Category: One Dog And His Man - A Portfolio Life

A Portfolio Life

Hare today...

4/2/2018

Bobby chased a hare today – across the fields at Ryton – as though he was 17 human years young. It was like Alex Ferguson’s description of when he first set eyes on a thirteen-year old Ryan Giggs - “like a cocker spaniel in the park chasing a piece of sliver paper in the wind”

Oh, who am I kidding – he was like a 71 year-old man running for the bus. It was like if I rocked up to Durdham Downs for one last appearance for West Town, a team I was already too old and fat for when I was 25. Luckily, they were too shit to notice.

Unlike me, today, cheering on the side-lines, as Bobby wheezed to a halt halfway up a hill, hollering at the hare – come back, I’ll have you – come here – oh, buggering hell – you pesky kids…phuwee.

I swear there was a moment when the hare stopped and waited for him.

Bless. Still, no doubt he'll score a hat-trick in his dreams tonight, like I have these last thirty years...

Our Gated Community

11/4/2017

There’s a wooden gate near me that divides nowhere from nowhere. It’s on the footpath that winds around the Manor Barns on its way down to the Wesley Brook and the sewage works.

There seems no reason for it. No animals to pen in, nothing to keep out. Closure for the sake of it. A modern-art metaphor for Brexit maybe. Except it’s been here as long as I have. And it has no purpose. Or not one I can fathom. Indeed, we are kindred spirits.

Not least in that it always does its best to stay open. It doesn’t swing back automatically. It stubbornly stays open. People have to go out of their way to close the gate, as they’ve all been rightly trained to do around here, where the Countryside Code is a genetic folk memory. As it is for me. It’s a gate and gates should be closed.

But, for ten years now, I’ve been leaving this gate open. Twice a day, most days for ten years. (And, in all that time, it has always been closed by someone in the hour or so between my walk out and my walk home).

A few weeks ago, the gatepost that holds it shut was broken, vandalised maybe. By a freedom fighter, maybe. Who knows. Today, as I wandered past, them good old volunteers of the Shifnal Pathfinders were replacing the gatepost.

As with every Tuesday, we swapped hellos as they patted Bobby.

“I’ve never been sure what the point of this gate is.” I said.

“Nope, nor us” they said.

And then they shrugged and carried on anyway, like a cast of characters out of a Magnus Mills novel.

This, of course, is of no real import to the nation, but this morning, to me, in that moment, it felt like it might be….

Appeasing Village Halls...

19/2/2017

Since we’ve been here, at least once a year we have been to Kemberton Village Hall for some event or other, the main purpose of which is to raise funds to ensure the survival of Kemberton Village Hall, so that it can continue to have events, the main purpose of which is to raise funds to ensure the survival of Kemberton Village Hall.

Everyone rallies around, does their bit, buys several too many raffle tickets, happily pays over the odds for some cheapo wine, and lends a hand with stacking chairs, whilst Denise and Jill do the washing-up. Anne chats to everyone and a couple of people say hello to me. This, it seems to me, is the essence of village life. Or, more generally, community life. And yes, I am mocking, that’s my default setting, but I genuinely mean it as a good thing. Proper life-enhancing stuff.

In our time, as documented elsewhere, we have attended many of these events. We have been to several quizzes; an evening of prestidigitation from the Wolverhampton Magic Circle; been entertained by a couple from the Black Country, her doing the songs and he doing the bostin jokes; not forgetting the night with the woman with several ukuleles. No, that I will never forget.

If you happen to be from London and somehow find yourself through the Looking Glass at such an event, it works like this. You buy a ticket, you show up, you eat and drink, as much of the latter as you can. Try not to win the raffle. I can’t help but feel incomers up from that there London winning a box of Celebration chocolates is cause for anything but. Definitely, try to win the quiz. Coz, well, innit, you get me. We have, a couple of times. Or once, even. Maybe. There’s still time…

Anyway, Anne decided this year was our turn. When we throw our hat into the ring. Raise some money. Pay for the roof repairs. What’s required, she suggested, is a pop-up Indian restaurant, and we, who have never once set foot in said sub-continent, are absolutely, definitely, your people, for we used to live in Tooting and even cooked a curry once, and it was quite tasty. Fairly bland, also.

So, that’s what we did last night. For 50 people:

Pea Kachori with pickled red onion and relish.
Chili Paneer
Chicken Pakora (donated by a Bangladesh Housing Co-operative Anne works with in Birmingham, and easily the best chicken pakoras in the western world, and quite possibly in the eastern world, too.)
Served with Carrot and Sultana Raita, Tomato and Chili Jam and Mint Chutney.

Lamb and Squash Curry
Lemon Daal
Aubergine and Tomato curry
Rajma Curry

Mango Fool and Cardamom Shortbread.

Sister-in-law turned the village hall into a tented Indian village, or something, which was both highly improbable and completely spectacular; and people tucked into Aldi prosecco and spiced nuts, whilst Anne turned a load of bland vegetables into something pretty bloody wonderful. I helped. As did Anne's best friend Paula and many others. But enough about them.

Food was eaten. Drink was drunk. Money was made. Kemberton Village Hall, like Mount Etna pacified by sacrifices to the Roman Gods, burped and farted, and settled down like a sleeping dog with a full belly, until the next time.

Greek, Italian, Thai, French – what’s next Anne? - e-mailed a grateful participant.
Nothing. Never. No way. E-mailed back an exhausted Anne. Bless…

Dedicated follower of fashion

16/2/2017

In One Dog and His Man I wrote a small piece on my superior dress sense, what with me having been part of that there London Fashion Scene for a major part of my life, continually updating and rocking the latest Tooting vibe. Yes, of course I was joking. The only point clothes serve in my life, is to keep me warm. My idea of dressing smartly is to find something I haven’t spilled food down.

The piece ended with me walking past a seven-year-old girl, who was clutching her granny’s hand in fear, as she passed me in my latest outfit, one “beyond the curve of their imagination.” As she passed me, the little girl said loudly to her gran “oh, that’s not a good look.”

In riposte, these last few years I’ve blended into Shropshire life. I now have many, many fleeces. I have three outdoor fleece zipped jackets, sourced from top brands such as Aldi and the local farm shop, two black, one blue. For indoors, I have another seven fleeces, from summer lightweight to Canadian heavy duty – what Anne calls my Michelin man look. And that’s it.

Shifnal’s loss I fancy. But, yesterday, outside Barclays was a man at the cash machine, stepping up to the challenge, plainly channelling my inner catwalk model. He had sunglasses on, in February gloom, a brand-new country tweed jacket and tie up-top, and below, a pair of bright blue tracksuit bottoms, with two white stripes running down the outside of each leg, the outfit finished off with a pair of polished black shoes. Fetching.

What the seven-year-old, - who now must be thirteen and probably with her own thriving online apparel and accessories business – would have thought of it is anyone’s guess. Me, I nearly applauded.

Rabbit, Rabbit

24/10/2016

Les, our local handyman and all-round good egg, came around to have a look at the guttering. He brought an old hand along to help him. The old man held the bottom of the ladder and as he did so I chatted to him.

“This dog’s got greyhound in him” says he.

“No, he’s a collie cross – this, that and something else, but not greyhound, long legs though.” A minute’s pause whilst we watch Les pull a load of mud with grass growing out of it – a lawn basically – out of our gutter.

“Yeah, greyhound. I thought so. I had one just like this once, collie/greyhound cross it were. Used to catch rabbits just fine. Twenty, thirty at a time. I used to get a quid a pop. I would sit at the table in The Crown in Newport and people would come from all over – Wolverhampton. They’d give me a pound and take one off the table. The dog would be lying under it, asleep like.”

“We’d have bought some off you if you were still doing it, my wife makes a lovely rabbit stew in, um, mustard cream sauce. Crisp green salad to mop…” I was hearing myself saying this and sort of tailed off into silence, leaving the sentence uncompleted, as I wondered if even Anne could have sounded any more like a middle-class wanker. Les meanwhile was showering us with gutter detritus, so maybe he heard me...

“What we would do was shine the lamp and catch the rabbit in it, and the dog would catch sight of them and go around and end up behind them, stood over them, and they were still frozen in the light.”

“Clever that, going around the back – that’s the collie in him.”

“No, he wouldn’t kill ‘em. He’d bring ‘em back to me and I’d pull their neck.” He does a little demonstration. “I was earning more money from doing that than from working, like."

“Amazing – shame you don’t still do it, I’d have bought one. Two. Make rabbit pie with the leftovers, that’s my favourite”

“Aye, I know, you don’t see anyone eating them anymore. Sad.”

Grumpy Old Boys

21/12/2015

There's that old saying isn't there, that people come to look like their dogs. To be honest, I've always had a lot of time for it. I think it's because Andy, one of my friends at school, had centre-parted blonde hair and fringe that made him look like a cross between his old English sheepdog and all four members of Bucks Fizz.

Certainly, when we first got Bobby I hoped I might magically come to look as sleek and athletic as he was, that I'd be miraculously pulled back through time to the outrageous beauty of my college years (there should be a statue). Or, at least I hoped the opposite wouldn't happen, that he'd grow fat and slothful like me. And thankfully the latter hasn't occurred. Aged 8, he still looks fit and well.

But he does seem to have mirrored my behaviour or, as I prefer to have it, that of my father-in-law, aka Biscuitman, for he has become a right old grumpy git. If any dog wanders over to say hello to him, even one he likes, he first ignores them, then gives them a haughty sniff, then lifts his upper left lip in a disdainful sneer. (There was a girl in the front row of a first year English class in Bermondsey nigh on thirty years ago, who would treat me to that very same sneer whenever I looked at her, usually just before she threw a chair at me, or stabbed someone. It's actually taken me this long to forget her name, which is progress.)

I can't help but feel he's caught it from us, this grumpiness. In fact, we often pass Marley down the lane. Marley is a beautiful dog, also aged 8, but still full of love and life and enthusiasm. Whenever we see her, her equally lovely owner always says “Come along Marley, Bobby doesn't want to stop and play with you...” when she could just as easily be saying – in fact I think she is saying - “Come along Marley, Gary doesn't want to stop and chat with us...”

Broadly Speaking a Has-Bean

26/6/2015

That's the broad beans planted out for another year...

Anne planted a few broad bean plants this year as per usual. We never go mad as I'm not their greatest fan. It looks like we needn't have bothered for Shropshire has gone broad bean blinking crazy. The field opposite us is just one of loads around that is crammed full of thousands of swaying white-flowered sentinels with not a black-fly in sight. A back of an envelope calculation settles on at least a million plants in that field alone. And in this unexpected advert for industrial pesticides everywhere they are standing at least five feet tall and proud, and seem to have attracted an orchestra of skylarks plus a green woodpecker (on timpani).

Not to be outdone by the Earl of Stafford and his agribusiness stooges, Anne tends her sixteen small plants daily with organic love and care. I can only assume she bought the dwarf variety...

Flipping 'eck Teasel, the chard has well and truly Usain Bolted...

Wild Garlic and Bluebells

10/5/2015

One Dog and His Man - somewhere above Bridgnorth. Read about their adventures here.

The Naming of Things

19/2/2015

Two days ago I saw a skylark rise far into a cloudless sky, singing for Spring. But not today. Today was an insistence of rain. Not so fast it said. Two days ago, as buzzards wheeled and keened above me I was thinking of the optimistic, idyllic names attached to things around here, including my own unofficial place names. Cottages come with roses, mills come with ponds, the woods are royal and the brook's religious.

But not today. Today my walk was muddy and downbeat, the year's first glimpse of black dog, slip, slidin' away. Evelith Mill had a darker more satanic feel to it. The farms Greenacres and Sunnyside weren't. Catkin Corner edged onto Lonely Horse Paddock. My pilgrim's progress sloughed down through the Copse of Conker Canker to the Manor of Constant Sorrow.

At which point, delighted with my pun, I chucked Bobby in the Wesley, cleaned the mud off my boots, stood soggy-bottomed on the sunken bridge and laughed.

Brown Clee Memorial

18/1/2015

As mentioned in One Dog and His Man, during the Second World War, more planes crashed into Brown Clee than any other hill in Britain. Apparently there was an ammuntion dump nearby which meant the hill was left without an aircraft warning beacon which might act as a location finder. That's the claim anyway. I haven't checked the facts.

However, some substance is added to the story by the memorial we stumbled upon when walking up there this morning. And I reallly do mean stumble upon. Partly because it's completely unannounced and far from any path, and partly because Anne had forgotten to bring her walking boots and was slipping around on the mud and frozen wasteland like a novice at an ice rink.

It's a very moving tribute, and all the more so for not being signposted. It's beautifully sited, near the best of the views, at home in its surroundings, using the slope and existing rocks so as to be near invisible, blended into the hill. No, I won't tell you where it is exactly.