oh the raggle taggle gypsy

Harry, our gypsy cob, proved to be a wonder at pulling a cart. He'd never done it before, he was only five when we got him, though his mother and father had probably pulled them, uphill and down dale and along the A354.

 I found an elderly couple who taught both horse and dreamer to drive and like being packed off to boarding school, Harry went to this new place with shiny new shoes to learn the lessons. The only difference being he didn't have a tuck box. Whilst he was taught in the field I was taught in the barn, sitting on a stool with the reins in one hand learning to twist my wrist to right and left depending  on which direction we wanted to go. This is the correct way to drive a horse, reins in the left hand, whip in the right, resting lightly on the reins above - so when I see people in tv dramas driving with their reins in both hands I know they are not for real. Mind you if you were driving a wagon in a western you probably would have your reins in both hands. The old couple never taught me this though or  to say "Yee ha!"  Once I was put in the cart it was nothing like sitting on a stool. It was terrifying - a bit like white water rafting. The horse seems a long way in front- not a bit like actually riding one. The old couple sold me the wooden milk cart which had some off road wheels on and Harry and I were away.

"What care I for my house and my land?

What care I for my money-o?
I'd rather have a kiss from the yellow gypsy's lips
I'm away wi' the raggle taggle gypsy-o!"

(curtesy of the Waterboys.)

All the birds have gone now not to appear again. Mr and Mrs Jim finally went the other week. I left the door open and Mr Jim flew out first, leaving poor Mrs Jim behind. She kept flying to the open door then turning back, looking bewildered. I left her to it. I hope they met up outside. It's a kind of bitter sweet moment - you are thrilled that they have flown away but you miss them and worry about them. I'm not expecting any of them to write home though.
Still - they are on the pages of my new story - The Missing of Stanley Ruff - an amalgamation of them into one bird - Crow 3. Towards the end of the story Crow3 is attacked by some seagulls and plummets to the ground where everyone thinks he is dead. But corvids can play dead and I was amused to read recently of a raven at Knaresborough Castle that feigns injury by lying down in the grass. As people go to check if she's OK she squawks "What the fuck you looking at?" before flying off with their camera and leaving it on the roof.

 Rocket is 1 year old!  Here he is as an adorable little puppy with both eyes.

And here he is now - the magnificent one seeing eyed beast he's grown into. He's always been tricky to feed - he likes something, so you buy a sack of it, then he refuses to eat it. We've tried raw food, dried food, tinned food, our food, meat, fish, raw tripe, cheese and eggs. He likes to eat my shoes, the cushions, the sofa and my computer cable. He likes to eat off a silver spoon best (though obviously he's not eating my shoes off a silver spoon) and dear reader - don't laugh - but he likes to steal the cats' empty food pouches. So what he refuses to eat off a plate on the floor  I stuff  into the pouch and he'll run off with it, wagging his tail and devouring it outside. I can feel the words back, rod, made, being thought. But there - he is a lurcher - a traditional gypsy dog and as he runs alongside Harry in the cart I'm seriously considering making some pegs to sell.

 Pixie's interesting fact is that lurcher is a Romany word for thief.  Mmmmm. I'm hoping he'll grow out of it. If he grew wings as well he'd probably steal people's cameras too.

When asked, Pocket's fascinating insight into life for this post is "Hope is the power of being cheerful in circumstances that we know to be desperate." I asked him if he were ever hopeful, adding that I believed Chesterton had said that. He said he was hopeful that I'd stop asking him for bon mots to put on my blog.

 Both the sweet peas and roses are flourishing this year

Below is a poem I wrote inspired by an obituary in the village news sheet. It's a very small village and the obit summed up the lives of some the people who stay where they were born.

Alice Dunn - an obituary

from Dog Days

Alice Dunn was one of eleven

born at number four.

Three times a day she walked

to the school and as a rule

three times on the Sabbath

to the Parish church where

she was christened then married

later buried her

children and which she would clean

for forty two years.

She went into service at the age

of fifteen, for sixty years

at the house on the green of

the village where she was born

and for a peppercorn rent

still lived next door

in the cottage at number four.

Alice Dunn enjoyed playing whist.

A few years back she moved

to number six, next to the school.

It must have been the gypsy in her soul.

five go rewilding

So Quigley was the first to go.

 Actually he found a gap somewhere and flew off then spent the next two days squawking loudly on top of the tunnel, in front of the tunnel, behind the tunnel and from a nearby hay bale. So I opened the door and a day later Mouse flew out to join him on top of the dustbin. She flew off to explore and then the rook with no name eventually left after I’d gone.  I thought that was it until Quigley turned up back inside the tunnel demanding to be fed. The next day Mouse had returned and then Noname. It works really well – they fly around the sky, sit in the tree tops then come back inside when they want a bit of nosh.

When it rains they all sit in a row looking grumpy on a branch inside. Or if I’m a bit late in the morning with the food they also sit there looking grumpy with a what time do you call this ? sort of look on their faces.

When I feed the Jims - Mouse lands on my shoulder squawking loudly in my ear, pecks at my clothing and demands to be fed too. He’s just trying it on but I still pop some tasty morsel – more than likely a piece of cheese which they all love- into his gaping mouth. I love watching them flying up in the sky – wheeling in the thermals. It’s hard to tell if they’ve been accepted by the Rookery Boys. I suspect they are planning their own rookery inside the poly tunnel. They’ve certainly made a tribe of three so far. Although I know it’s usually best to let nature take its course and I have purposely not picked up two other young rooks from the track as I would have done if I didn’t have a rookery of my own, it was sad to find both of them dead the following day. If I found dead rooks I used to bury them in the leaves but now see the sense in leaving them to feed some other animal as long as it’s not Rocket or Pocket. We have put rings on a couple of the birds here so we know should I find a dead bird that it's not one of "ours".

So now I've had to shut them out as the Jims are learning to fly properly inside the tunnel. Soon they'll be gone too. Young jackdaws are sweet, curious, affectionate, destructive and demanding and they're meant to be wild. I saw two youngsters for sale on Face Book for £150 each. This is not right but apparently legal if they've been born in captivity. I can't imagine that knowledge makes them feel any better if they can't taste the wind and the clouds and be as wild as shadows in the grass.

The rooks are really cross that the door is now closed to them and I've had to buy a bird table to put outside the poly door. Mouse is on look out on top of the grain feeder on the farm and when she sees me coming in the morning she yells out, madly flapping her wings and is sitting on the bird table before I can get there. Although the others join her she is the only one who likes to sit on my arm as she eats - the others have truly rewilded and don't like me getting too close.

The garden ducks have decided to rewild too, they've found a gap in the hedge and gone native, marching off to the yard and rummaging around the straw bales looking like a bunch of old biddies  scrapping over items at a jumble sale. The black duck is the leader and very much in charge. When he's had enough he leads them back in a straight line through the hedge and into the garden.

This is Mouse or Quigley on the straw bale.

Rocket likes to lie on his back his paws akimbo as if his legs are fashioned into origami shapes. When asleep they kick and he whimpers and snuffles as he dreams. Here he is doing the same thing in mid-air as he flies through the long grass on a day outing to the Isle of Wight.

 Pixie's very interesting fact is that Biophilia is the love of nature and living things. She thinks I might be a Biophiliac.

 Pocket has taken up reading.  I asked him why he was doing that and he said "A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us." And I said you must have been reading Kafka. And he said "Don't you mean Katka?"

It's been a glorious year for roses. Here are just a few of the different varieties we have in the garden.

The Meadow

by Wendell Berry

In the town's graveyard the oldest plot now frees itself
of sorrow, the myrtle of the graves grown wild. the last
who knows the faces who had these names are dead,
and now the names fade, dumb on the stones, wild
as shadows in the grass, clear to the rabbit and the wren.
Ungrieved, the town's ancestry fits the earth. they become
a meadow, their alien marble grown native as maple.

j'adore jackdaw

Here are two baby jackdaws that fell down two separate chimneys. Like the baby rooks they are not related.

 Also like the rooks they were given to me by a wildlife rescue centre as I am happy to help out by hand feeding them and also am around to be able to do so. I have called them Mr and Mrs Jim. Jim after Jim-ney - down which they fell.Collectively just referred to as the Jims.

 The Jims are smaller than the rooks but no less demanding. Every two hours. I had to take them to Bridport with me in a box the other day as I would have been unable to meet their busy eating schedule. I fed them in the car park by the beach and also in a lay by. Next week it'll be London.

 Meanwhile here is Mouse and Quigley2. They are now free range in the shade tunnel and have been joined by a third rook who I am not giving a name to and have never handled. He came being able to feed himself but not able to fly. He is learning and so are the boys.

 I refer to them as the boys but they may well be girls, particularly Quigley 2 who took a piece of food in his mouth, hopped over to Mouse and popped into his mouth. I was touched by his/her caring gesture. Mouse meanwhile likes picking up stones and making a little pile of them. They can both feed themselves but when they see me they jump up and down flapping their wings and opening their mouths - so just to humour them I pop bits of food in.

Took Rocket to a dog's festival the other day. It was wonderful - hundreds of dogs and nobody fought.
They had a terrier and lurcher racing event where you could bring your dog into the ring to chase a hankie which sped round on wires. Rocket was artful. Proudly watching him it reminded me of sport's day at the girls' school.
                                 

                                          

Pixie's interesting fact for this post is that Tug o War was an Olympic event from 1900- 1920

 This is one of Nancy's favourite places. The little seedlings and nice plants are all squashed. It's hard to garden with a dog who digs everything up and a cat who lies on everything.
I asked Pocket (photo not featured as already seen lounging on the dog bed with Rocket) for his pearls of wisdom particularly if he had anything wise to say about gardens and he said "It is idle, having planted an acorn in the morning, to expect that afternoon to sit in the shade of the oak."
I said "oh so you've read Antoine de Saint-Exupery?"  He blinked, looked at me idly and carried on sleeping.

 

Here is the garden at the Pink Tower (available to book on air BnB) where Rocket is not allowed so things aren't dug up here though once in a while the ducks get into it and trample a few things. The cats and Rocket are not allowed inside though once Rocket sneaked in and ate the chocolates I put on the bed.

The Fathers’ Race

From Dog Days by Linda Coggin

                     

            The school bell tolls as they jockey

at the line, casual, acting the goat

wishing they were dead or down the pub

still time to do that deal –

but then they’re off and scorching grass

as fast as squibs across the turf

past sons and daughters who perch

in mirth and dig each other in the ribs.

Brogues and trainers blaze the furlong

outrunning hares, with lungs protesting.

Men in nightmares running nude

with limbs of lead and feet in glue.

A cry goes up – a man is down.

Embarrassed as his father falls

one boy goes red and turns away.

As the first men pass the line to yells

and shouts, it seems that flowers sprout

within the empty grass that separates

the winners from the rest

and insects brave the crossing of

the track and big black birds sail and tack.

Then short of breath with barrel chests

the others totter in behind.

These are the slack, the flimsy men

the unstrung heroes of the field

the real winners of the race who

brave the torment of the chase

to whom the anthem should be sung.

For these are sons of fathers

who had never run for them.

wide scarlet throats with feathers

I recently came across a letter I wrote for the Guardian newspaper many years ago for their "Letter to...." section. 

 It  was to our first wolfhound Jai but would equally apply to Pixie. In the end it wasn't published there but it was published in The Wolfhound Magazine. I will tack it onto the end of this post.
Pixie is going to be 9 years of age in a week or two - a venerable age, She comes from a great line of wolfies that Fran and Bill have bred (see previous tribute in the post miss - my dog ate my homework
and as far as I know quite a lot of her siblings are still going strong too. She ran after a deer yesterday so is not using a zimmer frame yet.

Meanwhile here is some rook news.

They look like freshly cut figs but they are the wide scarlet throats of two baby rooks given to me to hand feed.

Mouse and Quigley2. They are not related - Mouse is smaller but they've immediately cuddled up to each other in the box which I've tried to make nest like for them. It's lined with straw and Harry the horse's feathers which I had to cut off for the summer to save him getting mites. There's enough to make a horsehair mattress but at the moment are working perfectly well as a liner to the nest.
They need to be fed every hour. They are very demanding and I think one of them has a watch somewhere as they are very punctual with their demands. When they've had enough food they chat to each other. Quigley has a lot to say but Mouse just murmurs an agreement with a Mmmmmm noise. Readers of this blog will know that at this time of year I usually rescue one or two fallen rooks and look after them until they learn to fly and then they fly away. But these are very young that two separate people found on the ground. I've avoided walking past our own rookery incase I find anymore - I love them but don't want a house full of rooks.

Rocket went to a puppy tea party the other week where he met his siblings. (He is the only one who is not rough coated) and they ran round and round for a good two hours without stopping for breath or any of the cakes which if it had been Pixie's puppy party would all have gone in a few seconds.

Found this handsome prince - er - frog - in the tiny water container in the garden - wearing a cloak of duck weed

Pocket was keen to give me his pearls of wisdom this time round( though he denies ever hearing of Rumi) When setting out on a journey, do not seek advice from those who have never left home.
So I said that obviously no one had asked him for advice. He stared into the distance and asked me what on earth I was talking about. He'd made it down to the copse at least once and it wasn't his fault there were no shops around.

Pixie's interesting fact apart from the fact she'll be nine in a week or two is that there is a frog in the Cameroons who weighs more than 3kg and one in Africa no bigger than a bee,

the orchids are all in bloom and compete with the tulips who are also opening their petals

tulip Estella Rijnveld - one of my favourites

A letter to our Irish Wolfhound

Although I have seen you studying the pages of  the colour  supplement, I suspect that you will be unable to read this letter.  For a start the recipe you were looking at was upside down, which indicates to me that you are pretending, or maybe just short sighted.

Firstly I wanted to say how we so don’t mind about the  piece taken out of the back of the sofa , it really was old and your large head fits so snugly over the back of it now, making those episodes of Ready, Steady Cook so much more enjoyable for you to watch. When people told me that you would eat a lot I hadn’t bargained for you actually eating the furniture.  I was a bit upset when you turned my walking boots into a pair of sling backs but the plus side is of course that you have taught us all to be more tidy, we just don’t leave our shoes lying around any more, or adorable, fluffy bedtime toys or the turkey or the birthday cake. Perhaps I should have lit the candles before putting it at such a convenient height on the tea table.

So now we’ve cleared that up I suppose the purpose of this is to say thank you. Thank you for growing from a not-even-small-back-then puppy into the gentle giant that you are, proving that less is not necessarily more, though less of the thieving from the top shelf of the fridge and more of the “actually I wont have any more biscuits thanks” – might be more acceptable. And thanks for not being critical, always being pleased to see me and the good advice on those scones.

 I ignored the people who said you’d be too big and with a “Guess what!” I brought you home and you have filled our life ever since.  Even my old mother who couldn’t walk due to osteoporosis and two hip replacements, and who thought that you were “unnecessary”, conceded that you did save her life when she fell over trying to get to our  telephone before us. Apparently you rushed between her legs just as she was about to hit the floor and carried her off round the table as if she were a knight returning from the crusades.  And you were only a puppy then.

So, big dog, I shall always remember you, particularly the time you sat, your bottom perched daintily on that said sofa, a soft felt hat one of the children had accidentally left on your head, a huge Easter egg{still wrapped}clasped between your jaws, looking as if you were about to take afternoon tea (which you later did .} Anyway, in my opinion this was better than  when you stole my Christmas present, unwrapped it and then eat it, even though it was a Nigel Slater Cook Book.  After all, it didn’t have your name on it – which is another giveaway that you probably can’t read.