Monthly Archives: September 2021

One Man and His Dog

Badger Boi and Ella (GOAT)

I continue to use gardening to help me cope with the stresses and strife of life and if the definition of mindfulness is “a mental state achieved by focusing one’s awareness on the present moment, while calmly acknowledging and accepting one’s feelings, thoughts, and bodily sensations, used as a therapeutic technique”, then I would add owning a dog to the list of things that contribute to my mental well-being.

We have two dogs. Firstly, there is our own Therapy Dog, in the shape of Ella: the chilled, empathetic labrador who is always there for you and who patiently listens to any of your woes. She is the GOAT when it comes to dogs that we have owned. She is quiet, calm, obedient and long-suffering and actually comes to back us when we call her.

And then there is Badger.

‘Mindfulness’ has a different connotation for him. It is something that involves his mind being full. Full of the fuzz of excitement as he follows trails around the fields of Somerset. So full of such stuff, so busy is he interpreting the scents around him, there is no room in his little Dachshund head for a simple idea like “I should go back to those humans who are calling my name and whistling incessantly”. As the vet said, by way of explaination: “He’s a hound”.

The latest example of this hound’s mind-full-ness occurred on our morning walk at the weekend. All was going fine until he suddenly picked up the scent of who-knows-what. No amount of calling and bribing with treats was going to distract him from quartering and re-quartering the dewy grass which must have been criss-crossed with the aroma of herds of deer, and whole communities of rabbits, badgers and mice. His mood was evidenced by his tail, which was wagging up, down and sideways like a demented conductor’s baton.

Calling was pointless. So physical removal was the only option. Impersonating a keen Collie, I made a long, looping outrun to get behind my own dog, hoping to shepherd him away from the woods and pond, towards the lane. Once in position, I elected to run at the dog, waving my arms and screaming like a berserker, hoping to wake him from his trance to then follow me to the gate. Instead, he started running to outflank me.

At this point in events I had an out-of-body experience, viewing myself in Ultra HD running, in wellies, through the damp grass. Just a few feet away, moving parallel to me, was the silver dapple Sausage. Although he was not wearing wellies, he was still struggling to get ahead of me as the grass was longer than his stubby legs. But he was not deterred. We eyed each other as we ran, and in retrospect I can hear the football pundits’ commentary describing the action:

“It’s poor defending there. It is clear that the dog wants to cut inside on his left foot, so the defender needs to show him the outside channel. It looks as if he has him going that way, but he over-commits and – I have to say – that’s a magnificent change of direction from the wee man as he dips his shoulder and leaves the old timer for dead. He’s beaten the offside trap and is through the fence and into the woods. Brilliant play. But you have to ask yourself: what is the Midlife Gardener doing there?”

It was something I was asking myself as I watched the north end of a south facing Dachshund disappearing into the undergrowth. As he passed me, I barely had enough breath to tell him he was a runt, or something similar.

He led me a merry dance for another ten mintues before accepting a treat in return for the attachment of a lead and a walk home in stoney silence. I should have been angry, frustrated, annoyed, but I was not. Mr Long continues to make us laugh every day. Even when I was chasing him around the field, I have to admit there were benefits, as it was the most intense cardiovascular workout I have had in months.

Rafa Benitez has been urging his players at Everton to turn off the Xbox* (*other gaming consoles are available) and spend more time in the great outdoors. It seems Rafa himself is a keen gardener and, according to The Daily Star “The green-fingered Spaniard has told his Premier League squad to take a leaf out of his own book and get outdoors.” I would wholeheartedly support those sentiments, but would also suggest they get a dachshund like Mr Long. Not only will the players increase their mindfulness by getting out in the fresh air to walk said dog, they might also work on their own sprinting, fitness and tactical positioning too. A win-win.

“I’m a Pallet Man…”

There is more to having a garden than simply sowing seeds, potting on, weeding, planting out, dead-heading and harvesting. It is not all about the cultivars and compost, the maintenance and the mowing, the pest control and the picking out. Sometimes, you just have to sit down and take it all in. Simply enjoy it.

It was something that I felt The Old Man often failed to do. He would work tirelessly on the garden (when not tirelessly watching Countdown) and would often overlook the fact that the garden should be there for your delight and delectation.

Having said that, I have to admit that, in gardening terms, I too, am often prey to the beasts of constant work and no play. I find it difficult to sit in the garden without being distracted by the weeds, the gaps in the planting or the withered flower heads that require removal. It takes a conscious effort for me to overlook the imperfections in my garden (of which there are legion). But in this respect I am like many another gardener. No one I know has been able to do the whole Book of Genesis thing by taking a finite time to create their horticultural world and then, like, well, God – take a rest. We simply cannot help plucking a weed from a border or thinking how NEXT year we should get the annuals in earlier.

But this summer I am feeling pretty chuffed with my efforts to take the remains of a snooker table, some fencing and a few pallets to create a sunken seating area from which I can view the garden while resting and relaxing with family and friends. The idea came from the snooker table that my mother had inherited from her father. I say snooker table: when it came to clearing The Old Place after my father’s death, my brothers and I knew none of us could accommodate a 2/3 snooker table in any of our 21st century homes so we had consigned the table to house clearance. There had been a brief discussion with the valuer about the fact that, as my maternal grandfather had been a next door neighbour and billiards-playing chum of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, this table had undoubtedly been played on by the creator of Sherlock Holmes and might have some value.

To which the auctioneer replied “provenance?” And the table was doomed to kindling.

But I could not bear to see the two pieces of slate that formed the flat, true surface of the table go to waste. Measuring 6ft by 4ft I felt there had to be some use for them. For two years they rested against the garage wall before I finally alighted upon the idea of a small patio. And this became, with the inclusion of the pallets left behind by builders and delivery drivers, a sunken seating area. The plan was vague at best, and even then only in my head, so few thought it viable. My good friend (and highly talented interior designer) Sarah, when I explained it to her simply looked with disdain at the wet muddy hole in the ground and said “Oh yes?” While my former tennis partner suggested I change the plan to create the largest shove ha’penny board around.

I harboured doubts of my own, but like Kevin Costner, I knew that if I built it they would come. So I did, and they did. Some salvaged fence rails, some gravel, a purchase of cheap foam, loosely wrapped in cheap IKEA fabric and my seats of dreams were complete.

Not content with this, we have since bought a pizza oven, which required the construction of a base for it (from pallets, natch), which in turn needed a wood store to keep the kiln-dried logs dry (constructed from more pallets and a little timber salvaged from the old potting shed).

So, for the price of a few nails, some gravel, cushions and material, the Midlife Garden has a new rest and relaxation and outdoor cooking area. This is not to say that working in the garden does not have its own rewards above and beyond the extrinsic “isn’t it lovely” type of happiness. The simple act of working with your hands, nurturing, caring and literally seeing the fruits of your labours is something that is indefinable, but very real. But sitting on my new pallet seats, feet firmly planted on the slates that might have helped in the creation of Holmes and Watson, eating a pizza cooked in an oven positioned on a stand I made myself, fired with wood that is being kept dry in a log store I inexpertly put together too, I feel sated and happy.

Now, where has the sun gone?