledge that Spey and Fisky had good homes and that we still had frequent contact with them, as they were both with family who lived within regular visiting distance.

On our return from America I was working in London and we lived in Biggin Hill, Kent from where I commuted into the city. The chances of working overseas again were slim, so we “rescued” Lucy, another cocker spaniel - just to keep Sebbie company, (if you remember, he thinks he’s a spaniel). My work was in a central London office managing a large defence contract with the Government of Saudi Arabia. Although I visited Saudi occasionally, I had no inkling that circumstances would soon change and that our home life would again be disrupted by the offer of employment in foreign parts.

I had only been working in London for just over a year when, tragically, my opposite number in Riyadh was killed in a car crash and I received a phone call from “head office” asking whether I would be willing to take his place at short notice. This came only eighteen months after returning from St. Louis so we had to think hard about going overseas again for what was to be a two and a half year assignment.

Again, the dogs came high on the list of factors to be considered in the decision-making process and we were grateful that my parents offered to take Sebbie who would then be reunited with his old friend Spey, the Labrador. My sister, an avid dog lover, again came to the rescue and volunteered to have our new spaniel, Lucy.

At the end of a long and latterly very happy life, Fisky had come to the end of the road a few months earlier. So, with our canine family again in the care of our real family we set off for our unexpected trip to the desert.

For one reason or another, our planned, relatively short, stay in Saudi turned into six and a half years. If we had known that at the outset, we may well have acquired a dog during our stay or at least taken Sebbie with us. We came home at least twice a year and saw our dogs each time and that they were just as well looked after and happy as they could have been with us. However, during our extended absence both the now elderly Sebbie the poodle and Spey the lab had died and our spaniel Lucy who had now been with my sister far longer than with us had contracted diabetes. Star that she was, my sister almost demanded that she be allowed to continue to care for Lucy. We agreed, offering to share the costs of the drugs required (an injection a day for life) and the special food to make life as comfortable as possible for Lucy’s remaining years. Taking a urine sample first thing in the morning every day in all weathers to determine blood/sugar level deserves a medal in its own right. Especially when it involved following a female dog around, carrying a ladle, trying catch the first pee of the day, often in cold, wet and windy conditions!

I relate all this to try to show the reader (more than singular, I hope) that Sue and I are dog lovers and as long as we are physically able will always have, or be around, dogs of any size, shape or breed.

After taking early retirement on my return from Saudi Arabia we agreed that we wanted to do a good deal of travelling. We therefore reluctantly decided that it would not be a good idea to start a “family” again, so to speak, and therefore abandoned the idea of dogs of our own until we felt we should “settle down”.

So when we had only been home in Yorkshire for a couple of months and an acquaintance of my sister’s, living in East Sussex, was let down by her house/dog sitter it was suggested that we might fill the gap at short notice. And so, to coin a phrase, that’s how it all began.

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