Read Paw Prints in the Moonlight Online
Authors: Denis O'Connor
Paw Prints in the Moonlight (15 page)
It was almost midday before we were ready to move off on a course that would take us down by Greenside Pyke and into the Ingram Valley. For a while Toby ran alongside but soon tired and rode the rest of the way with the bottom half of his body in the pannier and the top half stretched across the front of the saddle. As we descended to the valley floor we cantered through swathes of wild flowers, not many of which I could name but I recognized Wild Comfrey and Herb Robert as well as the brilliant yellow patches of Celandines.
We stopped briefly by a large pool in a fast-running stream at the lower reaches of the valley. It proved to be a mistake. After I had unsaddled Fynn, she wandered over to the pool to drink. I wasn't paying much attention since I was opening a tin of beans for my lunch. The sound of loud splashing made me look up to see Fynn happily rolling in the pool watched by an attentive Toby Jug. Suddenly, Toby dived into the pool to join Fynn and, as he surfaced, was instantly swept away by the current. Shouting in alarm I scrambled to my feet and set off in hot pursuit. I tried to run fast but the last few days on horseback had jiggered my knees and in any case riding boots are not really suitable for sprinting.
Hobbling along I desperately searched the stream ahead for a sight of him but in vain. I was trying to look everywhere at once. Then I spotted him, a bedraggled dark figure at the edge of a bar of pebbles and stones which formed a confluence between two arms of the stream. Pulling my boots off took no mean effort but soon I was able to wade over the stream bed of slippery pebbles to reach him. He was still coughing and spitting water after his ordeal but, apart from being sodden, he was otherwise alright.
Back on land I dried him with my hand towel as best I could. Looking really sorry for himself he began the washing routine no doubt to groom himself back to normality. Meanwhile Fynn, curious as to what all the fuss was about, emerged from the pool, walked over towards us, shook water everywhere and managed to grind my can of beans under one of her hooves. It was the first calamity of the trip and I hoped it would be the last.
After a brief respite while the animals dried off, I ate my only remaining food, a bag of crisps, and then we continued our journey. As the afternoon wore on the cloud grew darker overhead and it began to rain, lightly at first and then it became a downpour. It took only seconds for me to don the waterproof slicker but I was already soaked. At least it served to cloak the saddle bags and panniers, one of which housed a subdued and half-drowned cat.
Leaving the valley behind we skirted the road wherever we could but were horn-blasted a number of times by unsympathetic car drivers. It was a miserable ride and it was with relief that the gaunt towers of Lemmington Hall appeared through the gloom.
The hall was used as a convent by the Sisters of Mercy who ran a residential facility there for girls with special educational needs. I had run an in-service course for the staff about a year ago and I fully expected that the good nuns would remember me and most probably offer food and shelter for the night. I rode around to the back of the hall where I knew there was a gatehouse entrance. By now the evening had turned really foul with a rising wind causing the rain to lash against us. A sharp-faced nun wearing spectacles peered around the edge of the door in answer to my knocking.
To reassure her I gave my name and asked to be remembered to the Reverend Mother. Then I explained my predicament and asked for help. In reply the door slammed shut without a word being spoken. I waited helpless, holding Fynn by the bridle, with the rain running down my neck under the cloak and through into my boots. In keeping with my mood and to add to my growing worries, Toby Jug began to wail, probably because the rain had dripped into his pannier and he'd been drenched enough. I felt the living embodiment of the saying âAs miserable as sin'.
Just as I was about to leave in despair to try to find some shelter in the woods, the door opened a crack and an unseen person directed me in a hushed voice to go to the gamekeeper's cottage.
Just as I was about to leave in despair to try to find some shelter in the woods, the door opened a crack and an unseen person directed me in a hushed voice to go to the gamekeeper's cottage.
Alerted no doubt by a phonecall from the hall, the gamekeeper was already standing in the doorway waiting for me, the light behind illuminating his huge frame and deerstalker hat. No pleasantries were exchanged between us as he guided me towards a row of outbuildings which he identified as stables and a gun room.
âYe can bed down in the stable or the gun room as you like. I've unlocked the both,' he said in a gruff bass voice.
I turned to thank him but he'd vanished. I was beginning to experience a creepy sort of feeling at these turn of events, as if I'd entered a weird village twinned with Transylvania, inhabited by spectres. Light-headed with hunger and tiredness I wondered if his name could be Igor or Drakos and whether we would ever leave this place alive. Nonetheless, I was thankful for the shelter, meagre as it was, but there were no offerings of food.
The stables were bare but dry. Under the light from a single electric light bulb I lifted a damp Toby Jug out of his pannier and set him down on the cobbled floor. Swiftly unpacking and unsaddling Fynn, I made her as comfortable as I could and fed her the last of the horse nuts. Next I filled a pail of water for her from a tap in the yard, although I
doubted whether she would need any after the soaking she had already endured.
doubted whether she would need any after the soaking she had already endured.
The gun room offered about the same level of hospitality as the stables but I consoled myself with the thought that it was better than spending the night out in the woods. Spreading my sleeping bag over the long ridged wooden table, I slid in and fell asleep with the sound of Toby Jug washing himself yet again while I stupidly pondered why there were no guns in the gun room.
I awoke cold, damp and stiff minutes after six o'clock in the morning, having spent the night tossing and turning with every kind of ache imaginable in my back and knees.
âWell, it's nobody's fault but yours!' I told myself as I decided to start on my way as soon as possible. We were on the last leg of the journey and I expected to be home by nightfall at the latest. Toby Jug had found a warm place for the night on a torn cushion which was lying on a bench under the barred window. Trust a cat to find the best berth, I thought. He raised his head, looked up at me and promptly went back to sleep. Fynn, on the other hand, was happy to see me and I had her saddled and packed up very quickly. Toby was reluctant to go back in his pannier but settled down when I stuffed a dry sweater in the bottom for him to lie on. I stroked him and told him gently that we would soon be home and that he had to stop his moaning and make the best of things. Whether he understood me or
not, the simple reprimand had an effect because there was no more wailing or awkwardness from him for the rest of the journey.
not, the simple reprimand had an effect because there was no more wailing or awkwardness from him for the rest of the journey.
I left Fynn standing in the yard whilst I walked over to the gamekeeper's cottage to thank my host. The upper part of the country-style door was open and I could smell coffee and breakfast. The gamekeeper, a florid-faced man wearing the same hat I'd seen him in last night, sat at a kitchen table in his braces and a collarless shirt with his sleeves rolled up to reveal hairy arms and hands like those of a boxer. In front of him lay a huge plate of bacon, eggs, sausage and fried bread, together with a steaming cup of coffee. My mouth watered and my stomach rumbled in torment at the sight. His wife, a thin woman wearing a flower-patterned pinafore, caught sight of me and came over to the door. I thanked them and asked if there was any charge. At this the gamekeeper glanced over at me and said: âY'ed best be leaving a couple a quid for the lad to clean up after ye.'
Having only offered to pay in jest I found myself blushing and having to rummage about in my clothing for the money. After paying I sensed that I was being a nuisance and bade them goodbye. There was no response and I have never been back.
The morning was dull but dry, although I had to be careful on the roads which were slippery wet after the storm. Having crossed Glanton Pyke and passed through the
village the evening before, I was looking for the start of the old railway line from Alnwick which had to be close by. Finding a way around some fields under cultivation, I located the line at last. Fynn must have recognized it from her days at the riding school because she moved along at an eager trot. By ten in the morning we were on the outskirts of Alnwick and home was a mere ten miles away. It had taken less time than I had expected.
village the evening before, I was looking for the start of the old railway line from Alnwick which had to be close by. Finding a way around some fields under cultivation, I located the line at last. Fynn must have recognized it from her days at the riding school because she moved along at an eager trot. By ten in the morning we were on the outskirts of Alnwick and home was a mere ten miles away. It had taken less time than I had expected.
Circumventing the town we followed the bridle path through the pastures, an area of grazing land with common access owned by His Grace, the Duke of Northumberland. Riding alongside the River Aln, with Alnwick Castle in the background, my spirits rose again and I looked forward happily to journey's end. Soon we crossed over the road to Boulmer and followed the Aln until we forded it within sight of Lesbury and Alnmouth. This was the long way round but I had to find a route that crossed riding country or suffer the hazards of riding along busy roads. After leaving Alnmouth behind, the trail headed inland and we were soon passing through the woods at Low Buston and in a direction due south again for Guyzance.
Pausing to give Fynn a breather and a chance for Toby Jug and I to stretch our legs, I took time out to admire the multicoloured mushrooms and toadstools the rain had brought out. They stretched between the trees like a
carpet in strikingly beautiful hues of red, green, yellow and gold. Toby Jug made a brief foray amongst them and scattered some of their fleshy tops but swiftly turned away at the obnoxious smells they gave off. Perhaps some of them were the so called âmagic mushrooms', much prized among the drug fraternity for their hallucinogenic properties. As for the rest, they'd be deadly poisonous in spite of their bonny colours.
carpet in strikingly beautiful hues of red, green, yellow and gold. Toby Jug made a brief foray amongst them and scattered some of their fleshy tops but swiftly turned away at the obnoxious smells they gave off. Perhaps some of them were the so called âmagic mushrooms', much prized among the drug fraternity for their hallucinogenic properties. As for the rest, they'd be deadly poisonous in spite of their bonny colours.
Mounted up again and with Toby Jug safe in his pannier, this time with the lid open so that he could lean on the edge and look out, we pressed on. By the early evening we caught sight of Foxhelliers Farm which meant that Owl Cottage lay only a mile beyond. We covered the remaining distance at a restful pace.
Unlocking the gates to the drive it was comforting to see that nothing had changed except that the grass of the lawn was longer. No doubt Fynn would soon take care of that. I led her into the garden and tethered her to the ring in the wall. Toby Jug leapt down out of the pannier, raced up the garden and climbed halfway up a beech tree for the sheer joy of being back. We were home again and glad of it.
The inside of the cottage seemed too enclosed and stuffy for my liking after the days spent out of doors. Strolling into the bathroom I got the shock of my life. There confronting me was the stark figure of a baddie from a low-budget Hollywood cowboy film. It took me long seconds to realize that I
was staring at the mirror image of myself. The apparition that stared back at me was dishevelled, with dark hair covering a grimy face and five days growth of beard, dressed in a scruffy lumberjack-style shirt, mud-spattered jeans and dirty riding boots. No wonder the nun at Lemmington Hall had refused to fully open the door. I must have been a frightful sight in the semi-darkness, standing beside a bedraggled horse with a cat wailing in the background.
was staring at the mirror image of myself. The apparition that stared back at me was dishevelled, with dark hair covering a grimy face and five days growth of beard, dressed in a scruffy lumberjack-style shirt, mud-spattered jeans and dirty riding boots. No wonder the nun at Lemmington Hall had refused to fully open the door. I must have been a frightful sight in the semi-darkness, standing beside a bedraggled horse with a cat wailing in the background.
Two hours later Fynn had been rubbed down and brushed, supplied with hay and water and given a welcome home ration of horse nuts. Toby Jug had also been brushed and groomed and given one of his favourite meals. In addition, the figure in the bathroom had metamorphosed into a clean-shaven, well-scrubbed and fresh-smelling human being. Eating the first cooked meal I'd had for days was delightful and the glass of good wine to follow soothed away the aches and pains that are an inevitable side-effect of prolonged horseback riding. I reflected that I'd embarked on a rather foolish escapade with overtones of a schoolboy adventure. I shuddered to think what might have happened had I fallen and been badly injured or if Fynn had broken a leg. And what if I'd lost Toby Jug, drowned in the stream at Ingram Valley? But now that we were all safe and sound and I was in my cottage sitting comfortably in front of a warm log fire, my perspective on the camping trip became rosier. Overall, I had to admit that I'd had a wonderful time
and I was glad that I'd taken the opportunity, despite the risks.
and I was glad that I'd taken the opportunity, despite the risks.
The next day we did very little. Fynn ate hay and cropped the grass; Toby Jug wallowed in sleep and arose only to feed and make a trip outside; I lay about reading, thinking and just watching the birds in the garden from a lounger in the conservatory. It would be time soon enough to resume the normal pace of life but for now we rested and whiled away the time in blissful abandon.
By the end of the week I had returned Fynn to her field in Denwick, done numerous household chores and attended to the garden. Everything was back to normal. Throughout the holiday period, whilst she was still my responsibility, I visited Fynn every day and took her riding three or four times a week. On the days when I didn't ride her I took Toby Jug with me, the two animals seemed to have become even closer since the camping trip. I was kept busy mucking out the loose box, loading hay and cleaning the water trough. The sight of Toby Jug on Fynn's back, sitting in little red hen-style, whilst Fynn moved around the field cropping the grass or stood dozing under the horse-chestnut tree near the bottom of the field, dumbfounded me. After a few weeks of this routine it mystified me how Fynn's owner, my colleague Diane Forester, with her coiffured hair and long, painted fingernails, could manage to do all this and look so well groomed.
In the days following our camping trip I gradually became aware that Toby Jug had changed. He looked and behaved differently somehow and then I realized what it was. He'd grown up. He was no longer a kitten. With my overprotective attitude towards him I subconsciously still thought of him as vulnerable but in fact he was fast maturing into an adult cat with independent airs. As Toby Jug grew in confidence he liked to roam further and further afield when he was not with me. Although I valued his freedom and independence as a cat, I couldn't help worrying about him whenever he didn't come quickly to me when I whistled and called. He loved the nearby woodland copses where he could prowl in tune to nature's call of the wild and I respected that. But the downside to a cat living and hunting as a wild creature is that the cat can, in turn, be hunted as a wild creature. Cats do seem to arouse more than a fair share of the violence meted out towards animals, even by humans, never mind dogs and foxes.
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