A friend e mailed the other day saying he had been keeping up to date on the blog and it sounded like organised chaos but a lot of fun. After last nights shenanigans I can give the definitive answer.
Its just chaos.
We must enjoy it or we wouldn't do it but as I was stood in the pouring rain last night in a foreign field I questioned my sanity, not the first time my commitment but most importantly questioned how do I get over this barbed wire fence in the dark whilst wearing boots that had no laces and carrying a torch. To make matters more interesting there looked like there was a ditch the other side and I can only use one arm for climbing due to my left arm not bending and still being broken. Oh, and the batteries were failing in the torch. How I got myself into this predicament at eleven thirty at night rather than tucked up in the land of nod was due to our friend Mr Fox and one of our beagles, Preston, who decided at the age of fifteen years he would take up hunting. (He is the one looking at the camera in the picture above.)
He decided to do this by himself and in the dark.
It had rained all day, the highly technical ceramic water gauge (a coffee mug)on the wall at the front of Rock HQ showed we had over an inch of rain and none of the outside jobs got done. Practically none of the inside jobs got done either as we sat and watched the weather hoping for a break in the clouds. Horses got brushed, animals got fed, a fence post was replaced but no real progress along the jobs list was made.
At around nine in the evening the rain paused slightly so I went to put the birds away. We are keeping them shut away during the day at present due to Mr Fox but Tracey was on auto pilot first thing in the morning and had let the Black Rocks out along with Terry the Turkey and Daffy the Muscovy drake. They were all on their perches and Daffy hissed his contempt as I closed the door. I opened it again when I remembered Terry, conspicuous by his absence. My heart sank, surely the Fox hadn't taken Terry, the bird weighs over thirty pounds and has attitude to back it up. Gentle giant he is not. There was no sign of him, or his feathers, so maybe he was safe but I had to find him.
I returned to the cottage for a torch and in a moment of madness released the magnificent seven, our dogs who were all in their luxury appointed kennels sleeping off a large dinner. They are useless as tracker dogs, would probably make friends with a Fox if they met one but having them career around Rock HQ might just deter Foxy if he was in range.
I found Terry sheltering in a rotting sycamore tree. Like I said in a previous entry the Fox attack changed him, he even let me pick him up. Something of a struggle, a wet bird with a huge capacity for violence and a one armed smallholder who is justifiably scared of the Turkey. Bernard Matthews workers wouldn't play football with this one, he would rip their legs off and beat them with the soggy end. As I began this delicate manoeuvre things went well until Terry realised allowing himself to be carried seriously affected his credibility as a bastard so he freaked out. Readers may have heard that swans can break a mans arm with a blow from its wing, Terry has the strength to break a mans neck with his wingtip. Trapped in the confines of the pig run and wrestling with a demon Turkey I took the only sensible option, I dropped him and ran to the gate. He did a pretty reasonable impression of a Harrier jump jet and took off over the pig sty and from the noise, a sort of oooof sound, crashed into the old stable door the other side.
I rallied and fetched help, taking on Terry was a job for Tracey, I know my limits. We both cautiously approached the stable and found the big bird wedged in between some bales. This made it easy to get hold of him and gently transport him to the hen house opposite. Easy as in moving a ticking time bomb is easy. Luckily he didn't go off and this time didn't draw blood.
We assembled the magnificent seven who as I thought had been a great help in the unfolding crisis, roll call, one of our beagles was missing.
No amount of shouting his name produced the missing mutt. Preston and Passion are very old beagles in their sixteenth year. The used to be lemon and white, now they are just white. They were bought by me as pups from a hunting pack over Hay on Wye way as they were not fit to train as hunters. Passion was the runt of the litter, I bought Preston and the huntmaster gave me Passion for free. That sounds a bit odd doesn't it but you know what I mean, he gave me the second puppy for nothing, I didn't have to kiss him or anything.
Since then these two dogs have been a pain in the backside and I defy anyone to be able to train them. They just do their own thing, hopefully without damaging anything, unlike the time they got onto a shelf with tins of paint, of various shades, yellow and purple stick out most vividly in my memory. They knocked the cans down, ran through the contents and ran around the house. I got back to find most rooms redecorated with bizarre hues and paw print patterns. This theme continued over the furniture, the PC, the dining table, the stairs, in fact anything with a surface they had managed to put a paw print motif. This was just one of their misdemeanours, I could write a book on the joys of beagle ownership and can relate to anyone who uses them for experimental research, I have often felt like conducting my own research on them following their antics like the time they emptied the freezer or ran off with the Christmas Turkey that was cooling on the side.
Preston, it seems, had run around with the pack but had picked up a scent. Obviously remembering his heritage and keen to prove the huntmaster who had so cruelly rejected him fifteen years earlier wrong, he had set off in pursuit. It must have dawned on him as he got further away from the safety of Rock HQ that this sudden rush of bravery would have consequences. Not least of which one being his owner stuck the wrong side of a barbed wire fence in the rainy darkness.
Tracey and I searched for the hound on foot for an hour, keeping in touch by radio. We think we saw him once running across a field but as he was running away from the house and showed no sign of heeding our calls it might have been a sheep. Looking for a white dog in the Welsh countryside at night is far more complex than perhaps we first thought, there being hundreds of white woolly runny things giving false sightings.
Tracey and I decided to search different areas. I thought I had found him at one stage, but it turned out to be a dead lamb. No signs of a violent death so not the result of the Fox or Preston. Incidentally I can see the corner of the field that the dead lamb is in as I type this and a Red Kite and several Crows are fighting for possession. Nothing gets wasted out here.
Tracey radioed that she would search the lanes by car. I watched her drive off as I balanced on the fence wondering how to get the barbed wire out of my trousers without dropping the torch or letting go of the fence. I decided not to radio for advice as she had enough to worry about without wondering how her idiot husband would get down from his latest predicament.
I negotiated the obstacle and when I found my boot that had fallen off in the process I set off with new resolve, one that included buying new laces for my boots. I got back to Rock HQ and stood in the rain wondering what to do next. I toyed with the idea of getting a coat as the T shirt I was wearing had poor weather protection. Tracey returned and found me searching the sheds. Neither of us had found him. It was very dark, raining heavily and the wind was cold, not a good night to be out for a very old dog used to his creature comforts. Tracey turned Rene round in the yard and set off down the track for one last look. I went back into the warmth of Rock HQ to light a candle and start a vigil for the missing dog.
Tracey returned around a minute later, reversing Rene up into the yard. I've got him she shouted. Vigil over I went out to greet the wandering hero who was cold, tired and incredibly grateful to be found. Tracey had got halfway along our track and he suddenly appeared, on seeing Rene he ran off, but Tracey turned the lights and engine off and he came to her call. He was ecstatic when he realised it was his owner and gave her the welcome only a grateful dog can which included widdling on her foot.
Safe in his kennel he climbed into his bed and curled up very happy.
We were cold, tired and wet after two hours on the hill but happy our old beagle was where he should be. We got back to Rock HQ and headed to where we were meant to be. Bed.
Terry has bought the big one.
