Paw Prints in the Moonlight

by Denis O'Connor

  Hunger drove me to work and after a few false starts I eventually had the fire going and a billycan of water from the stream was soon boiling cheerfully. As the bacon and eggs were reaching the ready stage Toby Jug emerged from the tent and after two or three affectionate strokes from me, he headed off towards a patch of bracken for his morning toilet. I ate my breakfast and drank coffee laced with plenty of the fresh creamy milk, all whilst sitting on a tree stump and being warmed by the morning sun. Toby Jug, having finished his own breakfast, was lying on the broken wall near to Fynn’s head. They acted like old friends, glad to be near each other as if they’d been together for years. Nothing disturbed the serenity of that early morning which served to recharge me emotionally and gave me a healthy dose of peace.

  My plan was to use the site as a base camp for a few days while I explored the hills and valleys beyond. Leaving the provisions out of sight inside the tent and trusting to luck that they wouldn’t be stolen, I took one of the panniers and secured it on the right side of the saddle for Toby Jug. Finally, I filled my water bottle from the stream and the preparations for departure were complete. As we started off, with the hot sun on my back and Toby Jug for the moment happily scampering about alongside Fynn’s left flank, I headed north towards a stretch of pine forest at the top of the Cheviot valleys of Ingram and Langleeford.

  As Fynn jogged along, my eyes were filled with an abundance of green and brown hillsides, thick with bracken and rye grass as yet untouched by human habitation. I was riding through part of the last great northern wilderness, England’s natural heritage, which was regretfully being gradually whittled away as the twentieth century progressed. This morning, however, I could only hope that these wild places would be preserved for future generations of people and animals to enjoy as we were now doing. I looked around for Toby and saw him intently investigating some droppings near a rabbit hole, acting as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be doing. Fynn walked with her head held high, her eyes roving the terrain ahead and her nostrils testing the air. As for me, I was in my element and felt vibrantly alive and contented to be here.

  Soon we drew near to a forest of fir trees and I called Toby Jug and signalled for him to join me on the saddle. He hesitated momentarily, enthralled by his own explorations, but when I called again his common sense took over and he leapt neatly to my lap. Fynn whinnied in alarm at the intrusion. I patted her neck to comfort her and eased Toby Jug into the pannier after first attaching the lead to his harness. I wasn’t sure what we would find in the wood and judged that Toby would be safer attached to me.

  There were areas of deep shadow in the forest as we picked our way along well-defined animal paths which I assumed were deer tracks. Most striking of all to my senses was the all-pervading stillness of the thick conifer trees. I sighted a roe deer hind standing in a glade watching us through the trees, sunlight dappling her back and neck. Alarmed by our sudden presence she swiftly moved off, shepherding twin fawns before her. They made a magnificent sight and it bothered me that the scent of a human being scared her so much. As we progressed further into the forest the conifers bunched even closer together and I frequently had to hold on firmly and lie forward along Fynn’s neck as we passed beneath thick branches. Sometimes Fynn had to rise up on her haunches and jump over fallen trees that barred our way.

  ‘Not much life in this neck of the woods,’ I said to myself, but I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

  As Fynn continued to move ahead warily, Toby Jug peeped apprehensively from his low position in the pannier, his nostrils flaring as he scented the delicious pines and conifers. I could see that his little body was bursting with excitement to explore these strange places. Several times I wondered about the advisability of turning back as the forest ahead grew more impenetrable. In a short while the thick wall of trees became an arched avenue and gave way to a variety of deciduous trees. There were huge oaks and ash, sycamore and beech which made the forest feel much more like an old English wood. Eventually, we arrived at a most welcome sight for weary travellers: a sunlit clearing, a grassy meadow deep in the forest. In relief I called a halt to give us all a well-earned rest.

  I hadn’t a clue where we were but it was such a liberating experience to be wandering at will, without having to care about the ordinary demands of life. I felt like a schoolboy playing truant. It was a delicious feeling. I loosened Fynn’s saddle and let her go to enjoy the sweet meadow grass. As for Toby Jug, I could see he too wanted to be off exploring the woods but I didn’t dare risk losing him here, so I lengthened his lead with a piece of rope which I tied to Fynn’s saddle. Then as I was settling down to eat a bacon and egg sandwich made from the remains of breakfast, I was startled by strange bird calls which seemed to come from all around the meadow.

  At first I could see nothing. The calls were different from anything I had ever heard, a kind of sharp metallic sound repeated over and over again. It was as if they were flying around us but able to use the camouflage of the tree foliage to stay out of sight. Some birds, of course, prefer to be heard but not seen.

  Mystified, I looked around the clearing several times before I finally spotted what I thought was a budgerigar, only slightly larger. It had a red body with dark brown and green-shaded wings and a thick neck like a parrot. Once my eyes became more accustomed I could see several of the birds moving about in the fir trees around a swampy part of the meadow. There were some duller, olive-coloured birds as well, which I guessed might be females. They were coloured white on their lower backs and the white patch could be seen whenever they flitted from one branch to another. Watching them more closely I saw that they were tearing away at unripened conifer cones with hooked bills which resembled those of a parrot but were crossed. What an exciting find. These birds were not native to Britain. They were migrants, I was sure of that.

  Then I realized what they were: I was witnessing a family group of crossbills at work. I had recently read about these birds who had been much in the local news in the mid-1950s. The article I read said that these birds were forced to leave their usual habitat in the more northerly regions of Europe and Russia when the cone crop failed. The birds had migrated out of necessity to the coniferous forests of Northumbria and were especially widespread in the Kielder area. I recalled that a member of staff at the college, an enthusiastic bird-watcher, reported having seen some in the Rothbury woods. Here I was, sitting amongst a flock of them deep in Thrunton Woods, which seemed a thousand miles away from my cottage, having an experience of which some bird-watchers could only dream.

  Keeping as still as possible I watched them feeding. They seemed too pre-occupied to bother about us. Nevertheless, I expect the rapt attention they were receiving from Toby Jug had not gone unnoticed. The sight of these colourful birds was for me an additional bonus on what had already been a special trip. It was also an endorsement of what I had long held to be true. Northumberland was a treasure trove of natural beauty enriched by the rare wildness of its flora and fauna. Just as I was thinking this, a red squirrel emerged from an aged oak only yards from us and began chittering at the crossbill invaders. My pleasure in that perfect afternoon was complete.

  Later, we were riding through thick forest when Toby Jug went on full alert. He looked toward a particularly dense clump of trees nearby. Clearly he had heard or seen, not for the first time in our travels, something I could neither see nor hear. Abruptly, he turned to face me, gave a little cry and before I could react, sped off and was soon out of sight. As frequently happened, I was caught out by the speed of Toby’s response. I started up in surprise and called after him to no avail. Fynn whinnied and snorted as if to say she too was mystified. ‘That makes two of us,’ I said as I tried to figure out what had caused Toby to run off like that. I asked myself if this could be a last goodbye, after all he had tried to communicate something beforehand. Was it perhaps the irresistible and inevitable call of the wild?

  To go after him was impossible; it was already late afte
rnoon and shadows were gathering. I would simply have to sit it out and wait for him to find me if he wanted to. I spent an uneasy night anxiously starting up at the slightest sound, hoping to see the grizzled black-and-white face I so loved. But it didn’t happen. Facing the possibility of not seeing Toby again was very hard. I began to reflect that perhaps he had become bored with living with me, that he yearned for adventure rather than being shackled, however lovingly, to me. After all, he was no longer a kitten. His cat nature would lead him to think as a more independent entity. I began to question who indeed was the slave and who the master in this relationship. I felt as emotionally bonded to him as he no doubt felt to me. But if there was this symbiosis between us, why did he run off like that?

  As time went on and it began to grow dark, I became racked with anxiety. I fed the horse and soaked her muzzle with a damp cloth. Then, feeling quite miserable and depressed, I decided I’d turn in for the night. I had neither eaten nor imbibed my customary glass of wine. I felt abandoned and just wanted Toby Jug to come back to me. I slept fitfully, tossing and turning. Half asleep in the forest I began to imagine the worst, no doubt influenced by my rather intimidating surroundings. But then I awoke with a start. I heard a noise close by: something big, very big, was trying to get into my emergency tent. My worst fear was that it might be an angry badger or other wild animal. Grabbing my torch, I took my courage in both hands and yelled ‘Get away’ as I unzipped the flaps and rushed out.

  Whatever had been there had disappeared. I checked my watch. It was 2.30 a.m. and, of course, it was not yet light. I flashed my torch around, at first discerning nothing. Then I spotted two bright green eyes staring out from the undergrowth. It was a small animal carrying something in its mouth. Peering through the gloom my heart leapt as I recognized Toby Jug, who padded towards me and dropped a huge woodpigeon at my feet. He seemed extremely pleased with himself and I was so overwhelmed at his safe return that, like a parent, I couldn’t decide whether to hug him or reprimand him. In the event I did neither; I just picked him up and cried with relief. He purred and meowed as if to say he was glad to be back. The woodpigeon was clearly meant as a gift for me. Perhaps Toby was also saying sorry he had left. Tomorrow we would be on our way but for tonight I put his harness on and attached the lead to my belt. I was taking no chances. There would be no more absences without leave in the depths of the forest. Actually, he seemed exhausted after his adventures and lay in his usual place across the top of my ankle and soon we were both in a deep sleep.

  We rose later than we usually did the following morning and I accompanied Toby on his morning toilet and ablutions which he completed by rolling over and over in the heavily scented carpet of pine needles that covered the forest floor, luxuriating in the experience to the full. Then, saddling up with the tent and blankets tidily rolled up and tied on Fynn’s back, we set off for the open country bordering the top end of the Wooler Valley. As we rode clear of the forest down a well-travelled bridal path, Fynn snorted and stamped, Toby Jug’s little head turned from side to side and I thought here we go again, now what’s this all about. Were we being watched? Any fears we had were soon forgotten because as we came closer I realized that we had somehow managed to make our way back towards our original campsite.

  I could feel Fynn tensing for a good run which, after all, is what horses are meant to do. At first we cantered, the rocking chair ride, and then I let her have her head and we galloped with the wind in our faces and the sun at our backs. Toby Jug hunched down in his pannier in fear at the motion and the sound of the pounding hooves, his eyes fixed intently on me all the time. For my part I fervently hoped that Fynn, in her gallop, would not step into a rabbit hole. However, in double quick time we were back at camp without any mishaps to find that all there was well and the same as we had left it.

  Before turning in for the night I sat looking around me at the landscape in the light from the setting sun with my customary glass of wine. The mood at our camp was restful as we three took the opportunity to unwind after the day’s travel. I could hear the sound of Fynn munching contentedly in the background. Toby Jug stretched out comfortably by my side and I, at that moment, would not have wished to be anywhere else in the world.

  There is a cadence to the sound of the wind in wild open spaces that has a musical pitch to it and the higher up the hills the more melodic it becomes. High up in the crags and over moorland the wind whines like massed violins, while down in the valley it lilts as it surges through the long grasses. Such harmony has a raw appeal and we three travellers, Fynn, Toby Jug and I, each in our own way, sensed its rare orchestrations. For the whole of the third day we heard only this eerie music as it coursed across the foothills and valleys of the Cheviot Hills. Lonesome birdcalls, many of which I didn’t recognize, accompanied the creak and jingle of Fynn’s saddle and harness. It was so quiet that at times I could even hear my own breathing above the sound of the wind and the muted snores of Toby Jug as he slept in the pannier.

  Spiritually, it was very uplifting and it didn’t matter that the day was dull with heavy grey clouds. We were mute witnesses, Fynn and I, to the wildlife of the hills and heather. We were able to observe all of this because we were just creatures moving across the terrain without threatening anything. A hare loped alongside us no more than ten feet away, curious as to whom we were. We suddenly came upon a fox devouring a rabbit and were given only the merest of cursory glances. There were the birds, rustic-feathered kestrel hawks plaintively crying ‘KiKiKi’ as they scoured the moors for rodents, while overhead some kind of buzzard soared, warily inspecting us. The dark-shaded figures of grouse skittered through the moorland scrub, darting sideways for refuge in the gorse as we advanced. All of them were wild creatures not partial to the human voice, creatures who usually try to keep themselves hidden from its invasive presence. But there were no human shouts and chatter to disturb the ambience of that day.

  It was dusk when we got back to camp and after hastily caring for the horse and Toby Jug, I ate a quick meal of cold baked beans straight from the tin. It had been a splendid day and I felt pleasantly tired. Toby Jug ran amok, catching and eating moths, which as usual upset his stomach, and he came and vomited near me. Clearing away the mess I didn’t have the heart to reprimand him because he hadn’t been his normal chirpy self that day and I suspected that he might be homesick. Having had enough of the moths, he snuggled down next to me. I made a mental note to give him extra attention in the morning. Tomorrow would be the fourth day camping and we were running out of provisions. It was with regret that I realized it was time to pack up the camp and move on. It would take us at least two days to reach home.

  Rising early, I spent a lazy morning under an overcast sky packing for the return journey. I swear I could smell rain. Fynn greeted me with a loud whinny and came forward for some strokes. She had become much friendlier, rather like a big dog, as we got to know each other better. She had almost finished her supply of hay and it would have to be horse nuts and whatever she could forage on the way back. The air had a clammy feel to it and I guessed it would pour down sooner or later. I unpacked my oilskin slicker and tied it behind the saddle.

  Toby Jug seemed to be his old frisky self again as I watched him jumping at flies in the short grass. What a change there had been in him since the time that the professional opinion was that he would never get better, that he would die or at the very best be only a sickly runt of an animal. Here he was in the prime of health and happiness. He had coped with the demands of this camping trip with characteristic enthusiasm and had so far shown the resilience to deal robustly with new situations and novel experiences. I reflected that whatever challenges life threw at this little cat he always came up stronger and more confident. He showed strength of personality in every situation he encountered and I felt proud to have him with me.

  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.