Later that morning, accompanied by Toby Jug, I set off in the car to find out where in Denwick village the horse was waiting for us. The village is in reality a hamlet and travelling by car it is easy to bypass without realizing it. After driving to and fro several times, and making hasty consultations of the sketched map, I eventually found the entrance to a long field flanked by tall hedges of overgrown hawthorn and beech. At the far end of the field, under a huge spread of horse chestnut, stood Fynn in perfect pastoral repose.
After parking the car and leaving a more than slightly miffed Toby Jug shut inside with, as ever, the window slightly open for fresh air, I walked to the gate and tentatively whistled an invitation to Fynn. At the sound, she turned her head in my direction, took a momentary look and then resumed her relaxed pose. She obviously hadn’t recognized me. Sighing with misgivings at the task ahead of me, I unlocked the tack room in search of a rope and bridle. Walking slowly down the field towards her, she again glanced my way, rolled her eyes and trotted off to a far corner of the field. This was going to be harder than I thought.
About an hour later, with sweat running off me, I led a roped, bridled and frisky horse up the field and tethered her to the stable door. By this time a frantic Toby Jug was jumping from one side of the car to the other in a state of apoplexy at being left out of the proceedings. Feeling guilty, I retrieved him from the car and introduced him to Fynn who gave a whinny of greeting but also surprise as Toby leapt from my arms and settled comfortably on her back just below the withers, between the shoulders. Fynn turned her head, gave Toby Jug a long look, snorted and bobbed her head up and down a few times in approval and then resumed standing quietly as I combed her tail.
‘Well I never would have believed it,’ I exclaimed to myself as the two of them obviously hit it off from the very beginning. Diane Forester must have been right about Fynn liking cats and I had thought she had just been making conversation. Sometimes the behaviour of animals really amazes me. The idea of Toby Jug taking so readily to a horse hadn’t crossed my mind as a possibility but then he was so unusual that I should have expected it.
The rest of the day was spent with Fynn and I getting to know each other. I rode her around the field, schooling her to my way of riding and generally familiarizing us with each other. I left a confused and somewhat jealous looking Toby Jug to sniff around the stable and later to watch us forlornly from the roof of the tack room.
Back at the cottage that evening I was in good spirits, having enjoyed the day thoroughly. Fynn was a fine horse, gentle-natured and, once she’d got used to me, easy to handle. I like horses and horse-riding has always appealed to me. With Toby Jug resting peacefully on my lap I got to thinking and had a brilliant idea, or so I thought at the time. It was partly stimulated by the sense of freedom that holiday time brings on but also by the weather forecast on the radio that predicted a prolonged spell of good weather with high pressure systems coming our way. I found the desire to be outdoors and into the countryside an irresistible temptation. Nursing the idea secretly to myself I thought what a surprise it will be for Toby Jug when he finds out. Our life together would soon be taking a more adventurous turn.
My idea was to take Toby Jug with me on horseback to camp for a few days in the Cheviot Hills. I could take full advantage of the fine weather and also Diane Forester’s offer to ride Fynn as much as I liked. It would also do me the world of good after spending so much time indoors at college on office administration. However, there would be some serious planning to do if the trip was to be a success. Transporting Toby Jug on horseback would present a major challenge but I thought I might have a solution if I did decide to take him with me. The alternative of leaving him at my mother’s or a cattery was unthinkable. Anyway, he was sure to get wind of my intentions and if he thought he was going to be left behind he would be inconsolable. If it was possible, I wanted to have him with me. Life with Toby Jug was good fun most of the time and, after all, he deserved a holiday as much as I did.
Setting out to find the supplies I needed necessitated a quick visit to Rothbury, a market town situated over the moors from Alnwick. The main street in Rothbury stretches up a hill on each side of which are all manner of shops. I was looking for one in particular, an archaic leather goods shop, a veritable storehouse of Victoriana that sold antique and second-hand items, including old-fashioned objects for horses and carriages. I wondered if the shop would still be there or whether it would have been by now turned into a snack-bar or coffee shop. It seemed ages since I’d been across to Rothbury, which is such a picturesque town.
Thankfully, the shop was still in existence. After spending an hour or so rummaging amongst old street lamps, various bridles and saddles and even rat-traps, I found what I’d been looking for: a pair of large saddle bags of burnished mahogany leather with strong brass fasteners which I bought for the bargain price of £3.10 shillings. The prize find was a set of twin picnic panniers, in basket weave with leather lids, made to be carried by a donkey, which I reckoned could be adapted to stretch across the back of a horse in front of the saddle. They would be exactly right for packing some food and drink on one side and Toby Jug on the other as long as Fynn didn’t have a tantrum. The panniers were covered in dust and cobwebs and there was a small hole in one of the baskets but I was delighted and cheerfully paid £1 each for them.
Leaving Rothbury behind and delighted with my finds, my next stop was the Army & Navy Supply Store in Alnwick where I equipped myself with a double size sleeping bag for extra comfort, and two lightweight survival tents with a free battery-powered hanging torchlight thrown in. I also bought a mess tin, a billycan and a set of ‘field’ cutlery. Now I was ready for what I hoped would be an adventure.
The night before we were due to leave I caught the bus from Alnwick across to Denwick and rode Fynn back to the cottage for the night. There I bedded her down with some hay and horse nuts and tethered her to an iron ring in the wall of one of the stone outhouses which was open-sided and in which she could find shelter if necessary. Toby Jug was fascinated by all these goings-on and made himself comfortable in the pile of hay near Fynn. For a while I thought he’d deserted me to spend the night by Fynn’s side but when bedtime came around he hastened inside to join me as usual.
I slept only a few hours that night and mostly lay awake imagining everything that could go disastrously wrong with the trip. The sun again woke me and I lay dozing a while, listening to the morning birdsong which served to relieve some of the tension. I was nevertheless glad to be up and about at around six to complete the last minute preparations. I hate waiting about and was eager to get underway. The Horse Transport had been booked for ten that morning and was to take us as far as Alwinton to give the expedition a good start. It arrived an hour late and Fynn refused to go in the horsebox.
As a last resort I copied a trick I had heard from one of the Duke’s grooms who was well practised in dealing with spirited horses. I covered her head with a towel, led her around at a quick trot and raced her into the cab. As I removed the towel she snorted hard and kicked the sides in temper but when I spoke quietly to her and stroked her neck she settled down to munch a few apples I’d brought her. Toby Jug had watched these proceedings at a safe distance but now climbed unbidden into the horse cab and sat atop Fynn’s feeding trough. He could stay there I decided until we were ready to go.
Before departing I slipped Toby Jug into his harness and lead as a precaution and took him to sit up front with the driver and me. As we drove away we were waved off by a small group of infant-school children returning from a nature walk who had stopped with their teacher to watch us loading. I could imagine them having to draw a picture in crayons of what they had seen and I wondered what tales they would tell their parents that evening. Thankfully, I had been spared the attention of my neighbours who were all at work and who, I guess, might have been dubious about the advisability of embarking on such a trip.
Wending our way through the sunlit leafy lanes of rur
al Northumberland was so restful that I found myself unable to resist nodding off, especially since the driver was rather surly and not at all pleased at being given this particular job.
‘You must be ruddy daft,’ had been his only comment when I’d explained our trip to him. ‘You with a horse and a cat right up the ruddy “sticks”. Mad,’ he added for emphasis.
I decided to ignore him. Meanwhile, Toby Jug had perched himself on top of the engine and gearbox cover inside the driver’s cab and was happily surveying all he could see in between catnaps.
Alwinton is a small community in the heartland of rural Northumberland. It took us nearly two hours to reach the Rose and Thistle pub there, which was to be our starting point for the trek. The arrival of the horse-wagon proved to be a momentous event. The lunchtime regulars ambled out, pint glasses in hand, to view our arrival with slack-jawed disbelief. Having resisted going in to the horsebox, Fynn now refused to come out. The driver, exasperated beyond his tolerance level, swore and cursed as he attempted to move half a ton of stubborn horse by manpower alone. He failed miserably.
Somewhat angered by this show of brutality, and embarrassed by the sniggers of the onlookers, I determined to take over myself. Picking a handful of bruised apples from the supplies, I purposefully strode into the horsebox, closely followed by Toby Jug. Fynn slowly turned her head at our approach and, feeling much aggrieved, whinnied in self-pity. Feeding her an apple at a time, and holding her headband, I backed her out of the box to the cheers of the drinkers who eventually drifted back inside the pub. The driver, in a further show of anger, banged shut the doors of the horsebox and, with a sneer in our direction, drove off. I hailed his departure with a sigh of relief.
Toby Jug watched me in a curious mood from his seat on the fence as I loaded Fynn with our supplies. I could see that he was wondering why we were here and where we were going. I had no really firm ideas except for the site of our camp, which I remembered having seen on a country walk some years previously. I guessed it would still be there as little changes in these remote parts of the county. I did expect that we would have some fun along the way. In other words, the journey would unfold as we progressed, that simply was all I had in mind. Finally, everything was packed and with Toby comfortably settled in the left-side pannier, we set off with me leading Fynn towards our first objective. Apart from snorting hard and stamping the ground really hard with a foreleg, Fynn had accepted the indignity of having the panniers on her back but I didn’t dare ride her until she became used to them. Like me and Toby Jug, she was anxious to be moving.
The field climbed away rapidly as we left the Rose and Crown behind us. With a few shaggy-haired Highland cattle and a light breeze to keep us company we climbed ever higher into the hills. It proved to be an excellent day, weather-wise, and I was soon sweating profusely. Casting off my anorak I searched ahead for the campsite I had in mind. Soon, but not early enough for my weary limbs and raging thirst, the ruin of a stone building appeared on the hilltop ahead of us. It was the remains of High Steads Youth Hostel which had been abandoned after a mysterious fire. At the sight of it Fynn, who was no fool, stretched her neck and moved forward at a thrusting trot and I struggled to keep pace with her. On reaching the ruin all I could do was slump on to the grass with a cool drink of water from my flask. Fynn wandered off to the side to drink from a stony burn which had gouged a deep channel down the hillside. Toby Jug, whom I had momentarily forgotten, emerged yawning from his pannier wondering no doubt why we had stopped. He lost no time in joining me on the grass, his eyes vertical black slits in the bright sunlight.
After a brief respite I felt obliged to get things sorted. Donning a pair of sunglasses against the glare, I tethered Fynn to a rusty pole protruding from a crumbling wall and set about unpacking and making camp for the night.
On looking over the ruin I decided it would be too risky to camp within its walls and chose instead to pitch the tent in the lee of the building under a stunted hawthorn tree which had a most wonderfully shaped trunk, all rugged and gnarled. A product of nature’s artistry, it was a delightful thing to look at. I placed the saddle-bags and panniers between the back of the tent and the trunk of the tree and covered them with a waterproof sheet. I fed Fynn some small pellets of food known as horse nuts and some apples, and Toby Jug a tin of his favourite cat food. For myself I unpacked some prepared meat sandwiches and a flask of hot coffee and, for later, I wedged a bottle of Moscatel de Valencia in the stream so that it would become refreshingly cold to bring out the full Spanish flavour. While the horse contentedly rested and Toby Jug hunted insects in the grass, I collected twigs and branches from a nearby stand of trees to make a cooking fire in the morning.
In the cool of the evening I saddled Fynn and rode off in search of the farmer whose hayfields we’d passed on the journey up to the campsite. Toby Jug seemed happy enough to scramble after us on the short grass as Fynn walked and trotted the short distance. As we came nearer to the field I could see that men were already busy loading hay so I was just in time. Thankfully, there were no dogs about and I was able to leave Toby Jug playing around while Fynn cropped the hay stubble and I went to talk to the labourers. The farmer and his two helpers were very friendly and when they heard where I was camped, offered to drop off a couple of bales at the camp before they finished for the night.
Returning to the camp proved to be a marvellous experience, which made all the tasks of the day worthwhile. As we topped a ridge, the sky enveloped everything around us in glorious colour, glowing with vivid reds and pinks intermingled with subtler shades of aquamarine and purple. I felt as if I was in another world, so enriching were the sensations of being at one with the landscape and the heavens above. Mesmerized by the view I could only stare. Fynn, of her own accord, came to a halt and stood motionless. Toby Jug stopped gambolling and settled down in the grass to be part of it, too. I gazed in awe at the scenic feast around us. No sound disturbed the perfect stillness. Man, horse and cat were enchanted by a vision of nature, which was primeval in essence. We remained for a long while, captivated by its splendour.
Back at the campsite I unsaddled and loose-tethered Fynn and had just finished rubbing her down when the farmer arrived with the hay bales. We exchanged pleasantries for a while during which he mentioned that he could let me have some fresh eggs and home-cured bacon in the morning if I wished. Accepting this unexpected bonus with pleasure, I paid him immediately and we bade each other goodnight.
‘Look here!’ he called as he went to start his tractor. And there was Toby Jug lying in easy comfort on the soft cushion the farmer used on the steel seat of the tractor. ‘Should I take him with me?’ he laughed as he stroked Toby Jug who responded in typical extravert style by rubbing his head against the farmer’s tweed jacket and making throaty purrs.
‘He’s a bonny little thing,’ he said affectionately as he lifted him down.
Spooked by the noise of the tractor starting up, Toby Jug abandoned his social graces and headed straight for my shoulder as I waved goodbye to the friendly man. Such friendliness was not uncommon in the countryside and made me feel most welcome and at home here in the hills.
After spreading a night’s ration of fresh hay for Fynn I retrieved the bottle of Moscatel – pudding wine my grandmother called it – from the stream and unpacked the carefully wrapped wineglass I’d brought with me. Wine didn’t taste the same to me if it was sipped from anything other than a well-formed wineglass. The setting sun suffused the amber liquid with dancing lights as I held the glass high before me to better appreciate the colour of the wine and to toast Mother Nature and the universe at large. One glass was all it took to start me nodding with tiredness. Partly undressed, I slipped into my sleeping bag and leaned back against Fynn’s saddle which, in true cowboy style, was to be my pillow. I remember little of the night except for Toby Jug moving around the tent as he changed sleeping positions and some bird calls that added an exquisite wild tone to the whole experience.
Th
e sound of hooves pounding the ground jerked me awake. Bleary eyed I squinted through a gap in the tent flap only to see a herd of sheep moving by the tent, guided by two sheep dogs and an shepherd waving his crook. It was 5.30 a.m.
‘Country dwellers rise early, really early,’ I muttered to nobody in particular as Toby Jug merely stretched and yawned without apparently once opening his eyes. Feeling stiff and crotchety after lying on the hard ground, I was glad to be up and about. Imagine my surprise to find a cardboard box containing half-a-dozen fresh eggs still with hen’s droppings on them, four thick slices of home-cured bacon, wrapped in greaseproof paper and a free half pint of milk, all left as promised by the friendly farmer. And I hadn’t heard a sound of his coming or going.
Glad to be standing and stretching after the cramped conditions of the tent I gazed around at the green hillsides. They were coated in a film of mist through which the pale yellow sun was just beginning to burn. Fynn lifted her head from her grazing and snorted a welcome. She seemed perfectly content to be here and had eaten all the horse nuts and most of the hay during the night. As I rubbed her muzzle and stroked her neck by way of saying ‘Good morning’, she looked more at ease in these natural surroundings than she had done yesterday. The air was exhilaratingly fresh, smarting my lungs with its coolness. There was no sign of movement anywhere except for a sudden wafting of wings through the sky above as a covey of partridges flew in the direction of the hayfield we’d visited last night.
Paw Prints in the Moonlight Page 10
