One of the things that I enjoy most about our increasingly regular visits to Spylaw is the opportunity to play at being a farmer. The owners, Andy and Lorna, have added a couple of sheepdogs to their menagerie this time round. They were at great pains to point out that they were working dogs rather than pets, so I’m guessing that they’ve had a couple of visitors who’ve baulked at the idea of keeping them in a pen rather than in the house. I’ve got no problem with it myself; I’ve even started thinking about extending the policy to include visiting in-laws.
On Tuesday Amy and I headed off to the beach while Kerry attempted to catch up on some sleep. While we were gone Kerry discovered that the dogs had somehow escaped and were roaming the paddock. She got them back in without any difficulty, working sheepdogs being exceptionally well trained. We told Andy when he came home that evening and he found and fixed a gap in the netting they had wormed themselves through.
Another thing that I enjoy about Spylaw is that I get to satisfy my primeval urge to mess about with fire. There is a wood burning stove in pride of place in the sitting room and come 6pm, no matter what the actual temperature, I cast a sly glance around the room and casually say
“Brrr… it’s getting a bit chilly in here isn’t it. Are you a bit chilly? No? Well I am. It’s definitely getting a bit chilly in here. I think I best get a fire goingâ€.
Before anyone has chance to offer any dissent I’ve scampered off to the stove and am fervently crumpling up newspaper and making little pyramids of kindling.
It’s beyond me how forest fires ever get started. It takes me half a box of matches and three copies of the Sunday Times in order to get one going. On Thursday I was having particular problems and had to retire to the woodshed in order to get some more supplies. It was dark so I took the Dora the Explorer torch that Greg has recently generously sent Amy. While rummaging around amongst the twigs and logs I heard a rather sinister rustling behind me. Wheeling round, Dora torch in hand, I half expected to have to shout out “Swiper no swiping, Swiper no swiping†(a pre-schooler TV joke. Trust me, its hilarious). Sitting there, panting amiably, was one of the sheepdogs; no doubt very pleased with another successful breakout attempt.
As I mentioned before, the dogs are very well trained. I muttered a “come on then†and it diligently fell into line and followed me down the garden path. On opening the gate between the garden and the neighbouring paddock however all semblance of obedience suddenly disappeared and the dog shot off into the darkness. I went over to the dog pen and opened the door to try and tempt it back in. At that point the second dog made a successful bid for freedom, leapt past me, and also disappeared.
Thankfully this dog didn’t go too far and happily returned about a minute later. Given new confidence by this success I shouted for the original dog to “come†in what I hoped to be a masterful voice. At first I thought I’d cracked it as I heard the sound of footsteps rushing towards me. Then I realised that there were too many footsteps and raising my torch I was rather alarmed to see a flock of sheep coming barrelling towards me.
The dog had obviously misinterpreted my command. Instead of “come here†it had heard “chase all the sheep in the paddock into the dog pen as quickly as you canâ€. The sheep for their part were torn between their desire to get away from the sheepdog and their understandable reluctance to go near the strange panicked looking man waving a Dora the Explorer torch around. Eventually the instinctual fear of the wolf won out and despite my feeble protestations I found myself a newly initiated member of the flock, pinned in the corner of a field by the expert manoeuvrings of a fine example of the sheepdog profession.
I don’t mid admitting I was at a loss what to do. I tried shouting out half remembered commands from one man and his dog: “come-byâ€; “away away†but to no effect. I even had a go at whistling in various pitches and volume, hoping to accidentally stumble across the command for stop messing about with those sheep and get in the bloody kennel, but no luck. What made things worse was that I couldn’t actually see the dog in the darkness, the closest I got was an occasional glimpse of two glowing yellow spheres as its eyes reflected my torchlight, giving the whole affair a rather unwelcome satanic tinge.
In the end I had to admit defeat and extract myself from the flock by climbing over the fence, all hopes of a potential career as a shepherd shattered. Still, my dreams can live on through my children.
