Old Sam

“Little do ye know your own blessedness; for to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is to labour.”

Well yes, thought Sam, as he trudged through the blizzard, it’s all very well but the cold was sapping his strength. The road was barely visible in the whiteness ahead. It was once familiar territory but now in the thickening snow he didn’t know where he was as he counted each step forward. Sheer will power drove him on towards his destination. The snow blanketed the countryside and in the driving snow laden wind he could only hear his laboured breathing and the faint crunch of his slowing steps.

Must be getting old he admitted and the extra pint at the pub hadn’t helped. Still, he’d stubbornly insisted that he wanted to visit the place again. It was Friday night after all. The place had changed though; new landlord and most of his old pals had either died or left the area. He didn’t want to be burden, the youngsters led busy lives, what with the lambing and all, and it had been a clear, moonlit evening when he’d set out. Now look at it. Still, mustn’t grumble, and this road can’t go on for ever. I just need to keep going. The snow was gentling drifting now the wind had dropped. The silence was eerie: he felt cut off from the world.

His bad knee collapsed, and he landed heavily in the powdery snow. Should have had the operation. Up until now he hadn’t seriously considered that he wouldn’t make it back but the urge to rest was overpowering. He’d had a good life and passed the farm over to his son. He’s doing a good job. He closed his eyes, feeling the light, icy flakes against his eyelids, and slept.

He dreamed of Mollie. Hadn’t done that for years. He thought about her often, but when he was awake, her image was hard to recall. The sense of her was there, but blurred somehow. Now he saw her with startling clarity. The light in her beautiful almond shaped eyes and the high cheekbones. He felt the softness of her shining hair and the warmth of her breath on his face. Her soft tones became more insistent and as he slowly came back to reality he was startled to find her tongue dampening his face and excited whimpers, and the texture of the hair under his hand was rough, course and damp with snow.

Lights dazzled his eyes as a Landrover slid to a halt in the road in front of him. The collie stayed by his side as his son approached.

“You’re a bit late Dad, let’s get you back. How does roast lamb sound?” Strong arms lifted him to his feet, and as they approached the car, his son said, “Dad, you nearly made it. Not far now, can you walk? I’ll dig the car out in the morning”.

Just five minute more and he saw the lights of the house. The two men, one supporting the other, and a dog disappeared into the welcoming warmth.


Entry for the TCWG May/June Competition

I’ve been a bit busy..

and this is the reason – her name is Abby.


After her first puppy groom:


I really had forgotten how time consuming puppies can be. She’s very good and learning fast, but boundless energy can be a bit exhausting. I’m not finding it easy to fit in her hectic social life – puppy parties, walks with her favourite dogs and puppies and training classes – it’s worse than having a small child. She is twenty weeks old now and I feel I have aged significantly since she arrived. But it has been fun – walks in the forest, on the beach and she adores small children. Amazingly she hasn’t savaged any visitors or grandchildren yet!


Very high maintenance with her long coat but once her adult coat comes in I may decide to have her close clipped. She’s a devil for muddy puddles and water but she loves being brushed.


We tried to adopt an adult  rescue dog but after a year nothing suitable was available,  and frankly it would probably have been easier to adopt a child, so we decided on a puppy. She’s cocker spaniel/poodle cross and such a clever good natured puppy. A cockapoo, but no lap dog this one!




12 weeks

12 weeks


Abby kitchen

9 weeks

A bit of colour

A bit of colour in an otherwise rather rubbish back garden. I have no idea what some of them are so any ideas would be welcome!

I’ve been rather busy organising the house and after the trauma of moving and a new grandson, the garden really not been high on my list of priorities.

Continue Reading »

The Birds

A tragic true tale told in haiku form. The horrid little chap in the photograph (not one of mine) is not one of the villains of the piece, but he looks remarkably similar.

Two Jackdaws perch high
And hurl the moss with malice
From the dank roof tiles.
Continue Reading »

The mice had gathered nuts and seeds
To cater for their winter needs.
They slumbered in the fragrant hay
And woke alert on Christmas Day.

They’d found a perfect place to stay,
A stable where a manger lay:
Warm and safe with room to spare
And nothing to disturb them there.

The choir sang joyous, loud and sweet,
The mice enthralled enjoyed the treat.
Paws clasped together, small hearts rose
The little ones stood on their toes.

A robin sang, and bells were pealing,
Monty’s eyes rose to the ceiling.
High above the owl was sitting,
Eyes half closed and as was fitting

At this time of peace to all
Had taken time to pay a call.
On silent wings he soared away
Whilst hooting Happy Christmas Day.

Images from here and here with grateful thanks.

Sausage Dog

Dasher Daschshund grew quite barmy,
he fell in love with a salami.
He knew that fickle, wondrous fate
Had brought his aromatic mate.

But months of unrequited lust,
turned little Dasher’s heart to dust.
He found he couldn’t go on living,
a life so harsh and unforgiving …

and with a whine of deep despair,
he turned his toes into the air.
(Luckily, his doggy basket
doubled as a funeral casket).

Awash with grief, his owner cried,
“Mein liebling hund has sadly died!
I’ll never own a pet agin”,
but aus den augen aus dem sinn.

The owner liked his new-found pet,
Who didn’t eat, or need a vet,
and found a sausage quite the thing
to take for walkies on a string.

Ménagerie à trois


Rex, my gorgeous Dogstar,
with your beaut Aristo nose,
I saw you running fast and far
on your charming hirsute toes.
Oh Rex, I dream of you and me,
in heat and wondrous harmony,
making canine whoopee.


I like your spindly little legs
and your nervous courtship dance,
but my nature doesn’t make me beg
for your coy, admiring glance.
And when the whoopee’s over (sigh),
I cannot tell a silken lie,
it’s you, my dear, who’s going to die.


I’m glossy, prickly, by a fence,
all dressed in Lincoln green.
My wish for berries is intense,
but none for years I’ve seen.
But then (hurrah!) I see a bee,
and, Glory be, the bee’s seen me!
A subtle kind of whoopee.

(Competition theme:’Making Whoopee’)


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