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The Woman Who Talks to Dogs...

16/3/2015

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We were walking in woods the other week when we came upon an apparently stray dog. She was a young collie, friendly but skittish, playing hide and seek with us through the woodland. There was no sign of her owner.

We became worried for her. She had a collar, and a disk, and I tried to catch her so that Anne could phone the number. But just as I'd grabbed hold of her she became nervous and ducked away. Learning from my mistake, second time around I attached her to Bobby's lead and started to shout out the number on the disc to Anne. Bobby - jealous, excited, impatient – decided to take matters into his own hands and dived at the dog, who broke from my grasp, jumped a log, a ditch and a barbed-wire fence and disappeared across the fields opposite, Bobby's leash still attached, leaving me on the floor and Anne with half a telephone number. Bobby deemed this the best fun ever, or at least since the discarded pair of underpants he'd found a few minutes earlier.

The field seemed to belong to a big house away up the hill. And possibly so did the dog, given its direction of travel. So, somewhat stuck for what to do with Bobby without a leash, we gave chase over stream and fence, soon to be surrounded by another three dogs, none of which is the one we were saving and none of whom was much pleased to meet us. 



At the house an elderly woman emerges and asks us our business in the manner of an American homesteader greeting some no good cowboys. Anne is charming. Bobby does a little wee. I finger my holster nervously. The woman knows the dog. It lives up the hill. She plainly thinks we were stealing it. But then she's better with dogs than she is with humans. They circle around her like show ponies. She tells us to stay. Bobby treats her to his most beautiful sit. 


She jumps in a open-backed van and roars off up the hill, one dog in the back and two giving chase. We stay. Bobby sits. She returns five minutes later, chased back down the hill by the rest of her pack, and sitting in the cab beside her is the “lost” dog, with our lead still attached. She hands the lead to us, gives Anne a don't do it again stare and rubs my nose in the mess I just made on the forecourt. She waves us on our way, back from wherever we came, her dogs circling us all the way to the edge of her property. 


Back on our own side of the fence we came out of our trances and finished our walk somewhat aggrieved. There was certainly a gap between our interpretation of events and that of Barbara Woodhouse On Hill. We saw ourselves as a couple of Good Samaritans, she saw us as Cruella De Vil and her bumbling sidekicks. Good folk of Shropshire, be careful out there.                  




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Out with the Hunt...

3/3/2015

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I met the local Hunt today. I was enjoying a cold sunny morning as I turned from Evelith Mill into King Charles' Wood when I heard a horse behind me. Before I knew it about thirty hounds were upon me. They were just about to tear me apart limb by limb when the chap in charge – let's call him the Leader of the Pack – jumped off his trusty steed, waded through the dogs towards me and, kneeling down, dispatched me with a swift and skilful flick of his knife whilst singing in a reassuring whisper “And now he's gone...”

Well, okay, of course not. As you well know it's been illegal to hunt someone like me for several years now, though I've little doubt a few there would still like to rid the countryside of such pinko vermin. However, it is true that we were surrounded by the pack just before the Hunt arrived, and indeed before Bobby even heard the dogs. Which is to say we were not challenging prey. And I have to say, especially considering they were presumably out hunting, the dogs were incredibly well-mannered.

As were the twenty or so riders who passed by thereafter. There was that rather embarrassing thing (as with parties of ramblers) where the whole group says hello to you as they pass – once for them, but twenty times for you to reply. A few said “good morning” and several “good morning, sir”. There was two “lovely mornings”, one tip of a cap, and a final “so sorry to have ruined your walk.” Far from it. 



I followed along behind them, at a respectful distance, imagining I was following the retinue of King Charles himself on the way to Boscobel (although on reflection they may have been running). We parted company at Kemberton Mill and I ambled along thinking idle nothings about packs and uniforms and belonging and ritual.

Fifteen minutes later, from completely the opposite direction, I came upon a stray hound, trotting along all alone, not a care in the world, vaguely heading towards the hunt, but in no hurry. He stopped to give Bobby a disdainful sniff – “What's that? A mongrel, are you really? Oh dear. Any totty around?“ - then meandered on his way. He made me feel very happy.


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A City Farm for Rural Kids...

1/3/2015

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There was a thing on Countryfile about bussing city kids out to the countryside where they lived on the farm for a week, learning how to milk goats, hug piglets, wassail and sleep with their sister. No killing lambs obviously, but all very laudable, I'm sure.

Apparently, we deem it nourishing, life-enhancing, generally a good thing for city kids to connect with modern farming practices. Fair enough, but I was thinking, what about their rural cousins? What do they know of London, who only Shropshire know? Tooting doesn't need a city farm, it needs a place where country kids can come and stay and learn how to survive in the big city. I have an itinerary. Brochure to follow.


For starters they'll learn to get around. Navigating a major London railway terminus without being scooped up and sold into the white meat sex trade; which carriage to board on the Victoria Line to be able to cross straight onto the Northern Line at Stockwell; how to get a black cab driver to go South of the river (clue – offer to let him play his Rod Stewart CD); how to get across London for free by Boris bike; how to negotiate the Oxford Circus scramble without being runover by Japanese tourists.

For main course, they'll forage round the back of Pret A Manger and hunker down in a doorway on the Strand with a sleeping bag and a dog named Bugsy. Come Saturday and the kids will be expected to have manned a street food van round the back of Kings Cross selling soft shell crab in a brioche bun with piri piri sauce at £8.50 without fries, and to have opened up a Mexican themed pop-up restaurant in the Old Street underpass with free graffiti classes and Chris Coco supplying ambient music.

And for dessert they can meet some funny-coloured people. Well, stare at them on the tube...





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