An average day in my life – Part three

My husband, Jack caught me off guard recently when he loftily announced that he was going ‘native’ and do what our French neighbours do. Slightly alarmed, I asked what he meant. Much to my relief he declared that, after several consecutive nights of disturbed sleep, mainly due to the antics of various animals, he was attracted by the notion of a southern-European siesta after lunch. I thought this was a great idea, and thoroughly well deserved. Unfortunately though, neither the dogs, the telephone-marketers or our post lady seem to have appreciated the importance of these much anticipated forty winks.

Between the hours of 1.00pm – 2.00pm (peak siesta time), we regularly receive calls from enthusiastic sales people. Similar to their British counterparts, the business success of these tenacious callers relies on their ability to persuade a complete stranger to buy their goods. To them it is a matter of supreme irrelevance whether or not the recipient actually wants or needs the product. They have a sales target to fulfil, so the ‘talking the customer to death’ technique is used until success is achieved, or the phone slammed down. Either way, it can definitely spoil a decent nap.

Jack steadfastly refuses to answer the telephone, and treats it with utter disdain when it rings. He blames his phobic refusal to pick up the receiver on the sales people, but I suspect it’s just his method of avoiding having to speak to anyone other than the me. His defence against the intrusion of unwanted callers has been the installation of an answer machine. This deters the marketers because they never leave a message, but we still have to endure the irritating six rings before it connects, in order to establish whether it is friend or foe. Jack can just about manage to tolerate this, but it still does nothing for his nap-aspiration. The next problem comes in the form of our dogs and the post lady.

Our post lady knows that we’re normally in the house at lunchtime, and uses this period to visit us when a parcel either needs to be signed for, or is too big to be squashed up, re-moulded and stuffed into our tiny letter box. Unfortunately her visits turn out to be rather a noisy affair. It takes just one crunch on the gravel drive to alert the dogs. They suddenly erupt in a cacophony of barks and fall over themselves, and also anything else that lies on their routes to the front door. Even the most dedicated napper can’t avoid being roused by this. So poor Jack is jolted awake, bleary-eyed and with a menacing facial tic developing, he begins roaring from a standing start. We’re all used to it now, even our lovely post lady, who no doubt can hear him from halfway down the drive. In the absence of any other English clients, I fear she thinks this is normal behaviour for English people about to receive a parcel. But she takes it all in very good humour.

A further occasional fly in the ointment can come in the form of Max, one of our Australian Shepherd dogs. Jack likes to drink a glass of milk with his meal, and will often take the half-drunk tumbler into the salon. He’ll place it on the coffee table next to his seat and settle down for ‘the’ snooze. Max will kick around nonchalantly in the kitchen until he hears the first sotto voce snore. This is his signal. Every now and again, with the skill of a ninja, he’ll slink in on tip toes, head for the glass and start demolishing the remaining contents. But unfortunately for him he is a noisy lapper, and soon gets caught out. Jack, lightly showered with droplets of milk, is alerted by the slurping sounds. Quick as a flash he’ll jump up and lunge at Max, shouting unspeakable oaths in the process. But he’s always too slow. Max, looking mortally wounded, darts off back to the kitchen to find a toy, no doubt to offer in exchange for the last dregs of liquid nectar. In the face of these combined challenges, I fear that Jack’s siesta ambitions are never going to get off first base. 

Having cleared up after our meal, and dealt with the aftermath of any impromptu visitors, it’s time for the dog walk. The dogs are extremely focused about this, and take a very dim view of anything that conspires to get in the way. The first job is to decide on our route. We are extraordinarily lucky to live amongst hundreds of hectares of fruit orchards so our choices are rich. The farmers readily give their permission to walk on their land, although they do find the idea of dog-walking as a pleasurable pastime, a little quaint to say the least.

I’ll try to spend a couple of hours rambling in the woods, by the river or around one of the lakes that pepper the orchards and vineyards. The dogs gallop around with gay abandon, and go out of their way to take advantage of any water they come across. It matters not whether it is smelly or clean, they love a good wallow or better still, a game of retrieve-the-floaty-thing from the murky depths.

Our walks are never uneventful and this in part is due to Max, who is accident prone. This is to such an extent that, rather embarrassingly, his antics have caused our dog-owner friends to declare him to be maladroit (clumsy). Jack, on the other hand, uses plainer language, "That dog’s got sawdust for brains." Max will invariably end up stuck in a bush, wedged down a hole or hurl himself with gay abandon towards an impenetrable hazard. Being a master of the ‘leap before you look’ school of jumping, this usually ends in mortified failure and much yelping. Aby’s progress is much more refined, except on those occasions when a wild animal is spotted. The two of them then come together like a couple of velociraptors and, given half the chance, they’d hunt their prey into a corner. However, if they were allowed succeed, I’m certain that Aby would invite the poor creature back home for tea, while Max would try to find a toy for them to play with. But, so far, we’ve managed to avoid dealing with a confrontation of that nature. All too soon our walk has come to an end and it’s time to see to the birds.

We’ve raised hundreds of game birds to release into the enclosed section of our woods. Sadly, several have fallen prey to natural predators, but we've managed to maintain a group who will hopefully breed freely in the future. Each day after lunch, Jack will saddle-up his quad bike and drive off into the forest to do his rounds. This involves filling food mangers, water dispensers and perfecting his skills at unarmed combat with our free-ranging geese. Hector, the gander, is quite a fearsome chap, and lightning quick with his beak which he uses to great effect on any passing human. On many occasions I have seen Jack wandering around with Hector (who is very large) stuck under his arm, giving him a lecture on courteous behaviour towards the lunch provider. Jack has yet to learn that stroking an animal’s tummy is never going to prove a deterrent in the pecking order process and, whilst I’m sure Hector understands every single word of the stern lecture, it’s never going to moderate his testosterone-fuelled attack instincts.

 My job is to look after the parent birds. These are strong, healthy animals whose job it is to breed and produce future generations to go and populate our woods. We have eight aviaries with a mix of quail, chickens, tourterelles, and various types of pheasants. The quail come first and are an uncommonly perky lot. Very small, quite rotund, and well camouflaged, I have to tread carefully in order to avoid flattening one by accident. As soon as I walk in they immediately clamber all over my boots in their endeavours to get into the food bucket. This is impossible because they are appallingly bad at flying – and climbing. Quite how they ever managed to evolve as birds is a mystery. They eat a vast amount of food for such small animals, but in return they offer plentiful gifts. The ladies are prolific egg producers. They seem to ping out one a day, each with a different pattern, every one beautiful in its own way. I will gather them up carefully, and end up looking like the Pied Piper of Hamelin with a procession of ‘shorties’ following me around, inspecting each egg with great interest. Reluctantly I leave my little mates and start on the pheasant pens.

Reeves cock pheasants are particularly beautiful animals, but have the reputation of being extremely territorial. Mostly they’re fine, but we have one male who has axe-murdering tendencies, and a scurrilous approach to fair play. We call him ‘The Vulture’. His routine is to stalk me as I fill the containers, chirruping dangerously like an outboard motor. Then, the moment I turn my back, he’ll strike! These birds can jump to my head height and have very long spurs on the back of their legs which they use to attack their combatant – in this case me. I tried several soothing tactics to stop this unwanted behaviour, but if anything, the nicer I was, the worse he became. I tolerated him for ages but, after the third near miss, and a rip in my jacket, I’d had enough and decided to call in the heavies.

I put a collar and lead on Max and we entered the pen together. It was instantly clear that my brilliant guard dog plan wasn’t going to work. Max, petrified of the hissing whistling bird, tried to run away. In his endeavours he wound his lead around my legs and ended up in a knot behind my knees. The Vulture now had me at a severe disadvantage. Using a panic-based distraction technique, I started to bellow at the bird whilst simultaneously untangling myself from the lead. This caused him momentary confusion so Max and I took our chance and made a run for it.

The scene in that pen was one of utter chaos as Max and I galloped the full length with The Vulture thundering along in hot pursuit, looking like a manic Roadrunner, preparing to strike. I flung open the door but, in our enthusiasm to make a quick exit, we got wedged in the gateway – and froze. The Vulture was right on our heels. As he flapped into the air we just managed to squeeze out in time and I slammed the gate shut. The Vulture, now at point blank range, impacted at full throttle against the wire netting. Momentarily stunned, he slid gently down the door and ended up in a feathery heap on the ground. For a dreadful moment I wondered whether the collision had killed him, but he was far too tough for that. Max and I peered cautiously from the safety of the exterior and watched as he got up, apparently completely unperturbed. He stared viciously at us with his black beautiful eyes. He ruffled his feathers, whistled and chirruped and stood ready for our next encounter.

Here was another occasion when I ruefully reflected that, were it not for the fact that this bird fathers wonderful, very gentle offspring, he would have probably ended up in a pot by now. However, determined not to be outdone, or shredded by this magnificent creature, I racked my brain for a solution. It came from an unexpected source.  

We wanted to introduce some new stock into our existing flock to avoid interbreeding. I duly collected some pretty new Reeves hen pheasants and released them to The Vulture. I could see what was on his mind, ‘Attack human opportunity. Always good entertainment to see it running around like a dim chicken.’ But then he spotted the new girls. The threatening outboard motor burblings transformed into a gentle chirrup. The bird was immediately smitten. My encounters with The Vulture after this happy event have not been entirely incident-free, and I continue to arm myself with a stick to fend him off, but he spends such a lot of time rounding up his new ladies that he has little time left to plan his full-on assaults.

The chickens are much easier to deal with. We have two pens and the pattern is the same for both. Fortunately the cockerels are absolute gentlemen and bob their heads up and down as I arrive laden with food. The girls are somewhat different. Born ravenous, they busybody around me, clucking and squawking raucously, re-arranging themselves constantly according to their pecking order. Rather like the quail, one would have thought that they hadn’t been fed for weeks, but nothing could be farther from the truth.

The first job is to have a chat because they do like a good gossip. I will usually sit on a log and discuss the worm-count, egg situation and how we’re collectively going to deal with the pesky mice that regularly eat their food. Our discussion is punctuated by the odd shriek that comes from the no.11 chicken who dares to venture into no.10’s spot, and is swiftly returned to her proper place in the ranks. That done, and chickens being extremely inquisitive creatures, they now have to inspect the food and drink offerings. This causes our semi-orderly gathering to transform into a boisterous bun-fight as the girls clamber over themselves to begin their refreshments. The poor cockerel does try his best to retain control, but he doesn’t stand a chance with this mob, so ends up strutting around ineffectually in the background. Our girls are great producers though, and so long as I don’t have to risk life and limb by removing an egg from underneath a broody hen, we are provided with a plentiful supply of delicious free-range eggs.

My final task is to see to the tourterelle doves. These are gentle, friendly little chaps who accompany me around the pen cooing, and occasionally alighting gracefully on my shoulder or hand. They will peck lightly at their grain and generally behave in a courteous manner. 

With the animal husbandry finished for the moment I will dash off to the garden or vegetable patch to attack whichever project I might have on at the time. Aby likes to help out here and is a terrific digger. Unfortunately we share different views on where the holes should be dug. This means that I generally end up re-filling deep excavations in the border that has suddenly taken on the appearance of a minefield. Max collects garden tools and Hunter usually falls asleep on an otherwise healthy plant. There is definitely still some canine training to be done in this department if I’m ever going to realise my dreams of a perfectly maintained garden, and bounteous crops of vegetables.

As usual the afternoon has flown by, and all too soon the dogs tell me that it’s supper time. Hunter is the team speaking-clock here and starts the teeth-chattering routine, which everyone except him seems to be able to hear. We set off for the utility room in a flurry of fury excitement and are in variously full voice by the time I begin the mix. But this takes a moment of concentration. Although not as complicated as breakfast, and therefore not requiring the enormous brain of my husband, I still need to take care to dispense the correct medication to the correct dog. As they watch on in rapt concentration Max is so excited by the operation that he starts dribbling – an extremely unpleasant habit in my opinion. Aby tidies up her toys, and Hunter is now drumming away with his few remaining teeth, creating a sound like a flamenco dancer. Once dispensed, the food is inhaled in a flash and it’s back off to the field for another thunder around. Then I’ll leave them outside to play and make haste to the study.

I try to work until around 7.30pm. This is a period when all the major jobs have been done, and which ought to be nice and peaceful. My plan is to pick up any outstanding business correspondence, connect with my Facebook pals and try not to make a huge blunder on Twitter. I’ll also try to write. However the first self-inflicted barrier to this is social networking. As many of us know, with any networking group, and particularly one as active as WLM (We Love Memoirs) it’s easy to get carried away with the conviviality of the posts and comments that dash between members. I’m trying my best to maintain a disciplined approach with my involvement, but with so much fun to be had, and things to be learnt, it’s easy to get distracted. But I really do want to get on with my book. I will look at my pile of notes on Fat Dogs Part III which stare accusingly at me, and am just about to reach for them when I hear a thud. Brutus has woken up and jumped off the bed.

Brutus, like most cats, is extraordinarily single minded. He has his own agenda, and we all know this. He will stroll nonchalantly into the study, jump up and arrange himself on my lap. His tactics are brilliantly effective and I fall for them every time. He begins by being full of ‘lurve’, purring noisily and offering his exquisite head to be stroked. I love our cat – but I have work to do. I manage these initial demands of attention by typing with one hand, or even both if I can squash a jumper under his head to cushion its magnificence.

The subsequent change is at first subtle, then it becomes more insistent.  After a short snooze Brutus will stretch extravagantly, placing his paw, with claws slightly extended now, over my hand on the keyboard. Nothing excruciatingly painful, or bloodletting, but nevertheless the message is clear. It’s his way of saying ‘feed me!’ At first I’ll ignore this, fold his paw back and continue with my work. However, I know that I am now officially doomed. Brutus repeats this behaviour until bored with the situation and commences a loud cleaning session. He will then jump on my desk. I try to deflect this tactic by replacing him onto my lap, putting him on the floor, or sliding him to one side. But he will not give up. The final straw is when he lies across my keyboard or sends random computer commands by playing with my mouse. As someone who accidentally cyber self-harms on average once a day, I really don’t need any extra help from him. But in the end I know that my only damage limitation solution is to give in, and go and feed him. Work for the day abandoned, I go down and do the deed.

Our typical evening thereafter consists of a TV meal, some extra chores that didn’t get done earlier and several trips around the garden with Hunter to make sure that he remains watertight during the night. Then it’s finally time to go to bed and open our Kindles with the dinky lamps. A lovely snoozy feeling quickly overcomes me but I’m determined to read for at least a few minutes. Very soon, try as I might, my eyelids start to feel like lead weights, and I have to give in. Jack’s the same so we snuggle down to grab those precious moments of sleep before the nocturnal cycle (usually led by Brutus) commences.

So there you have it. Not exciting, not overly eventful, but our day is always full. Add to the typical day a trip to the market or shopping, impromptu visits from friends, neighbours, or strangers seeking permission to pick mushrooms, and then the occasional animal emergency, you might well understand how the hours always fly by. Would we trade it with our previous lives? Not a chance!

Footnote:

Fat Dogs and French Estates Part III is really needing to be written now, so I have decided to develop an extra disciplined approach to things. I, reluctantly, will change the frequency of my weekly ramblings by blog to one per month. So, on the first Saturday of each month I will update you with a current report of the happenings in our corner of France. How long my best intentions will last I have no idea, but it’s worth a go.

An average day in my life – Part two

Now freshly showered, I’m ready to attack the second part of my day which, on a non-shopping day, involves desk work. But the animals can’t/won’t be ignored, and there’s plenty to be done. Downstairs the dogs have become animated – they’re ready for breakfast and keen as mustard. As the moment approaches their behaviours change markedly. Max gambols around in circles stuffing as many gifts as he can in his mouth to offer the provider, while Aby flaps about arranging her toys in a nice tidy heap on her bed. Hunter may have lost many of his senses, but timing is not one of them and he gradually forms a canine barricade at the bottom of the stairs. Presumably this is his way of attracting attention to the meal-giver, although I’m uncertain as to whether falling over an ancient dog really does improve progress.

One might think that supplying a basic meal to dogs is a simple one – but not in our case. In our house tinctures and tablets play a vital, if bitter, role in the first repas of the day. And it has to be dealt with by an expert because the calculation of who gets what, and when, is no simple task, especially in Hunter’s case. To explain this I need to remind you of the state we found him in.

One day, on our way to the local auberge, we found Hunter flat out in the middle of a road. He’d been abandoned and was lying, too weak to move, slowly baking in the hot afternoon sun. He was horribly emaciated, covered in cuts, crawling with bugs and I’m afraid to say that his body odour was powerful enough to repel a skunk. Since Jack, my husband, isn’t a skunk, I asked him to carefully carry the poor dog to the side of the road and guard him whilst I drove back to the house to get some food and water. Of course we ended up taking him home.

Hunter lived through the night and we took him to our vet the next day for examination. In addition to the ‘superficials’, it emerged that he was suffering from several diseases, and playing host to a number of interestingly-named parasites which we rather lamely grouped under the global term of ‘worms’. But we all knew what they were. This had three significant outcomes. We parted with, (or “donated” as Jack puts it) a great deal of money. Our vet has always been very happy to see us but, now that Hunter is part of the process, he’s absolutely overjoyed. We have a huge great list of expensive potions and pills (including a rather pleasant smelling antiseptic shampoo) that must variously be administered to our amiable old hunting dog. Jack maintains he’s more expensive to keep going than a 30-year-old BMW 7 series, and he’s thinking about asking the vet to start running an air miles scheme.

Then there’s Max. Our loving little Australian Shepherd dog is still recovering from a serious leg injury, and he needs medication, together with natural products, to eliminate the inflammation in his knee, and help protect his joints from future damage.

Finally Aby, not to be outdone, enjoys a perfectly pink vitamin pill every morning, so much so that she looks decidedly put out when her regular dosage runs out. So with this complex set of prescriptions that would test even the brightest algorithm specialist, a mathematician is required. Jack, being an unsettlingly hyper-intelligent engineer, is just the man for the job. And he manages magnificently – up to a point.

Dog food storage and dining takes place in our utility room. It now resembles a chemist’s dispensary, and has recently benefitted from Jack’s additions of bar charts, spreadsheets, and I’m sure I saw a flowchart in there the other day. These regularly updated masterpieces list the name and purpose of drug, quantity and day of dosage (because different ones are given on different days) for each animal. The levels of precision are meticulous. Absolutely nothing can go wrong. Can it?

Usually I leave him to get on with preparing the canine breakfast. Aby and Max very quickly reach fever pitch and whine frantically, while Hunter stands, legs braced against his two fellow dodgems, swaying slightly and (for some extraordinary reason) his teeth start chattering. The first time I heard this I thought something awful had happened to one of the machines in the kitchen. But no – it was him. It’s quite a tremendous noise, which is emitted with the skill of a ventriloquist, because he retains his perfectly still hangdog expression with absolutely no lip movement whatsoever. The other point to note is that he only has a few teeth left in his mouth so quite how he manages to connect them and drum up such a din is a mystery. But he does. Unfortunately none of these animal antics do anything for my husband’s nerves, and things are apt to go downhill at the point of administration. Just as I’m about to settle down at my desk upstairs, my sense of purpose is often interrupted by a roar from Jack. Evidently there’s been a mixed reaction to the meal and I know exactly what’s just happened.

Hunter is fine, and stoically munches his way through mountains of tablets laced with dog food. Aby is too. She nibbles delicately at her meal, savouring the morsels with appropriate femininity and, upon completion, dabs her mouth elegantly with her imaginary napkin. Max on the other hand isn’t like that at all. Despite reassurances from our vet that his medication tastes like dog treats, Max doesn’t like them. He inhales the dog food, but has developed a unique knack of swirling the pill around his mouth, and surreptitiously spitting it out the ‘side door’ when he thinks Jack isn’t looking. But we’re on to him now, and close post-meal scrutiny of the floor tiles is required to check for incriminating evidence, and is often the cause of Jack losing his patience when he attempts to re-post the tablet in Max’s mouth.

I now know that I can ignore one human shout of rage, but when a second or even a third bellow follows, it’s clear that Max isn’t playing ball. I’ll rush down to the utility room and typically find Jack on his hands and knees wearing two or three pairs of reading glasses, searching for the half-sucked offender which has now cemented itself to a tile somewhere. His incandescent rage doesn’t seem to help his close vision at all, so I’ll take over, find the pill, peel it off the floor, and spend the next five minutes coaxing Max to swallow it. All this with Jack in the background muttering about Max being clearly defective and therefore ought to be sent back under warranty.

Eventually I succeed in re-administering Max’s tablet which, by now, is the size of a pinhead. Meanwhile, the time wasted has created some tension surrounding Hunter. Once he has finished eating and then drunk a vast quantity of water (courtesy of another of his diseases), he needs to go out immediately. And since his top speed is a slow shuffle, there’s a pressing need to avoid an embarrassing leakage from the waterworks department before he reaches the door. Thus far we’ve avoided an accident, but Max’s stubborn attitude towards his medicine is not helping at all.

If it’s Jack’s turn to take the dogs for their early morning walk, I’ll then leave him to it and can often hear him grumbling his way towards the field, moaning to the trees about the trials of living with idiot animals. On the whole, though, I’m fairly certain that this early breath of fresh air does him the world of good.

Retracing my steps to our study I sit down to open my emails. I’ll glance wistfully at my pile of notes for Fat Dogs… Part 3, but I haven’t got time to start writing at the moment. I put them aside and attend to business correspondence. Once complete, I turn to Facebook, and WLM (We Love Memoirs). This is done with a mixture of trepidation and enthusiasm because, being the least technically-minded person I know, things often go terribly wrong from this point on.

I don’t agree with my husband’s opinion that I suffer from “Technoplaegia” (implying massive technical incompetence), but I do accept that my ‘poke and hope’ computer strategy doesn’t always achieve the desired results. His unfair accusations were originally made during my early failed attempts at intricate moves like cutting and pasting documents, and also on occasions when I have managed to prod the button at an inopportune moment and accidentally sent a message to a complete stranger. Filing documents to this day remains a mystery, and I can spend hours ferreting around for a vital piece of information that isn’t where I thought it was.

Imagine my fear and apprehension, then, when it was suggested that I needed to become acquainted with Facebook. Jack was probably even more concerned, but his main anxiety was related to the health of my computer and his nerves in his capacity as local ‘help-desk’ rather than any altruistic thoughts about my plight.

My main reason for using Facebook is to access WLM. My learning curve with this new-fangled system has been desperately long, but, with the help of innumerable kind and forgiving people in this wonderful group, I’m finally getting the hang of the basics. Whilst I’m probably best described as a plodder, this hasn’t prevented me from enjoying the camaraderie of fellow members. To that end I can easily lose track of time as I follow the activities and news from others. But an even greater challenge has now presented itself.

Just a couple of weeks ago it was suggested, by an eternal optimist, that I should also set up a Twitter account. This sadly misguided person was someone who had assumed a level of computer savvy that simply does not exist. However, in a moment of rash confidence I decided that my new-found skills in social networking were entirely up to the task. It turns out they aren’t!

As a friend put it, “When you first start working with Twitter it’s very odd – it’s a bit like a weird parallel universe.” I couldn’t agree with her more. My early forays into this heady world have been nothing short of devastatingly bad. I am that person who thought a # lived exclusively on a music score sheet, and the @ was related to price lists, or email addresses.

As experienced users will know, messages posted on Twitter are not only liberally littered with these symbols, they are also often two-tone, blue and black. I’m certain that this is desperately significant, but to assume that I might have got the hang of it all would be woefully incorrect. If there really is a sentence intended in a Tweet, I frequently struggle to work out what it means, only to be regularly thwarted by techno-speak. As luck would have it yet another group of tremendously patient people have come to my aid. They have taken me by the avatar hand, and are currently guiding me through the basics of this high-tech maze. Their help is priceless. But the fact remains – I am still largely clueless. I have managed to construct a line or two, randomly decorating my messages with the odd symbol here and there, but the decision whether or not to ‘Tweet’, ‘Retweet’, ‘Favourite’ or ‘Follow’ is still largely lost on me. I know I can count on the cyber-experts to help, but do feel that their endless levels of goodwill must eventually come to an end.

Jack’s tolerance of electronic social interactions expired with e-mail. In fact he still glowers with intense hatred at his smart-phone, whenever it makes a noise of any kind. And he absolutely refuses to take any interest in the various social networking innovations. This has left me spending hours making, and attempting to ‘un-make’ mistakes with a learning-curve that shows no sign at all of evening out.

All of this takes time and before I know it – it’s lunchtime. I’m usually alerted to this by the dogs. Their internal clocks are remarkably accurate, and they are hungry. I get up from my desk, glance wistfully at my untouched notes for book three, and go down to prepare our meal.

Progression to the kitchen is different to breakfast, and the pattern is always the same. Aby, dish cloth in paw, bounds enthusiastically up the stairs to meet me. Max is usually dragging my wellie around the house, which he bashes against the walls in his attempts to present it to me in exchange for a snack. And Hunter is standing in the middle of the kitchen waiting patiently for something, although he can’t quite remember what it is. There’s absolutely no point in me doing anything about cooking our lunch until they are dealt with. So off I go to the dispensary and produce their favourite pigs’ ears, which are received with distracted delight.

Cooking on my lovely range is a joy, but can also end up as a crowded affair. After a few minutes I am gradually re-joined by the dogs and sometimes Brutus the cat (on chicken or fish-recipe days), and we jointly produce something that is fit for humans. Happily, so long as meat is involved, Jack is very easy to please – which is just as well because he is more often than not served ‘speed-food’. It may be nutritious, but does lack the finesse of a dedicated home-maker. However, on those days where he has had to deal with acute animal problems, or another of my computer crashes, I’ll pacify him with one of his favourites. After all, what red-blooded Englishman doesn’t enjoy a healthy portion of Toad in the Hole?

 With the meal served, I sit down to eat, and reflect on my morning which has resulted in a mixture of abject technical failures and the odd tentative success. Amazingly, half the day has gone already. There’s something I desperately want to do, but will my afternoon activities allow this? I’m really not sure.

An average day in my life – Part one

In spite of living in the middle of nowhere, we do seem to lead very busy lives. Not in the:

 “Arrrgh I’m late for work, where are the kids? Noooo… Look at the time – now we’re late for school too. Oh damn, I’ve forgotten to put the cat… Did I say cat? No, rubbish out for the bin men!”  

Sort of a way. Ours is different altogether, and actually the reasons aren’t usually associated with humans at all. With a notable absence of cities, schools and office buildings, it might therefore be hard to guess why our days zip past so quickly. So what really happens during an average 24 hour period here?

Our nights are usually quite active, but not for reasons that one might imagine, and it involves one of our animals. Brutus, our lovable moggy, alternates between clandestine stalkings,

and sharing my pillow when an emergency nap is required. Generally once, and sometimes twice each night, despite being sound asleep, we’re rudely jerked into consciousness by the sound of a not-so-stealthy pounding up the stairs. We instantly know who it is. But just to confirm our worst fears, the velvety thuds are followed by a succession of mews that rapidly turn into downright meows. This tells us that Brutus has re-entered the building, and requires immediate attention. Jack, knowing what is about to happen, finds the whole process entirely unsatisfactory. It was only the other night when he groaned that it was like trying to sleep in a cat-ridden Thai Buddhist temple (which I’m sure it isn’t), before rolling over and dropping back off to sleep. Then again I can’t say I blame him for this attitude, cat-visits aren’t everyone’s cup of tea.

You might now be thinking, ‘Why on earth don’t they close the bedroom door? Simple – job done!’ I promise you that we have tried that already, but our attempts were quickly foiled. Brutus took an extremely dim view of our clumsy tactic, and developed a masterful and dastardly plan to deal with the situation. On arriving at the closed door in the middle of the night, he proceeded to scratch violently at the paintwork. This was accompanied by a prolonged session of wailing like a distressed baby until, close to hysteria ourselves, we finally let him in. A lengthy session of water-boarding might have been kinder on our nerves during those witching hours. So, being effectively powerless to withstand such successful feline counter-measures, and having some concerns for our door, we have no other option but to give him free rein.

Somewhere between 2 and 4am Brutus usually strolls in, lumbers on the bed and takes his time to find the most suitable spot on the duvet. He is, of course, awake because he’s normally in charge of the night-shift, but these duties can tire even the fittest cat. Eventually satisfied with position one, and being admirably fastidious about personal hygiene, the next job is to see to his ablutions. This is quite a noisy affair involving a mixture of throaty purrs, licks, ‘scrunchels’ and stretches. Not the stuff of human sweet dreams at all. Once that’s dealt with, and the nocturnal detritus has been scattered all over the bed, he’s ready to settle down. A new, cosier position is needed for this. In the winter it’s usually on top of my head which seems to be warm and, up to a point, provides a constant warm air-flow. But during the summer months he’ll switch to a position between Jack and I, where he’ll extend his significant bulk across all available pillows. Several grumbles, grunts and a short pillow-duel later, I inevitably find myself with my head suspended between a tiny corner of the pillow and the mattress.

Our fat cat will be lying next to me in an elevated position, vibrating contentedly as he purrs his way into an uninterrupted sleep. Exhausted and disgruntled, I slip back into a fitful doze.

Living where we do in the countryside, alarm clocks are never needed. At exactly the same time, during the summer months we’re awakened by a clamour of noise coming from outside. Bleary-eyed, with a stiff neck and bags under my eyes the size of tyres, I know it’s dead on 5am. The birds have woken up! Tiny though they may be, our cock quail birds are absolutely full of beans. Their triumphant, shrill calls pack a heck of a punch in the vocals department, and cut through the air like a power drill. Not to be outdone, the cockerels crow to their girls and to everyone else in the area. But that’s not all. Our pheasants are awake too, and decide to join in this disorderly morning chorus. So these signals, together with our decidedly less raucous garden birds, mean the arrival of a new day, and the commencement our first set of animal duties. But getting cracking on these is not always that easy. 

Making it downstairs to the kitchen can be a bit of a job because, on hearing the first foot fall, the steps suddenly transform into an escalator of fur. 

For personal safety reasons I take the precaution of creeping down as silently as I can in an attempt to make it to the bottom before I’m discovered. But my ruse never works. One creak of a step and I’m rumbled. Aby and Max bound towards me, forming a canine welcoming party, and greet me like a long-lost friend. I nearly make it, but such is their level of joy at seeing me after all those hours, that I quickly end up pinned to the bottom half of the staircase, too weak to withstand their affectionate onslaught. I eventually do peel them off, and fight my way towards the kettle. The only thing on my mind now is that essential morning cuppa to help revive my energies. But progress is painfully slow.

At this stage Hunter still hasn’t joined in the greetings. That’s because he’s stone deaf, and luckily hasn’t heard anything at all. Once satisfied with the staircase cuddles session, Aby transforms into a creature manifesting sweetness itself. She’ll twitter coyly around the edges, generally being desperately feminine. I swear that if she was given a mop and duster, she’d know exactly what to do with them. However, she does have one extremely unfortunate way of demonstrating her undying love for everyone which we can’t seem to stop. Aby will run full tilt at the target person, and plunge her head between their legs. We’re used to it now, but it was this ingratiating gesture that nearly upended poor old Madame Benedict one day, and caused her to turn into a human parachute, as her skirt was inflated by a mass of deliriously happy Australian Shepherd dog. To her absolute credit she managed to remain upright, only gasping “Oh là là” a couple of times, while I rummaged around her nether regions in my attempts to recover our recalcitrant animal.

Max manifests his affections quite differently, but these can be equally challenging. For some reason it’s very important for him to have something in his mouth. If he doesn’t have a dog toy, he’ll lovingly grab at whatever’s handy, which at that time of the morning is usually my dressing gown tie. This leads to a tug of war which he thinks is a super fun early game. During these regular tussles I’ve often reflected on how surprisingly strong he is. Ignoring my sleepy pleas of “leave!” he’ll yank a lump of material, and attempt to drag me, sliding, across the floor as I hang on to my modesty. It’s surprising how little friction a slipper can generate in these situations. I try to stop myself from unravelling completely, and finally summon up the energy to issue a curt obedience-related command which gets him to give up the game. But then, still deeply full of love, he’ll swipe me with a great big lick. This is only marginally less dreadful than the dressing gown mêlée, but every time I shout at him to “stoppit” he’ll peel back his lips, give me a huge toothy smile, and start again. In these circumstances it can be difficult to remain firm.

Already a little jaded, and with very damp calves, I finally make it to the kettle. Hunter, somehow alerted by the movement, then wakes up and comes staggering towards me. This causes great tension all round. Hunter is ancient, and we now know to our cost that when he wakes up, he needs to go outside – immediately! Kettle and tea for the time being abandoned, I about turn and direct Hunter (Max once again attached to my dressing gown), and bouncy Aby to the door. Whatever the weather the door is flung open and out pour the dogs to relieve themselves, and join in with the morning chorus. This is my moment. I take a quick peek at the assembled company, and close the door on our canine family members. Bliss!

I’m definitely in need to my first cup of tea now. I take a second to re-wrap myself and head steadfastly towards the kettle, relishing the thought of a light breakfast sans animaux. But life’s not like that here. Just as I’m collecting my mug, there’ll be an imploring meow that comes from behind me. Brutus, wonderfully refreshed from a comfortable sleep is halfway down the stairs, stretching luxuriantly along three steps. I’m pretty sick of him at this stage so continue with the simplest of morning tasks. I’ve just about managed to click the kettle on when he materialises, now winding around my legs. It's no good, I know to my cost that failure to see to his breakfast needs instantly, will end up in a claw-sharpening session on my slippers. I stop what I'm doing, leave the kettle to boil, and dutifully follow the cat to his dish.

Finally, finally I’m ready to sit down. I now have my tea, my yoghurt and my computer tablet which is bursting to share the headlines of the day. I raise my mug wearily to my lips, ready to savour the elixir of life that comes in small perforated bags from Yorkshire, when bang! I should be shocked but I’m not. Max has been working on his door-opening techniques, but hasn’t quite got to grips with them yet. Instead he head-butts it, a practice he apparently hopes might do the trick instead. Everyone loves a trier. I look round to see three dogs peering hopefully at me, intent on joining in with breakfast. I know that there’ll be no peace for the door unless I do something, so up I get again, let them in and they settle down for a millisecond until Jack comes down. Then the welcome party quickly regroups to produce a repeat performance around him.

With breakfast eventually done and dusted, I mildly wonder whether I felt any different when I was on the school run. Those days seemed pretty hectic too. But it’s already getting towards 7.30am now, and I’ve no idea how it got that late so quickly. Partly revived, I rush upstairs, jump in the shower and prepare myself for the next part of the day.

I’ll bring the second part to you next week. In the meantime I reflect on whether I’d change these animal-related antics for a leisurely life in the city? That’s easy – no I would not!  

A day trip through France

 AS far as my husband Jack is concerned, planning a trip that’s going to last more than one day constitutes both a major project and also a mental trauma. He rants and raves about the irresponsibility of leaving the animals in someone else’s care, and is convinced that they’ll all be dead as doornails by the time we get back. I, on the other hand, just think it’s his way of saying that he’d prefer to stay at home in perfect solitude, to do what he wants, when he wants.

I consider the animal situation quite differently. I do believe that most people are capable of supplying our chickens and game birds with their seed and water, and we take precautions to make sure that the forest animals are provided with ample supplies of maize. Being wild, I'm also confident that they can slum it for a few days by dragging themselves to the nearest stream for water, and substitute their usual luxury diet by nibbling on a couple of acorns or blade of grass or two while we’re away. Poor things. However, Hunter is a different matter altogether.

Hunter is a very old dog whom we found abandoned on the road last year. He has more illnesses than I can list here, including an extremely dicky heart. Nobody knows how old he is, but our vet sagely advised us that he was probably très vieux (very old), and also usée (worn out). Not being a great optimist, he also said that if Hunter travelled with us, he would probably die during our journey which would be inconvenient to deal with when we got to the passport office in Calais. Jack jumped on this and announced it clearly meant we wouldn’t be able to go. But sadly, that was out of the question. We had important appointments in England so, whatever the animal situation, or weather, we had to make tracks. Fortunately my dog-walking pals came to our rescue and immediately offered to take Hunter. For some unknown reason they adore him. Perhaps it’s his lugubrious expression that enchants them. It certainly can’t be his unfortunate penchant for eating turds or his disregard for the proper place to have a wee, i.e. outside. These unsavoury habits may have developed as a result of being kept in a kennel of hunting hounds. I couldn’t say but, judging by the state we found him in, there had clearly been little in the way of food. His traits would be a new revelation for our friends, and might well cause them to modify their opinion of him.

Brutus, our adorable, affectionate, and very sedentary cat, is a different matter altogether. We hate being away from him, but there’s no question that Brutus is not a good traveller. The annual car journey to the vet for his booster injection is about as much as he can cope with. It causes him to emit a constant low mournful yowl the moment he is put in the car, and he trembles all the way there and back. It’s just awful for the poor lad. This means that careful planning and superlative trapping skills are required whenever the dreadful vet date arrives. I’m now convinced that, instead of inserting a microchip with his ID number on it, the vet opened the wrong packet and implanted a Gregorian calendar. Brutus seems to know exactly when we’re about to take him to the vet, and becomes surprisingly elusive in those days running up to his appointment. We eventually do manage to get him into his cat box, but only after a minor scuffle and several indignant meows.

With this knowledge, we couldn’t possibly subject our fat feline to the agonies of travelling in a car for 14 hours, so alternative arrangements had to be made. I called on another friend and organised for him to be fed and watered. However, apart from Jack and me, Brutus hates all humans, even those who are regular visitors. He tolerates the dogs, but only his own terms, and he still energetically hisses at Hunter – a futile exercise since Hunter is deaf and almost blind. Such is my sensitivity about Brutus that I found myself writing out a menu with the precise times when his food should be served. I included the varieties of food he likes, really likes, and LOVES. Not forgetting the special feed dishes he prefers (which must always be clean), failing which he might be put out, and refuse to eat his meal. In spite of his ample girth, I would worry intensely if such a situation arose. Our poor friend charged with the responsibility of dealing with this series of challenges looked quite mystified by the time I’d finished issuing all my instructions. Possibly this level of attention to cat-care is not common in our part of France.

With most of the menagerie sorted out, this just left our other dogs, Aby and Max. Our two young Australian Shepherd dogs are fully chipped and passported, and they would come with us.

Jack made his usual pre-voyage engineer-type preparations by stripping out the car and making it battle-ready. The rear seats were removed, bungees placed strategically on newly discovered hooks and his tool box was placed in the footwell. This immensely large, oily lump is a constant travel companion of ours. I’d prefer to be without it, but it has come in useful on previous occasions, so I decided not to complain about my reduced space allowance. I, in turn, took the dogs to the vet to have their pre-travel check and make sure that their passports passed muster. We’ve had problems with the Eurotunnel Pet Passport officials in the past, and I can tell you that after 12 hours of hard slog at the wheel, it’s no joke being told that we are not allowed to continue because of a mistake in the documentation. With this in mind I, and two vets, scrutinised both passports to make sure that every detail was perfectly correct. As luck would have it, Dr. Puiffe, with a triumphant whoop stabbed an offending open space on a page. He had found a carefully concealed omission. With some level of gravity he announced that we had failed to fill in the box which should have Aby’s name on it. What a lifesaver! This was certainly good practice for our interview with the officials in Calais. I carefully scribed her three-letter name, and left with our dogs covered in anti-bug chemicals and belching gently with the after-effects of their special worming tablet.

We got up nice and early on the day of our departure. We’d packed the night before so all that was needed was to pop in a couple of fresh snacks, load the dogs, and off we’d go. I gave Brutus a last squeeze, a dewy-eyed glance, and left him snuggled up and purring in his usual spot on the bed.

The first unanticipated challenge came from the dogs. They normally associate being in the car with a trip to their doggy pals, so from the moment the engine was switched on, they howled like banshees. Jack tolerated this for about, ooh, 30 seconds before snapping, “For crying out loud sort your bloody dogs out would you? If they carry on like this much longer we’re going back home!”

Strange how at times like this the miscreant animal in question instantly becomes my sole property, but on this occasion I chose not to remind him of the rules concerning joint ownership. Happily all it took was a couple of curt words, and Max settled down to a snooze. Aby, on the other hand was completely confused. The poor girl sat erect, trembling slightly, and looked pensively out of the window for her canine mates.

We commenced our journey and mercifully hadn’t gone far when the most awful thought occurred to me. I realised that I’d forgotten my kindle. There are some situations in life where one must throw all caution to the wind and do the right thing. My dreadful discovery presented one of them.

“Darling we have to go back home.”

“Ah good, you’ve finally seen sense.”

“No! Not to abandon the trip! I’ve forgotten my kindle.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“I know, me neither. I think it was because I was so worried about leaving Brutus and…”

“That wasn’t what I meant. You seriously don’t mean that we have to go all the way back just because you haven’t brought your kindle?”

“Well yes, of course.”

“For crying out loud woman, can’t you read a magazine or something?”

“Oh darling I can’t possibly be without my kindle for five nights. No, sorry, we’ll just have to go back and get it.”

So with many grumps and moans from the driver, about the agonies of being married to a forgetful woman, we drove back to the house. I sprinted in to collect my cherished possession, and took care to give Brutus another squeeze on my way back out.

We were heading towards Calais and the Eurotunnel. Normally we would take the central route which entails using part of the périphérique (beltway) in Paris, but we decided against it this time. This was because the French have introduced a new and intriguing challenge to reduce usage on this busy road system. Although Jack was totally clued-up as usual, I didn’t know what was going on, so read up on it. Normally in situations like this the French bureaucrats are the cause of the complications, but not this time. It seems that noxious smog was to blame. Still confused, I read an article published by the Guardian newspaper. It reported:

“Emergency measures introduced in Paris to halve the number of vehicles on the roads after noxious smog descended on the French capital have been hailed as a success…”

Police said these measures had reduced traffic jams in and around Paris by up to 40% and already 2,800 drivers had been stopped and given on-the-spot fines of €22 (£16) for flouting the regulations. What a brilliant coup for the French exchequer, I thought, but why so many offenders? Were the rules complicated, or were they just being French? I read on to discover it might be a bit of both. It seems that only “clean” cars, or those with the correct number plates (even on even days, odd on others), or vehicles carrying more than three people have been permitted to enter Paris and its 22 surrounding areas. Vehicles were also ordered to travel at a maximum 20kph in the city. To manage all this, the article reported:

“An estimated 750 police officers were dispatched from 5.30am onwards to about 100 busy roads and junctions to hand out fines to those who ignored the measures.”

I was intrigued by this information. To begin with I wasn’t too sure what a ‘clean’ car was. But I feared that with our lake-loving dogs, ours might never qualify. The fact of having an ‘uneven number plate’ also gave cause for concern. I then briefly considered whether two humans and two dogs might count as three occupants. I couldn’t be at all sure about that one. But with the smog problem being so severe that, according to the Guardian:

“It nearly obscured the Eiffel Tower, and caused Paris to be labelled as the most polluted city in the world, even worse than Shanghai.”

Obviously something had to be done. And apparently it worked. With a combined effort from the police fines, and motorists who understood the number plate challenge, the clouds apparently disappeared. The article ended with a happy comment from someone living in the city:

“ ‘Goodness, it’s calm this morning. What a difference.’ said Rosa, a concierge sweeping the front of a building near Boulevard Saint-Martin. ‘I can breathe,’ she added.”  

Always handy to be able to breathe.

The upshot of this was that, even though we would not normally go into the centre, Jack had already declared Paris to be ‘off-limits’ and our route would follow the west side of the country via Bordeaux.

Our first few hours of driving were uneventful. As usual Jack entertained himself by using his mechanical engineering skills and prodding all buttons in reach, checking plastic casings, and slewing the car from side to side on the road to make sure the vehicle tracking was in order. The weather was miserable with dull grey clouds covering the skies, and a mist of fine rain which dampened the lush spring meadows. There was barely a soul about, though, and fewer still on the autoroute. This cheered Jack up immensely, although he took care to remind me on several occasions, that we should savour this period of peaceful motoring, because it would assuredly all go downhill the moment we set tyre on English soil. And it did.

Jack then set the cruise control system to fix our speed and, with no possibility of further conversation in the offing, I decided to try and grab a nap. I reclined my seat (only a little way because the metal cask full of spanners directly behind prevented much movement), and nestled into my beanbag pillow. The next few days in England were going to be action packed, so now was the time to relax and make mental lists of the things that needed to be done. My nap didn’t last long.

It seemed like only seconds had passed when I was jarred awake by much shouting and swearing from Jack.

“Bloody hell! It’s just like being in England.”

“Whatever is the matter?” I asked glancing nervously back at the dogs to make sure they hadn’t been too frightened by the commotion. Aby was still looking out of the window for her friends and Max had now woken up and was looking for someone to lick.

“Can you believe it?” continued Jack. “I’ve been flashed by a blasted speed camera!” he fumed staring accusingly at me, then added “I mean, what’s their point? There isn’t a bloody soul on the road, but now we’re going to contribute even more to the French fiscal deficit with a speeding fine. It all started with the Dutch. That’s where the Gatsometer first appeared. Then, of course, it was us in the UK that seized the opportunity to turn it into a million pound revenue opportunity. But, who would believe that the French would follow suit, and submit themselves to this level of civil indignity. Do you remember the good old days when we’d be driving down the autoroute at 150kph, and get overtaken by one of those little corrugated iron Citroen vans?”

“They haven’t followed suit darling. There are nowhere near as many cameras here.”

“That’s true I suppose. Later today we’ll be on the M25 with all sorts of electronics telling us what the new speed limit is, despite the fact there’s not a hope in hell of achieving anything resembling that speed.”

“And also darling, they normally have massive signs here about 300 metres before the camera.”

“Yes they do. But this time they’ve been sneaky. When the sign says automatique, it means a permanent camera. When it says frequent, it means hand-held cameras in police cars. The sign back then said frequent, so I was looking for a policeman.”

This was in danger of turning into a political rant. We still had a very long way to go – it definitely needed to be nipped in the bud.

“Hang on a minute darling, I thought you’d set the autopilot system. Presumably you set it at a sensible level. Are you sure it was our car that was flashed by the speed camera?” The desired effect was instant.

“Ah, well, yes I did. But there weren’t any other cars on the road, so I thought we’d make up a bit of time by getting a move on. I hadn’t bargained on there being a sneaky and misleading sign to trap me. Anyway, you’ve snored your way past Bordeaux, and we’re well on the way to Poitiers, so how about handing me something to eat.”

The thing about having a big old car with a diesel fuel tank the size of an elephant is that it never seems to need filling up. This is good for economic motoring, but bad for human bladders, well mine anyway. Before long I knew a pit stop was necessary, so I used the dogs as an excuse to stop somewhere convenient. Max was asleep with one eye open, and poor Aby was still sitting bolt upright staring out of the window, trembling every now and again. This supported my theory admirably. Jack moaned at the proposition, but saw the sense in avoiding a water-logged car, and pulled into the next available aire. Unlike the busy service stations, these are more of a rural stopover, particularly favoured by the motorhome community, sleepy truck drivers, and dog owners. Amenities are usually limited, but toilets are always provided. Unfortunately our stop coincided with a deterioration in the weather. It was pouring.

With the dogs’ needs at the forefront of my mind I jumped out, donned my jacket and hat, and splashed to the rear of the car. Luckily they already had their collars on and all I needed to do was to attach the extendable leads. Now, I should have been prepared for what came next, but it simply hadn’t occurred to me. The dogs had apparently decided that the moment had finally arrived – they were going for a country walk! Such was their state of excitement that it took ages to secure the clips. Unfortunately, in the melee, I hadn’t engaged the brake system on the extendable leads so when I opened the door they exploded out of the back and shot off towards the bank. Terrified of letting go, I clung on for dear life as the leads maxed-out to their full length. This caused me to look like an eccentric water-skier as I was towed up the hill by our extremely excited dogs, who were now hell-bent on out-racing one another. This could only end in tears.

I accept that my handling of the situation may not have constituted a perfect demonstration in dog obedience. Equally, I felt Jack’s comments about controlling the ‘bloody animals before you get impaled on a twig’ from the comfort of the car park, were uncalled for. Fortunately though, there was a soft, dense hedge that subdued our exuberant animals, and provided a nice cushioned bumper for me. They then spent one or two moments scuffling around while I collected myself. Regrettably, Aby then saw a car pull in. Being of an extremely sociable variety, both dogs abruptly stopped what they were doing, and before I could issue a command, whizzed off back down the bank to perform a canine ‘meet and greet’. I’d barely caught my breath let alone connected the blasted brakes on the extendable leads before I was propelled back down after them, ploughing a furrow with my heels as I fought to regain control of the unruly mutts. I finally reeled them in, apologised to the car owners for the possibly unwanted licks, and poured the dogs back into the car. With calm restored, I then scurried off to the dames to use the facilities, and repair my wounded pride. As we set off I had to endure Jack’s usual musings about the ineptitude of my dog-control tactics, and I decided, on this occasion, it would be fruitless to respond with any form of brilliant defence. Largely because there wasn’t one.

With Jack still at the wheel we continued past Poitiers and through Tours, which stands on the lower reaches of the river Loire. This is known as the ‘Garden of France’ (Le Jardin de la France) because of the many parks located within the city. Well worth a visit, that’s for sure, but not for us, and possibly for anyone on that day. The wind was blowing a gale, and rain was now lashing down as we passed over the magnificent river which made this, usually beautiful, view very difficult to see at all.

The fuel indicator eventually hiccupped and dropped a fraction, enough for Jack to decide we needed to fill-up. He fought the buffeting car into a service station and we performed a speedy re-fuel and refreshment stop. It was my turn to take the wheel. We headed towards Le Mans, today most famed for the sports motorcar endurance race, 24 Hours of Le Mans. This area between Tours and Rouen is liberally peppered with wind turbines. Looking like toy windmills for giants. They line the autoroute in garish metallic clumps, providing a visual clue about the prevailing weather conditions. I’m not sure whether I like them or not but I certainly couldn’t spend time deliberating that small point. The weather was getting much worse now. The windscreen wipers swept our screen in vain, and the car was rocked from side to side by vicious gusts. In fact the conditions were so poor that they caused Jack to comment, “Honestly it’s impossible to get even a wink of sleep with you at the wheel, can you try and keep the car on the road please?”  But I think he knew that it was seriously tough going so, instead of dozing, he fiddled with the Satnav controls, pretending to adjust our onward route towards Calais.

For some mysterious reason, much of the autoroute here was reduced to one lane. Plastic cones, mostly in place, others having been blown to non-sensible places, identified the permitted zones for motorists. But there was no other evidence of activity or works. Luckily there were very few other motorists on the road, so our progress wasn’t hampered beyond a reduced speed limit, which I adhered to with great smugness. I was concentrating so hard on missing the chicane of misplaced cones, that I hadn’t realised that Satnav lady was taking us off our normal route through Rouen. Suddenly I was directed onto what can only be described as an elderly ‘B’ road. This took us along the banks of what I suppose must be the river Seine. On my left I could just spot a sad looking river cruise boat valiantly fighting its way through the waves, with windows tightly shut but no sign of passengers. To our left we were both surprised by what we saw. It looked like we had driven into a village in Switzerland. The houses, rather like our road, were tiny and looked just like chalets with sloping roofs and wood cladding. Interesting as this all was, we were on a mission and I was getting concerned that we might be heading in the wrong direction.  Jack occupied himself by stabbing more buttons on the Satnav system, and accidentally shutting it down altogether on one or two occasions. But he decided that actually all was well. We eventually emerged from our mystery tour, and re-connected with our customary route through the outskirts of Rouen. We’ve never visited this city, but the glimpses one gets of the magnificent cathedral from the bypass, cause me to put it on our list of ‘must-visit’ locations.

We’d been on the road for nearly ten hours now, and the signs for the Eurotunnel came as a welcome sight. We drove into the precincts of the pet passport office. Weather conditions had been upgraded to ‘appalling’ and tensions were rising, as they always do, when we arrive here. Jack did nothing to calm my administrative nerves. “Right, let’s hope you and your vet pals haven’t messed up the documents this time. I’ll bring in the dogs while you start conning the officials into letting us on that train – which, by the way, is about to leave.” I fumbled around for the dogs’ passports and assorted papers, and forged through the driving wind and rain that lashed the carpark, hanging on to everything for grim death in case an indispensable sheet of information was whipped from my hand and lost forever.

Luckily we were the only customers in the pet passport office and our documents were taken by a nice efficient-looking officer. As she was thumbing conscientiously through each page the door was thrown open and in burst a dripping wet Jack looking as thunderous as the weather, with our two bouncing beauties. The girl then handed over the microchip scanner, which happily bleeped at the right times on the dogs’ necks, which was a great relief to everyone concerned. Now it could officially be confirmed that we had in fact driven through France with the correct dogs. She replaced her wand in its nice box on the counter. I genuinely thought we were home and dry when she cried, “Aha, a problem with your papers I am afraid madame.” I couldn’t even look at Jack. I was terrified. It really couldn’t be possible, could it? The thought of, once again, being prevented from boarding the train because of a paperwork mistake, was just too much to contemplate. There was an audible groan behind me followed by a bang. Jack had left the building.

“Um what’s the problem?” I quailed.

“I am afraid that you have not written in the date when the microchip was implanted madame. This is against the rules. Do you have the original certificate? This will give you the date. If you do not have it, then I am sorry, but I cannot let you through.”  Thank goodness for my satchel! Fortunately where travel with our pets is concerned I carry around a satchel-full of their documents. I stuffed my hand in and produced a wad of likely looking certificates. “Bravo madame, here it is, now there is no problem” said the angelic officer with a smile, “but the box in the passport must be filled.” I could have fainted with relief.

“Oh lovely, that’s super. Could you fill it in for me please, I don’t have a pen with me.”

“Oh non madame, this is forbidden, you must complete the form yourself. Here, you may use my pen.”  

“It’s just the date, right?”

“Yes, just the date madame.”

Choosing not to question the special nature of my date filling-in capabilities compared to hers, I thanked my lucky stars that this was the only problem. The deed was done and we were waved off by those lovely, lovely, officials and onto the train.

That was it. We had made it unscathed through France. We just had the final leg in England to go, which we reckoned would take a further three hours, or five depending on the traffic, which was an absolute certainty acc

ording to my pessimistic driver.

The dogs were fascinated by the train, but otherwise fine. Even Aby had stopped trembling. Jack settled back in the seat, grabbed a beanbag cushion and announced that he was going to have a well-earned nap. “And remind me” he added, “never to allow you to drive in breezy conditions again. You’re a complete death trap!” With that he was soon snoring.  I sat back, thrilled to have passed the pet passport challenge and was just about to join Jack in a nap when I had a sudden moment of tension. Poor Brutus! What if his food dish hadn’t been washed?