Walking The Dog

Plants can't speak but sometimes thy do. More eloquent than words - they thank you for unearthing them from beneath the overhang of an over-exuberant neighbour by perking up, covering themselves in buds and waving bright colours at you the next time you pass. So plants repay kindnesses but they are not exactly friendly and proper company while gardening is always appreciated. Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins are always happy to sprawl nearby. Watching someone else work can be so exhausting; looking out for strangers or monsters or rabbits or tossed morsels of something delicious is always tiring. But seldom so tiring that you actually fall asleep because you remain ever hopeful and alert to the possibility of one of those aforementioned morsels that might if you're very lucky come flying through the air and smack you on the cheek. And that might happen at any minute. So you fidget. And scratch. And stay awake. And watch. Sometimes you have two people to gua...

We do ruins well in this country. Preserved, cared for, discretely showed off, they become things of beauty and a tangible connection to the past that we can all share. Castle Acre Priory in Norfolk was a bit of a surprise on Tuesday, one of the hottest days of the year so far. A surprise because it was a 'that will do' place to break a journey - an opportunity to step out of an air-conditioned car into a hug of hot air and stretch our legs. This amounted to a stroll. Following the maze of shadows cast by the vast sprawling ruins.  What a place! Look up - always - when you visit anywhere. That's where you'll be amazed.  Walk around looking at your feet and all you'll see is grass. And grass is nowhere near as interesting as a communal toilet block for 24, built to straddle a stream where the monks could drop from a height straight into the flowing water. Effortless and silent - being monks, apart from the splash - sewage management. He...

Birthday celebrations in Spring. Life is yellow. And the birthday boy is 245 years old. "My heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils." ... what me! Dancing? With flowers! I don't think so ... Like the 'ducks dabbling up-tials all', 'wandering lonely as a cloud' is a treasured verse from childhood. I wish I remembered more. Happy Birthday William Wordsworth. Apart from the flowers my favourite part of Spring is the light - crisp, clear, vastly distant. Casting low, long shadows and blinding you in the car at the beginning and end of the day (that bit I don't love, very definitely don't love.) Spring is also the one time of year when gardeners have the opportunity to beat back the rising tide of   emerging seeds, the first winding thready tendrils of bindweed, the low furry haze of nettle carpet and the first yellow heads of buttercup that scream catch-me-if-you-can. Lose the battle now and the weeds win...

I love this time of year. All apart from the low lying sun that makes driving an eye-watering nightmare. The days are getting longer. The sun blissfully higher. And the garden is waking from its winter slumbers. Some shrubs are busily, early flowering, like this osmanthus, covered in tiny white trumpets - It's a season full of promise - the daffodils will soon burst yellow, their dancing heads heralding spring. And, annually, reminding me of my Scottish 'Gran' who - bucket in one hand, scissors in the other - would decapitate all the spent, crisply-browning blooms. She was small and bent and dainty in her sensible shoes. This was her job. Even when slow and frail. And she did it every spring to ensure healthy blooms the following year. In a few weeks, I'll persuade Littlest (bribe her, probably) that it's a job perfect for her. I'll give her an old pair of gardening scissors and tell her about my Gran, whom she never met. Apart from the daffodils, t...

Half term passed, too long ago, in a sleepy, whispering sigh. Half term for Littlest = shopping, treats, walks, curling up with a film, catching up with friends and family (you wait three years for an aunt to visit, then two turn up within four days of each other), singing-in-the-shower-because-I-can-and-no-one-is-telling-me-to-hurry-because-of-homework and if-I-look-busy-no-one-will-notice-that-I-haven't-done-my-music-practice*-and-no-I-don't-mind-putting-it-all-off-'til-Sunday (I can do it with the Maths prep that I've been keeping quiet about. On Sunday evening. Ten minutes after I should have gone to bed.) Half term for Bertie Baggins and Four-legged-friend meant warm bottoms (long sleeps next to the Aga), walks, walks and more walks (way above their normal weekly average), visits from new friends, new smells, new excuses to interrupt conversations with wet nuzzling requests for a tummy rub, lots more crumbs dropped on the floor and fewer hours spent incarcerate...

Hello, Bertie Baggins here. Yes, the small, yellow one, nephew and self-appointed tormentor-in-chief of Four-legged-friend. It's been a bit quiet on this blog recently due to Herbie's general rushed-off-her-feetedness so I thought I'd stand in and take a turn - share with you some of my observations on a dog's life and tell you a bit of what I have been doing. And shouldn't have been doing. Before I start, I think I should share with you the history of my name. After all, you are reading this, so it is only fair that you have a clear understanding of exactly who I am: Bertie stems from Gilbert. In keeping with my uncle, the afore-mentioned Four-legged-friend, otherwise known as M ... oops! He likes to keep his name out of this blog. Perhaps in case something embarrassing is written about him. Me ... I don't care. What could I possibly do that I would be embarrassed about? I'm a dog! Anyway, Four-legged-friend and me are named after Scottish Saints...

Imagine being asked by a colleague, "How old do you feel?" I was. It was the end of a long morning. I wanted to get home. I was fairly fed up - all the reasons for not working were clamouring for space inside my head while being suppressed with fluctuating forcefulness by a timorous voice of reason that was reminding me that work means money and money means ... well, almost everything. The colleague is someone I know reasonably well - well enough to ask to provide a reference for other jobs, not well enough to know the name of her husband, or where she had just been on holiday, or indeed why she might want to know if I was feeling as decrepit as I probably looked. There appeared to be several ways of answering - from the self destructive "Not as old as you!" to the cowardly "Ooh, I don't know - older than yesterday." While the self-destructive option would have had the result of never working for her again, the voice of reason won and instead I s...

What do dogs mean when they "smile?"  Do they smile in the way we understand smiling ? Does this picture of Four-legged-friend sniffing the air expectantly make his eyes look happy? Is this the beginning of a smile? If you are a cartoon loving, pet obsessive who speaks a running commentary of what you think your mutt is saying, then you are probably of the firm opinion that when his/her jowl drops open lazily, at an angle you interpret as being jaunty, with just sufficient tension left at the corners to turn them up slightly, he/she is smiling at you. Yes! (gently deluded pet obsessive nods vigorously) Definitely smiling! Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins do 'smile,' very convincingly, when lying on their backs having their tummies rubbed. But when did you last examine a dog's lips? Relax the canine body - totally - in a I-love-having-my-tummy-rubbed-and-if-I-lie-very-still-you-might-continue sort of a way, and the lips become flabby and fall away f...

Stupid dogs! You'd think I don't feed them. Outside, it's plastic flower pots - ripped apart; shredded and littered all over the grass. Scattered amongst the chewed plant supports, logs and bits of this-is-big-so-we-can-both-tussle-with-it-and-when-we're-tired-have-an-end-to-chew-each fencing. Plus a couple of no-longer-functional-due-to-severe-mauling brushes and a mis-shapen trowel. Inside, this week, it's been assorted socks; one cow-shaped-or-rather- was -cow-shaped slipper; a wine bottle ... smashed into that's-a-bit-scary-and-sharp-and-oh-dear-I-think-I'm-in-trouble-again-so-I'll-back-away-from-them-and-put-on-my-best-hang-dog-remorseful-expression bits (thankfully); a bath mat; a pair of wet swimming trunks and a tea towel. But the tea towel is the only thing (as far as I know ... so far) that was actually eaten. I'll leave it to your imagination to work out how I know that it was eaten. I'm not a bad parent - really! - everything is...

Meant to blog yesterday. But alternating shivers, fever, headache and a dinner party to prepare for eight rather ate up my day. Now - thanks to the new battery in a smoke detector obviously not being a new battery and it's beeping reveille to canine ears, I am over-endowed with time, a sleepy head, and enjoying the peace and quiet of the morning after the night before i.e. my second cup of coffee. Fittingly for my head ( not overindulgence at the wine bottle(s), but thick/ill/achey, remember!) the coffee cup is wrapped in a woolly jumper - a sort of comfort-giving visual vibe. But care is needed, and it's too early for that, or the 'jumper' ends up soggy and your bottom lip all fluffy. It's only 6.35 a.m. And my two friends are already bored and want to go back outside to terrorise the rabbits. Actually, that's a fanciful thought - it would be good if they did indulge in a spot of rabbit inspired I'm-the-predator-you're-the-prey role play, ...