The thrills of Easter grandparenting

Ah, Easter, Easter. The great feast of the Christian year. When the followers of Christ eat chocolate to celebrate his sacrifice to redeem mankind from original sin.

As it happens, this year wasn’t just about chocolate. It seems that rocket ships are part of the Easter festivities too. As apparently are games played with Velcro rackets and Velcro balls that stick to them. At least, judging by what the grandkids found when they went looking in the woods for the gifts left for them there by the Easter Bunny (a curious figure for which, in my admittedly rather cursory reading of the New Testament, I’ve not found any scriptural basis).

Even the date on which said hunt in the woods took place was (how shall I put this?) a little unorthodox. I mean, there was a time when the dating of Easter was the kind of question over which accusations of heresy might fly, in circumstances when such accusations could prove seriously career limiting. Terminally career limiting. 

It seems this isn’t a problem in our times when entertaining grandkids of five (Matilda) and three (Elliott, though he was all but four). Church authorities all agree that, however controversial the actual date might be, Easter would always fall on a Sunday. In 2025, however, that was the day their parents would be taking Matilda and Elliott home. So instead we celebrated Easter Wednesday for which, to say the very least, there is no liturgical authority.

The kids had been with us for some days. We’d been to the woods several times, walking the dogs or just playing hide-and-seek. That’s a game they love, though I have to confess I’m still not convinced that Elliott has fully grasped the notion of ‘hiding’.

Matilda counting for hide-and-seek

Elliott still needs to do some work
on the notion of being ‘hidden’

While in the woods, whenever we reached the place where the Easter Bunny had done its work in previous years, Matilda would explain to me that ‘this is where we’ll be looking for the Easter Eggs’. Indeed, on the Tuesday she even explained to me that it was where we’d be looking for the eggs ‘tomorrow’.

Old traditionalist that I am, I patiently and, I hope, compassionately, explained, ‘no, it can’t be tomorrow. Don’t you mean Sunday?’

‘No, it’s tomorrow. Mummy and Mamama said so.’

Well, I wasn’t going to argue with a decision backed up with the authority of a mother and a Mamama (the usual name for grandmothers in Danielle’s native Alsace) and, indeed, it turned out that Matilda was right. The very next day, the annual mystery repeated itself. Mummy and Mamama disappeared into the woods and, coincidentally, it was during that brief disappearance that the Bunny did its work. They must have been keeping that busy rabbit under close observation because they phoned to tell me its work was done the very moment it was.

Out we went, the eager search party, ready to find treasure. And boy were expectations fulfilled. There was lots of chocolate, most of it apparently Swiss, another one of those curious coincidences because Danielle (Mamama) had been to Switzerland only the previous week. 

Matilda, Elliott and Mamama hunting for Easter eggs
Elliott’s holding the Easter rocket toy

It was there that we also found the rocket toy I mentioned before (in the photo, Elliott’s holding it upside down, a stance with which I imagine Elon Musk would seriously disagree). Not far away was the Velcro racket and ball set. 

The Hello Easter book

Also in the vicinity was an Easter book, with the proud title ‘Hello Easter’ in English, a thoughtful gesture by the Easter bunny, given that the hunt was taking place in Spain. As it happens, Elliott and Matilda are equally at home in Spanish, but we like to think of our family – their family – as being primarily English-speaking, so it was good of the bunny to provide the book in that language.

Max ‘helping’ with the Easter egg hunt

I was also pleased to see that Max, our Podenco dog, got into the mood of things, wandering around with the kids on their search. Although I can’t swear that this actually provided what you could strictly call help, at least in terms of finding eggs or toys, it was a great way of confirming the continued improvement of relations between him and the grandkids. You may remember that when he first joined us, his apparent disquiet with them, sometimes leading to rather sinister growling, had made us wonder whether we could keep him at all. It’s wonderful to see how well they’re all getting on now: Matilda and Elliott have taken to giving Max treats (just for the record, let me quickly add that they give them to Luci and Toffee, the toy poodles, too). They even like to keep Max supplied with food or water, a task they undertake with great dedication. That, you can imagine, is a sure way of winning a dog’s deep attachment.

Matilda providing Max with water

Elliott too has made a friend of Max

Just to wrap up their stay with us, we even took the kids to the beach the day before they left. It was April and a little cold for swimming. Elliott, however, was happy to wander into the water at least up to his knees, as long as he could keep a firm hold of Granddad’s hand. He also returned to his earlier pastime of trying to transfer sand from the beach to the sea as though, like Lewis Carroll’s Walrus and Carpenter, he was inclined to weep ‘to see such quantities of sand’, and felt like them that ‘if this were only swept away, it would be grand’. 

Elliott happy to take to the water
as long as he had hold of a hand

Elliott transferring the beach to the sea

Matilda transferring water to the beach

What’s more, there was a good stiff breeze, and that provided plenty of fun, since we’d brought kites for both grandkids.

Let's go fly a kite: Matilda leads the way

All in all, I’d say, the day went well and provided a fitting conclusion to a highly successful visit.

Sheena (‘Mummy’) has also been
adopted by the dogs (Luci here)

Rising early: the pain and the joy

How sad, I used to feel, that old people woke up so early. What a shame, I used to tell myself, that they couldn’t sleep in as I did, till 9:00. Or 10:00. Or even 11:00.

These days, as I move further into my eighth decade, I’m having to come to terms with the idea that being that old isn’t something happening only to other people, but that I’m one of them myself. Just like those old people I once felt so sorry for, I also find it increasingly difficult to sleep late. If I wake up and it isn’t yet 5:00, I try to fall asleep again. If it’s approaching 6:00, it could go either way, but I generally get up. At 7:00, well, these days that’s beginning to get into lie-in country.

There is, in any case, now a new motivation to get up when I wake. Two motivations, one might say. Each has a name: Luci and Toffee. They used to sleep on our bed, but it’s extraordinary how much space a pair of toy poodles can take up. And how little opportunity they can leave to us to get any rest. We finally decided, a few weeks ago, that this had become much too much of a good thing. These days, they get banished downstairs, a harsh decree we reinforce by closing the stair gate installed primarily as a safety measure for the grandkids, now adapted to serve as an escape-proof fence for the dogs. Against the dogs, they’d no doubt correct me if they could.

So when I come down in the early hours, these days I’m greeted by two whimpering poodles bursting with enthusiasm to overwhelm me with welcoming affection.

Despite being retired, I still find that my time just fills up with things to do. Some of them are, of course, simply leisure activities. For instance, we recently went for a walk in the hills with a group of friends. The plan was to hike 14km and end up with a paella. In the end, having spent too long enjoying coffee and cakes before we even set out, the hike became a bit of a stroll and, though the paella plan was unaffected (an amazingly good one by the way, in the Valencian hill village of Serra), we only walked six kilometres, indulging more in conversation than in serious exercise. Even so, that took most of the day. The changes in altitude, the conversation in a language I still haven’t fully mastered, the consumption of a large meal, all left me worn out by the time we got home.

When I woke early the next morning, therefore, I didn’t plunge straight into work. And I really mean work: keeping up my English history podcast (wittily entitled A History of England), now at over 180 episodes, has proven quite a task. I find myself having to read book after book, because for every authority I consult, I always feel the need to consult another, to try to cancel out bias in either and get to something like knowledge underneath. Writing the episodes is no small task either, above all the (self-imposed) obligation to keep them short. Remember Blaise Pascal who once apologised for writing a long letter, because he didn’t have time to write a short one.

Recording the episodes isn’t a brief job either. What with editing, correcting, correcting the corrections, the production of fifteen minutes’ worth of material can take several hours.

On top of that, there is of course this blog, though I write fewer posts these days. Then there are the other projects, including a third novel and booklets to accompany the podcast. To say nothing of the various jobs that keep cropping up, around the house, around the car, around administrative authorities.

So the other day, I decided I was going to have a quiet moment with the dogs. With a coffee in front of me, Toffee on my lap and Luci by my side, I put aside for the moment further study of suffragists, Home Rule campaigners and their Ulster volunteer enemies, or the steady, accelerating descent to the First World War. Instead, I chose to relax into the day by chuckling my way through the last few chapters of Lessons in Chemistry.

Between my slippered feet and the collar of my dressing gown:
Luci (left) and Toffee making my (early) morning speial

Do you know the book? As you’ve no doubt spotted, I like to think of myself as a bit of a writer. Not a successful one, I’ll admit at once. But one who enjoys churning out the stuff. And one who knows enough about writing to bow his head in humble admiration when he comes across someone with real mastery of the art. And in writing this, amazingly her first novel, Bonnie Garmus has provided an object lesson in how to do it well. It’s full of life, dynamism, humour, but also occasionally grim tragedy, with an extraordinary set of messages on how one should live and how one should treat others, between women and men, between adults and children, even between humans and dogs. 

The TV series differs from the book in many respects, but not at all in its ability to entertain and intrigue. It’s as well worth watching as the novel is worth reading, and the novel is well worth reading. 

It may be a tad early, 6:30 in the morning. But earliness is the curse of age. Though, with a coffee in your hand, two dogs pressed up against you, and a good book to enjoy, it can turn it into something more like a blessing.

Refuge from toxicity

One of the great things about living in Spain is that the weather here is, generally, a lot better than anywhere else I’ve lived.

I say ‘generally’ because, around here in Valencia, when it rains it really chucks it down, for days at a time. But when it’s fine, it’s really fine.

Trouble with that is that it appeals to more than us humans. For instance, this is a nation in which there flourishes a particularly dynamic race of masonry ants. Now, I’m strongly in favour of learning to share our planet with other species. Call me prejudiced if you like, however, but I’m really not keen on having the bricks our house is built of reduced to long, thin trails of red dust.

This means getting the pest control man in. In what feels delightfully paradoxical, he helps keep our house free of pests by using thoroughly pestilential products. One of them, as well as being lethal to unwelcome creatures, would undoubtedly not do our health any good either. We had to get out of the place for a couple of hours.

Ah, this is the life.
Just the retirement earned by a long mousing career

That was no problem for Misty, the cat. Of the four countries we’ve obliged him to live in, Spain seems to be the one he likes best. A fine place for his retirement, he seems to feel. Especially in the summer, when he shows no reluctance at all to staying outside, even overnight. During the day’s even easier. He just had to choose which particular patch of sun he felt most comfortable lying down in.

That just left us and the dogs. What we needed, we felt, was a bar or café, with a garden where we could spend an hour or so, nursing a drink, in pleasant surroundings.

Not as simple as it sounds, though.  It was like when someone asks us to recommend a hotel near where we live. I don’t know any hotels where I live. I live there, after all.

When we were in town, with loads of cafés or restaurants nearby, we knew plenty of places to go to. But we moved out here to be somewhere quieter. There just aren’t any cafés around the corner, and we don’t know that many even a drive away. After all, being out here, and this was one of the aims of the move, means that if you want a drink in an attractive setting, you can have one at home.

Which, as I’ve explained, wasn’t on just then.

Fortunately, we did know one place not that far away, a restaurant with a bar and a garden. It’s lovely once you’ve arrived, but getting there’s not much fun. In particular, one of the places you have drive down is in a such a state that you have to worry whether your car’s axles will stand it. Or, even more worrying, your neck. Really, I think of that stretch as a series of potholes with a few bits of roadway mixed in.

Still, it was just the place for us. Except for the sign we saw as we drove in. “Strictly no dogs”.

I suggested we drive on, looking for somewhere else. But Danielle thought I should go in and ask first. I realised she was right – after all, the worst they could say was ‘no’, which would leave us no worse off than if we left.

And this is another thing I like about Spain.

It may be down to Catholicism. Or perhaps to the Mediterranean way. It’s an attitude I’ve met in Italy and France as well. Regulation is seen as a guideline. Something to be approached, but not to be adhered to slavishly.

It can be irritating, as when people don’t respect social distancing or drive down our street at twice the speed limit. But it can be a joy at other times. Especially as a contrast to the “more than my job’s worth, mate,” I’ve met all too often in England.

You see, Protestants, or possibly Northerners, follow a harsh, unforgiving God. The “vengeance is mine” kind of God. Not so much the more broadminded God of “why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?”

“Ah, yes,” they told me in the bar, “dogs are strictly not allowed. But that’s because the owner has a large dog that wanders around here off the lead. But he’s away right now. So, just for once, and on a completely exceptional basis, you can have your dogs here while your house is being fumigated.”

A pleasant place, good company, a large G&T
make for a fine place of temporary refuge

Given that on top of that, they poured the gin for Danielle’s gin and tonic by eye – none of those cheapskate measures or anything – this place turned out to be just what we needed to pass the time of our exclusion from home.

Luci found the place perfectly satisfactory

And the dogs liked it too.

Mad dogs and Englishmen. And dogs less mad

“Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.”

A good line from a Noël Coward song. Performed as background when we see Coward himself, playing the British – I should say English – spy chief stalking along a Cuban street in the classic film of Our Man in Havana.

It’s an inverted boast, of course. It sounds self-deprecating. The English poking fun at themselves, for walking out under the strongest of suns when everyone is sensibly horizontal for a siesta, or at least under cover in the shade. Crazy, right? Except that it’s an endearing fault. And there’s even a suggestion that it’s proof of a certain rather admirable courage and strength. Unique to the English.

You know, the qualities – if such they are – which made the Empire:

At twelve noon the natives swoon
And no further work is done
But mad dogs and Englishmen
Go out in the midday sun

Indeed, when we see Coward in the film, he’s carefully buttoned up, with tie and hat, in a classic English suit entirely appropriate for the City of London, but rather less so for the noonday streets of Havana.

Noël Coward in Our Man in Havana

I like the film. And I like Graham Greene’s book, on which the film is based, even more. It’s about an intelligence fabricator. When the undisputed master of the spy genre, John le Carré, came to write his own book about an intelligence pedlar, The Tailor of Panama, he had to pay homage to Greene’s Our Man in Havana. It’s the exemplar of this sub-genre, and it sets the bar high. I’m not quite sure that The Tailor of Panama, fine though it is, entirely clears that bar.

However, I digress. It does sometimes occur to me that, implied boast or not, I too sometimes slip into the category of Englishmen who go out in the midday sun. Partly, perhaps, because I was born and spent my early childhood in Rome, and that has left me a constant hankering for heat. Blistering summer? It powers my batteries.

And blistering summer is upon us here in Spain, with the temperatures in the thirties already (no, no, American friends – that’s in real degrees – the nineties in your outmoded system). I revel in it.

Not everyone agrees. Our neighbour Isabel, hearing that our granddaughter Matilda was coming to stay, put all her skills to work to make her a doll. And a wonderful doll it is, too. Then, given the heat we’re experiencing, she decided to make the doll a hat too. It’s much needed in current conditions.

Well, we haven’t tried it on Matilda’s new doll yet. But we have tried it on Matilda herself. It’s maybe not quite her size, but it strikes me as just right for her in every other way. Don’t you agree?

Matilda modelling her doll's hat
assisted by her grandmother

I had a useful lesson in how not everyone sees the heat my way this very morning. I plunged into our local woods with our dogs, striding confidently and comfortably along the paths.

But then I suddenly noticed that Toffee was no longer with us.

This is worrying. Luci, our black toy poodle, never goes too far. Even if she’s put off by a much larger dog (and practically every dog is larger than she is), she’ll just run off a short way into the undergrowth, following along a parallel path, always aware of where we are, so she can rejoin us just as soon as the immediate threat has passed.

Not so Toffee. She can be distracted by many things she shouldn’t go near. A pile of fresh horse dung (yep, we have riders in the woods too). The mouldering remains of a discarded sandwich. Anything she could eat or roll in, to deplorable effect.

The worst is that, being a kind of tan colour – officially, it’s apricot, but basically it looks tan – she tends to blend into the countryside. And since she’s living proof that there’s none so deaf as them that doesn’t want to hear, she can disappear for just as long as she likes, while I rush around searching and calling for her uselessly, in growing panic.

Not this time though. I simply backtracked along the way I’d come. And there she was. She’d found a patch of shade along the sun-drenched path. And she’d simply stretched out in it.

Thus far and no further. Pal.
With Luci in the background, already heading home

The message was clear. “You want to keep walking? Be my guest. But in this temperature, this is more than far enough for me. I want to go home.”

Of course, I went along with her, and took us all three home again. After all, I was in debt to her for an invaluable lesson.

Mad dogs and Englishmen may indeed go out in the midday sun.

But sane dogs don’t.

A bunch of swallows may make the spring

With Spain moving into week 5 of the coronavirus lockdown, we’re counting our blessings here near Valencia. The chief of which is that spring seems to have come at last.

As the lockdown started, so the weather broke. For the first two or three weeks, Valencia seemed intent on making sure that the reservoirs were all full and the new growing plants well-watered. Hardly a day went by without some rain, and in many cases, several hours of the wearisome stuff.

It was as though the very heavens were weeping out of sympathy for our sad, locked-down state.

The reality, of course, is that nature is entirely indifferent to the disruption to our lives. The first hint of that was when we came downstairs one morning to a veritable racket of birdsong. Honestly, if it wasn’t deafening, it wasn’t far off.

“The housemartins are back!” I called to Danielle.

The housemartins return. And that's their nest under our porch

We went out to check, and there they were. Not just one pair, but two, apparently in some rivalry over the tidy little nest in the porch over our front door. By the end of the morning, one pair had established their property rights over it, though oddly enough they were the smaller birds of the four.

They, it seems, are going to be our guests this summer.

Well, I say our guests. I suspect from their point of view, we’re the lumbering irritants who keep coming out of the great unknown space behind their home, disturbing their peace of mind each time we do so. Still, we like to think of the nest as attached to our house, and of them as our housemartins.

They’d been there to greet us when we first moved in last year. We’d been anxiously awaiting them this year, since the beginning of March, wondering each day what had become of them. After all, the nest was right there where they’d left it, just as the architect who was overseeing the work we had done before we moved in had made clear to us.

“You can’t remove the nest,” he told us earnestly, “it’s against the law.”

We had no intention of removing it. The birds were more fun to watch than some of the TV series with which we fill our lockdown evenings. We saw the pair who were staying with us bring up not one, but two clutches of fledglings. Every time we came in, we’d see the heads sticking out of the nest, until eventually they flew off, only to be replaced within a couple of weeks by some more youngsters.

Eventually, they left us again in the autumn. Which, I feel, rather makes the point of their being guests. After all, we’re here the whole year around. They just turn up when it suits them, treating the place as a motel. I’m surprised they haven’t asked us to do their washing for them.

Anyway, they’re back. It’s said that one swallow – and housemartins are swallows – doesn’t make a summer. But there’s a whole bunch of them now, because it’s not just our house that’s received its visitors, but several of our neighbours too. And the warm weather turned up bang on cue right after them.

Which has come as a great pleasure not just to us, but to the other animals we share this house with.

Misty, now a venerable cat, who takes what pleasure he can from just watching birds and dreaming of the past when he would have quickly converted them into pleasant snacks, enjoys lying on the sun-warmed grass. Luci, the black toy poodle likes the sun too. But of all three, none is a more shining example of what it is to be a fully committed sun worshipper than the apricot toy poodle, Toffee.

She’ll share the pleasure willingly with either Misty or Luci if they care to join her. But if they don’t, that’s fine too. She just flops down on the grass in complete contentment, giving us all an object lesson in what it truly means to relax.

Toffee really understands what it is to bask in the spring sunshine
But she's happy to share it with others if they feel the inclination

Like the swallow, Toffee’s a true herald of the coming summer. Which is a welcome break from all that rain. Why, it may even make the lockdown bearable.

Cat flaps and tests of intelligence. Plus relaxation

Relaxation. So important. And so far beyond most of us. Though not beyond our non-human friends.

It’s been a pleasure to watch our pets settling in to our new home here. They certainly seem to like being in Valencia.

Valencia: having fun at the beach in December (Luci's the Luci-coloured one)
What’s not to like?

Luci and Toffee, the toy poodles, had been living with us in our flat, inside Valencia itself. That was fine, because we like the flat and we like Valencia; it was also just five minutes’ walk from the Turia river park, seven kilometres of former river bed now turned into an extraordinary park, with sports pitches and cycle tracks and just plain paths people can walk along, with or without their dogs.

Our two loved it, especially the lake at the end of the park, where they could go swimming after ducks. Well, Toffee would paddle, but Luci would duck hunt with serious intent. That was fun to watch, since Luci would put every ounce of her strength into swimming after them, while the ducks glided calmly across the water in a leisurely way, marginally increasing their speed if she ever showed any sign of getting close.

The flat had disadvantages, however. For instance, there were two flights of uneven stairs to reach it. Toffee struggled on them and put her back out. So then we found ourselves carrying both dogs (why risk Luci putting her back out too?) up and down, four times a day, since there was no easy way to let them out to do what pet owners euphemistically refer to as their “business”.

The other downside was that Valencia is the fiesta capital of Spain and walls tend to be thin. Danielle and I value our sleep and it was a relatively rare commodity where we were living.

Misty, our cat, hadn’t joined us. He’d stayed with the friends who bought our house in England. It would have been too painful to him to live in a flat with no easy access to anything like a garden. Everywhere we’d lived, we’d always provided cat flaps to allow him to slip in and out of doors whenever he wanted.

Then, eventually, we moved. The new place, in La Cañada which is away from the town centre, is much quieter, which suits us. The dogs can get out of the back into a garden, and beyond that, into a bit of a park. Which suits them and us. They can get in and out easily and we don’t have to carry them. There’s also woodland beyond the park, and they get a kick out of going there too.

They get a kick out of visiting the woods too

Just as soon as we’d installed cat flaps, I brought Misty over to join us. He made the trip with surprising good grace, only beginning to protest – with loud mewing – during the last couple of hours of a journey that lasted fourteen and included a fllght. And only once did he pee on me, and only on one of my legs. Excellent behaviour for a cat who’d been through so traumatic an experience.

Now, for what I’m going to say next, I have to choose my words with care. Misty once stalked off into the night and didn’t reappear for twelve hours when Danielle and I were so tactless as to comment unfavourably on his weight. So I’ll just say he’s a large cat. We had to put in a large cat flap.

Our dogs are each around half Misty’s weight. Let me hastily add that they’re unusually small, rather than Misty being unusually big. Consequently, they think of cat flaps as dog flaps.

Toffee has completely mastered the technique. These days, if we’ve been out, we’re generally met on our return by the clatter of a flap followed by Toffee jumping up and down as we come in through the gate.

Luci on the other hand, doesn’t seem always to be up to it. If she gets locked out, she’ll come back in through the flaps, but sometimes she doesn’t seem inclined to go out that way. When Toffee greets us home, Luci ends up scratching the front door from the inside. And whimpering pathetically

This is odd because Luci’s not unintelligent. For example, she’s worked out that we’ve left a gap in the front fence for Misty to use if he wants to get right outside the house. He doesn’t, as it happens. A couple of disagreeable incidents have persuaded us to give him a cat litter tray indoors, since Misty has clearly decided that, at fourteen, he’s sufficiently old not to be forced outside to do his ‘business’.

Instead it’s Luci who makes use of the fence gap. 

In Spain, the council doesn’t collect rubbish from individual houses. Instead, we take it down to the end of the road to throw it into large communal bins. This being the 21st century, they’re colour-coded for different categories of waste.

Imagine my shock when I’d finished carefully sorting a load of refuse and, turning around, discovered that Luci had followed me, leadless, the whole way. Which meant she’d walked independently down a road along which people drive like maniacs.

She occasionally seems unable to get from the house into the front yard. But once there, she knows how to go through the fence and into the road. This means she can follow us wherever we go, whatever the danger to which this exposes her.

Curious. One poodle can manage the cat flaps but not the fence gap. The other hangs back from the cat flaps but knows how to get out into the road.

Meanwhile Misty, for whom the whole setup was put in place, disdains to use any of them and instead takes advantage of his cat litter, without so much as a thank you for the unpleasant chore he leaves us.

Still. At least they’ve all three clearly settled in successfully and are enjoying their lives here. Something I observe from their capacity for total relaxation.

A model to emulate
Toffee and Luci show us what relaxation really means

However, when it comes to complete relaxation, nothing outdoes a cat
As Misty shows us

Emily, whose words speak to me still

One of the benefits of retiring is that I have, over the last few weeks, renewed my acquaintance with a fascinating woman.

Actually, I think it’s more than a mere acquaintance. I like to think of it much more as a friendship.

It’s a one-sided friendship, I grant you that. Well, it could hardly be any other way. Because Emily, as I like to think of her though she’d be more properly referred to as Emilie, does not include among her stellar qualities – brilliance, drive, generosity – the rather practical one of being alive. In fact, she died well over 250 years ago.

Emily at work

As it happens, even if we had been contemporaries, I doubt my friendship would have been reciprocated. As a member of the French aristocracy, and an outstanding intellectual, she would have been unaware of my existence.

Emily may be one of my friends, but I would not have been one of hers.

None of that stopped me working on a novel based on her life. It takes the form of a confession, from her death bed, in which she reflects on all she has done or failed to do, the things that might have gone better, the things that could have been or actually were disasters. I was fascinated by the subject and got the whole thing written bar perhaps twenty pages some three or four years ago.

Other things then got in the way. Work was one, but that has finished. A different novel also held me up: this is the one where I make space available for Misty, our cat, along with Luci, our first toy poodle, and Toffee, the second and the most turbulent of the three, to express their views. These I have stolen from their diaries, and I’m proud of all three for their achievement: after all, most peoples’ pets can barely hold a pen let alone keep a diary.

The first book of their diary extracts (wittily entitled Through a cat’s eyes and dogs’ tales) is now complete and is only looking for a publisher (I say ‘only’ but that’s a far bigger undertaking, it seems to me, than writing the dratted thing in the first place). 

All three animals with Danielle
One of the illustrations by my daughter-in-law Senada

So now I’ve been able to get back to Emily. 

One of the pleasurable aspects of the book is that I’ve used her voice wherever possible. We have a lot of her correspondence, so I know what she actually said about certain events and people (not necessarily what she thought about them: as the politics of today’s world show, what people say isn’t always what they think).

She also wrote a lot, though she didn’t always publish it. For instance, she kept her Discourse on Happiness strictly to herself in her life, though we’ve published it since.

The best way of making sure of happiness, she argued, was to make it depend entirely on yourself. Study, she says, is the best way to achieve that aim. And yet:

…the passion which can give us our greatest pleasure and make us happiest, leaves our happiness entirely dependent on others: you understand that I am talking about love. This passion is perhaps the only one that can make us desire life, and make us grateful to the creator of nature, whoever he might be, for giving us our existence.

Emily had such a passion. The one great love of her life, among many other lesser ones, was for the most celebrated wit and polemicist of their time, Voltaire. But:

I don’t know however whether love has ever brought together two people made for each other to such a point that they would never feel the surfeit of pleasure, or the cooling to which ease and security lead, nor the indolence and half-heartedness which arise from familiarity and the long continuance of a relationship

That was the fate of her bond with Voltaire. Towards the end of her life, they were both indulging in affairs with others. Indeed, she fell pregnant at 42, a dangerous age at that time, as a result of an infatuation for a much younger and entirely inappropriate man. She died as result of an infection associated with childbirth.

Hence the death bed with which my novel starts. But it’s striking that gathered around it, as well as the young man who’d fathered the newborn daughter, there were her husband, always a loyal and supportive friend to her, and, whatever cooling there may have been in their relations, Voltaire, grieving his coming loss.

They remained attached to the end, then. Though Emily was clear that it was she who ensured that was so. There are loves so great, she tells us, that there’s never more than one in a century. Hers was one of those. And it persisted, returned or not, and despite any side dalliances they may have had. The soul that loves, she tells us:

… has to love so much that it loves for two, and that the heat of its heart makes up for what is in fact missing from its happiness.

Across the centuries, I’m as moved as ever by those words from an exceptional friend, however remote she may be.

Canny canines and humble humans

It’s always good to have family come to visit.

The poodles like it too. Each in her own way. When my son Michael and our daughter-out-law Raquel first turned up, Toffee went wild with delight. She recognised them at once, despite not having seen them for months, and she was ecstatic at seeing them again. She danced around them and kept trying to leap up and lick their faces which, considering she barely comes to their knees, was an ambitious endeavour.

Luci in front, Toffee behind, in the woods near our house

Luci was more circumspect. She barked at them as she does at all strangers who have the gall to enter her house, at least until they’ve spent twenty minutes there and she gets used to their presence. But her heart wasn’t really in the barking on this occasion. It was obvious she too was impressed by the rapture being displayed by Toffee and must have been asking herself, “if she’s that enthusiastic about them, perhaps I shouldn’t be too concerned. Especially as they don’t seem completely unfamiliar to me.”

Things quickly settled down and everybody got used to everybody else. In fact, they were particularly affectionate to Raquel, with the unerring instinct of any animal to make straight for the one person who is allergic to them. I can only congratulate Raquel on how obvious she made it to them that she returned that affection, and simply coped with the asthma and general discomfort they inflicted on her.

She’s had to head home, but Michael stayed with us. In fact, he took charge of the place while we were out, and kindly even gave the dogs a walk. And not just along the patch of green at the back of the house, but into the nearby woods which are one of the major attractions to living here.

Funnily enough, while Danielle is able to inspire them with enthusiasm for a walk in those woods, and they’re always keen if a whole group of us accompanies them, if it’s just me or just Michael, the dogs seem reluctant to go very far. Take them off the lead too soon, and there’s a risk they’ll make a beeline for home.

It’s not something that I’ve worked out. Maybe they like being out with a group because it feels like a genuine pack, whereas just three of us leave them feeling far too isolated. Unless Danielle is one of those present, since she has about her that air of quiet mastery that inspires confidence in all around, canine or human.

My technique is to keep them on the lead for rather longer than Danielle does. I release them only when it’s clear to them that we’re having the walk whether they like it or not. I have to say that they give every sign of enjoying themselves for the rest of the walk, although I notice that they only really get out in front of me when we’ve turned unmistakably for home. Maybe just because they’d rather get safely back to Danielle as quickly as possible.

Michael used all these traits to good effect when he took them out alone. He doesn’t know the woods particularly well. He therefore kept the dogs on their leads for a while and systematically went the opposite way from where they were trying to pull him. Once he’d decided that they’d gone far enough, he took them off their leads and simply followed them back, getting safely out of the woods.

“At path intersections, they’d stop and look at me to decide where to go,” he told me, “but since they always stopped at the entrance of the path they obviously wanted to take, I simply went that way.”

The technique apparently worked splendidly. They got home without difficulties, having all had a pleasant and relaxing walk.

Which just goes to show how effective it was for all concerned that, having established his leadership, Michael could then let his followers have their own way. Lead then listen? That sounds like a message it would be good to apply more frequently, even outside the limited sphere of dog walking.

The cat who travelled to Spain

I thought it would be hell.

Back in March, when we moved from England to Spain, we took our dogs but not our cat Misty. We were moving into a flat and, the poor chap, he’d never lived in a place he couldn’t get in and out of easily – and boy he’s lived in a lot of places: as of today, eleven addresses in four countries, not the kind of existence a cat generally finds congenial.

Misty in Luton
where, sadly, we left him behind for far too long

Fortunately, we sold our house to friends and they agreed to look after him until we had a more suitable place for him. A great arrangement: he was with people he liked, in a house he knew, with the same easy garden access as ever.

But then the months rolled on. We began to feel guilty towards our friends – they said they were enjoying having Misty with them, but how long can you really demand that other people look after your cat? – and we began to feel guilty towards Misty himself, after losing contact with him so completely for such a time.

Finally, a couple of weeks ago, all the circumstances aligned. We’d moved out of the flat and into a house, with a garden at the back and a bit of parkland beyond that – just the kind of place likely to appeal to Misty. We’d opened a gap in the fence at the front so he could get out easily and visit the neighbouring cats if he wanted. And I had a business trip to England which I could combine with fetching him.

That’s when I began to dread what I foresaw to be a likely trip from hell.

First, I had to get from London to Luton, where we used to live. That wasn’t a big deal and I completed that stage without much difficulty.

In the BA Lounge at Heathrow
Misty hates the carrier...

Second, I had to get Misty into a zippable pet carrier, which he loathes. The vet had given me something to calm him, which I had to scatter over some of his food, but he’s too savvy for that: he took one smell of the meat, realised it had been adulterated, and wouldn’t touch it. I also had some sprayable happy-cat pheromones with which I liberally anointed the inside of the carrier, and that may have worked: he didn’t complain too much once inside it.

Stage 3 was getting from Luton to the airport. That was OK because we went by cab, which cost a fortune but at least was comfortable and relatively quick. The good thing is that the driver asked whether I had his passport. He thought he was joking, but there really are pet passports, and other documents he needed to fly, and I had indeed forgotten them. The driver’s irony rather saved the day for me, or more to the point, saved the trip.

On the way to Heathrow, Misty peed on me, but I couldn’t hold that against him. He was, after all, badly pissed off so it was probably entirely appropriate. A little emergency washing in an airport toilet dealt with the worst of the problem.

Stage 4 started at check in. Carrier and pet together had to weigh under 8 kilos, but Iberia, one of the only airlines that allows pets in the cabin, has a beautifully Spanish view of that kind of regulation: “8.2 kg,” the man said, “that’s close enough,” and through I went.

Then came security which was where I was terrified that things would fall apart. Fortunately, thanks to the cab driver, I had all the papers. They checked them carefully. They had me take Misty out of the carrier while they searched it – he wasn’t pleased, because I held him firmly and he wanted to wander off – but at any rate, everything turned out to be in order. So I got to the other side of security, breathing a sigh of relief. The most worrying part of the trip was behind me.

I took him out in the plane, briefly
He wanted to go wandering, so had to go back in the carrier...

All that was left was stage 4, the two and a quarter hour flight to Madrid, followed by stage 5, the three and a half hour drive to Valencia. Which turned into something more like five hours because of the storm that lashed us nearly the whole way.

Taking a look around the new place and taking possession

But finally we were home. Misty explored the place with great enthusiasm and slept on our bed that night, since he had us to himself. The next day, we picked up the dogs from where they’d been looked after, and at last all the animals could get together again. There was some slight awkwardness as they got used to each other once more, but they knew each other at once and realised that they were going to be sharing a house again.

Reunited with Toffee and Luci

So the household was complete after a long gap. Misty has settled in straight away and seems to enjoy the place, just as we do. Cat, dogs, humans: we’re set for a life together in Valencia which I hope we’ll all enjoy.

Misty fully settled in

Getting him here hadn’t been anything like the hell I’d feared.

Rebel poodles

Our smaller toy poodle is a bit of a rebel.

You might call her downright bolshie. Or perhaps not entirely bolshie. Simply a troublemaker. Not so much a full-blown red as inclined that way, which I suppose would make her orange. Appropriately, since that’s her colour.

I always say that we call her Toffee because she’s toffee-coloured. And, of course, her black companion Luci is Luci-coloured.

Luci in front, Toffee behind her
Innocence personified. But they can be mutinous. If not very effectively

Both Toffee and Luci are connoisseurs of the mouldy piece of bread or rotting bit of bone found lying around in a park. Good at sniffing them out. Enthusiastic in making a beeline for them.

That, though, is as far as the similarity goes.

Luci, when called, at least has the decency to look up from the tasty morsel she’s getting ready to enjoy. Keep calling and she’ll take a step or two towards you. Call ‘drop’ and she might even drop the mouldy bread or bone that she’s picked up. And, eventually, with obvious reluctance, she’ll trot – not run, mind, just the least speed more than a walk to give the impression of obedience – back towards you.

With Toffee, things are nothing like that. Sure, she’ll look up from her piece of rotting meat if called. But with her it’s not with any intention of heeding a call. No. With her it’s perfectly obvious what she’s doing. She’s judging the distance between us. If it’s far enough to give her the time, she’ll take a bite or two. Too close for that? She’ll pick up the whole piece ready to make a dash for it.

She’s quick on her pins too. More than once she’s made me look both slow and stupid around a park, as I chase after trying to get her drop a piece of evil-looking pasty, with her darting away every time I got anywhere near close enough to pop a lead on her.

With this track record, her behaviour the other day failed to surprise me, but certainly left me amused.

In the morning, the dogs get Kibble. Biscuits. They’re not that fond of them, far preferring the wet food – actual meat – they get in the evening. That’s hoovered up in seconds. The Kibble, well, sometimes it hangs around several hours, with them eating a mouthful or two now, another mouthful or two then.

But the other day Toffee tried a novel approach. She simply ate none of it. I realised that she’d graduated, from mere bolshie troublemaker to full-blown trade unionist. Not just any trade unionist, but a shop steward, a convenor even, organising and leading the workforce.

Of course, the workforce was pretty limited, consisting entirely of Luci. Who, I noticed, in any case had a surreptitious mouthful or two, on the QT, whenever Toffee wasn’t looking.

What made me really laugh, though, was the lousy choice of tactics. It may have been a strike but, for pity’s sake, it was a hunger strike. And it was they who were going to be hungry.

So I’m afraid I behaved like the callous employer responding with a lockout to his employees’ strike. I simply gave them nothing else to eat.

Boy, did the strike collapse fast. Dogs cope even less well than men with hunger. Faced with not being fed at all, our two quickly developed a new appetite for Kibble.

By the evening, their bowls were nearly empty. And I gave them a rather smaller portion of meat, mixing the remaining Kibble in with it. Lo and behold, both meat and Kibble were hoovered up in no time.

The rebellion was over. Order had been established once more. The seat of power was not shaken.

Orange she certainly is. But a red? Toffee certainly isn’t an effective one.