Marazion, Inspiration and Alkatraz

Himself took this photo on Monday when I was interviewing a limner (someone who paints miniatures) in Marazion. The weather was perfect, and on the way down it was so still and clear that the two tankers out in Mounts Bay seemed to be suspended in the sky - a truly unforgettable sight (and one alas not recorded on camera).

Two dog walking friends of ours have recently lost their dogs which is always very sad. The first, Maggie, has at least got another, younger dog to keep her company which is some comfort. But Margaret, an indomitable Scot of hardy breeding and great cheer, greeted us the other day minus dog and explained that she'd had to have her Dougie put down as he had bone cancer. We expressed commiserations (in my case, tears already starting to dribble down my face like unwanted snails) and she continued brightly, “I wasn't going to get another dog but my family have said I should, and so have The Girls.” (The Girls are aged 69 and 82.)

“Good idea,” said Himself. “And there are lots of dogs in need of a good home.”

“Yes,” Margaret continued. “I thought I'd go to the Cinnamon Trust and perhaps the Rescue Centre at Hayle and see what they've got – I want an older dog, that doesnt need too much exercise.” She paused and looked at me with her head on one side, like a robin. “The thing is,” she said, “I'm 89. The dog could well outlive me!”

On that note we parted, still reeling from her announcement of her fine age. To meet her, you'd think she was in her late 70s. But 89?

She is a true inspiration.

And on another note – we had our first night camping in the van last Saturday. On Sunday morning, desperate to buy something for a picnic, we found ourselves in the hinterland of Newquay and were forced to go to a Costcutter supermarket in the middle of a holiday park.

Neither of us had ever been to one of these places before and lurched round it with an increasing sense of panic and despair, dodging the Bar and Tavern, the train rides, the Bingo hall and somewhat unhygienic looking pool.

Having shopped, I was (as ever) desperate to find the public toilets which involved further negotiation of the site, Himself getting increasingly ill tempered.

“My God,” he breathed. “It's like Alcatraz. Do you think we'll get out of here alive?”

Thankfully, as you will have realised, we did.

Award and Teaching Dogs New Tricks

Many thanks to Debs for this wonderful award – I love the little fellow scribbling away. It reminds me of an Edward Ardizzone picture. But because I'm in a hurry – have to do a job in Bodmin with Himself first thing, please take this, all you bloggers and in particular all us Novel Racers out there, because we are ALL superior scribblers! And won't we show 'em....

Something happened this morning that really made me stop and think. It happened like this. We usually walk Moll on the beach at about 8am most mornings and there is a group of us dog walkers who form a close knit community. We laugh and talk and sometimes walk together, share sorrows, jokes and joys and generally look after each other, if not each other's dogs.

On Friday, one of our lot said that a fellow who walks his two black labradors every morning had lost one of them. He'd died suddenly.

“Oh,” cried Isobel. “I wondered what was the matter – I saw him yesterday and he looked so SAD. But we've all been there – it's such a difficult time.”

This morning we were on the beach – and my God, it was cold. Three degrees, which is COLD for Cornwall. Even the sand was frozen, to say nothing of the tip of my nose.

We were walking, fast, along the beach, when I said, “Look. There's the fellow who's lost his black lab.” We continued walking and I wondered whether to say something. I felt I should, but also felt that Himself would probably say, “No, don't. He's unhappy. Leave him alone.”

So I battled with my thoughts and as we grew nearer, I was astonished when Himself walked up to the fellow and said, “I'm so sorry to hear about your dog.”

He turned to look at us, and his round face was empty with grief. He could hardly speak, but muttered something. And a bit more. Then he started talking, about how the dogs were only 7; brother and sister, and it was such a shock. I looked at his kind face and couldn't speak; tears burnt my eyes.

He looked at me with a glimmer of a smile and said that they'd probably get a puppy in the spring. I patted his arm, and said, “I'm so glad,” in a choked sort of voice, and we talked a bit more and then said goodbye.

As Himself and I walked off, I said, “Well done darling. I didn't think you'd want to say anything.”

“No,” he said firmly. “I think it's important to show that you care. I'd like someone to say something if it was us.”

I nodded in agreement, still stunned. And part of me thought, he wouldn't have said that a few years ago. He would have told me not to interfere. To 'keep our heads down'.

So it just goes to show that you really CAN teach an old dog new tricks.

Pardon the pun.