Now, I get asked a lot of questions, working in this industry. Usually I can answer them all brilliantly, succinctly and accurately. But occasionally one will crop up which absolutely (to coin a revolting phrase) blindsides me. Just like the one I was asked a few weeks ago. I'd been merrily chatting away to a lovely chap who wanted to go to Africa on safari. He'd obviously done his research, talked knowledgeably about going for walks in the bush, the different places he wanted to visit and what he wanted to do when he got there. And then he asked me one of "those" questions. The ones that make you want to splurt with laughter but of course you can't, because there's a client on the phone who will probably get rather irritated with the sound of your giggles down the phone line. So what did he ask, I hear you say. Well here it is.
"How many orangutans will I see in Africa?"
Dear reader, I swear I thought he was kidding. I really did. I mean, having done as much research as he obviously had, and to be as seemingly knowledgeable as I thought he was, I was sure that he was taking the mick. So of course I treated it as a joke. Laughed a little and then said something about the fact that he was such a joker. But unfortunately he wasn't kidding. He was being serious. I'm serious.
Of course, every safari consultant worth their salt has stories of Questions I Have Been Asked - such as "what is the rainy season? Is that when it rains all the time?" and "do I need to bring food to feed the animals?" But this one really took the biscuit (chocolate hob-nob, since you ask). How does one dig oneself out of that one? I know I occasionally have a habit of only opening my mouth to change feet, but surely I can be forgiven for my response to this?
It reminds me of a particular safari I took when I was a mere whippersnapper. We had a superb guide, Marcus, with a weatherbeaten face, copper bangles on his wrists (with the obligatory green stains on his arms), very short shorts, a bush knife that would shame Crocodile Dundee hanging from his belt, and a lion's tooth on a leather thong around his neck. Classic Safari Guide, circa 1985. Being an impressionable teenager, I developed an enormous crush on him and followed him, fawning unashamedly, around his camp. To his credit, he treated this hormone-addled hanger-on with gentleness, even going so far as to whip out his knife to dig a thorn out of my foot (I had the romantic notion of walking round barefoot to impress him. Until I stood on a thorn and squealed like a golfer who's just been hit in the nuts with a golf club). This was true Safari Fever. I had just watched Out of Africa, with the aristocratic Baroness Blixen and the rugged Denys Finch-Hatton. I won't make you nauseous with all the daydreams I conjured up, whilst gazing into the middle distance. Suffice to say I thought he was "well lush", to emulate the vernacular of the day.
But lovely Marcus didn't suffer fools gladly. Which was proved on a rather exciting game drive that we took. I sat next to him in the passenger seat (how obvious was I?) and there were two other guests in the back of the cruiser. We stopped to watch a pride of lion, doing what lions do, which is essentially sleeping and farting. One of the guests leant forward. Marcus leant back, to listen to her. She cleared her throat.
"What time is feeding time?"
Marcus smirked, and cleared his throat. We all waited with bated breath while he considered his response. What nugget of fascinating information was he about to impart?
"Take a walk, and you'll find out".
Friday, 29 January 2010
Wednesday, 20 January 2010
Remembering Mum
I think it's fair to say that January, as a month, is a tricky one. Christmas is all over and done with, the credit card bills are coming in, it's cold and rainy (and occasionally snowy) and it's the month when we're all hoping that our long overdue Christmas bonus will arrive.
But for me, and for my brothers, January is a particularly poignant month. And a difficult one. January 21st, to be precise. This January 21st marks the eighth anniversary of the death of our mother. Eight whole years. Four hundred and sixteen weeks. Two thousand, nine hundred and twelve days.
Each year that it's come round, I've dreaded it. Not so much the day itself but what it's come to represent. Another year without Mum. Things that were blurry memories suddenly come into sharp focus. I remember clearly when we all came home from the hospital, shell-shocked, wretched and disbelieving. Mum's clothes were still on the bedroom chair where she'd left them, her slippers by the door, her coffee cup on her desk, still with a remnant of coffee at the bottom. I kept that mug for years and years, untouched. I still have her favourite t-shirt, long since divested of her scent.
Mum died, age 54, of complications arising from the influenza virus. Half an hour after I'd brought her a fresh glass of lucozade, I went up to her room to find her, apparently asleep. But she wasn't sleeping. Those minutes that passed between my finding her and the ambulance arriving were the loneliest moments I've ever spent in my entire life. I was wracked with guilt for years afterward because I think I remember shouting at her as I was trying to resuscitate her. But she was gone. It was apparently the most random occurrence, as if God had lined up everyone in Oxfordshire and taken a pot shot.
And now, eight years later, I still remember the little things about Mum. It's a cliche, but she was my best friend. We'd snuggle up on her bed with mugs of hot chocolate and talk about everything. I remember her way of giving little signs - a secret smile, a wink, a quick squeeze of my fingers. I remember the way that she laughed, throwing her head back and clasping her hands. And the way that she stood, always with one foot on tiptoe. It's something I unconsciously do now.
People say that you have to wait two years after the death of a close one to feel even slightly normal again. I'm not sure that's necessarily right. I think rather it comes in fits and starts. One day I can be fine, and then the next I can feel as if I'm at the bottom of a long tunnel, looking up at blackness. Then the next day I'm fine again. It catches you unawares. There's a piece in one of my favourite books, describing a Mother's grief over the death of her daughter. She talks about how she keeps moving, and that way her grief streams out behind her, like a swimmer's long hair in water. It's only when she stops moving that it entangles her, and pulls her down. That struck a real chord with me.
But we move on, and continue to exist, because there is no alternative. I think about Mum every day, and miss her every day. I grieve for my future children, having missed out on knowing the best Granny there could have been. And, I get angry. Very angry. Occasionally with Mum. Of course it is not her fault that she had to leave us, but the fact is, she did. Grief produces all sorts of irrational thoughts, and it's learning how to deal with them that is the grieving process. in the beginning, I was overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers. The man in a blue four wheel drive who found me, hysterical and screaming in our drive while the paramedics worked on Mum, and gently put his arms round me, telling me to just breathe, just breathe. The lady in Waitrose who put down her shopping, took me by the hand and led me gently out of the store when she found me, sobbing and incoherent, in the breakfast aisle, clutching a pot of Mum's favourite marmalade. And all the people who have confided in me their thoughts, their feelings, their grief at the loss of one of their loved ones. Although I am now part of a club I never wanted to join, it's a comfort to know that the other members are so friendly.
So, another year passes. I fight a little harder to keep the memories of Mum fresh in my mind, surround myself with pictures of her, and try to be the person that she'd want me to be. I know I don't succeed all of the time. But as Mum used to say, "it's the fact that you've tried that counts".
And I count myself lucky. For twenty-seven years, I knew a beautiful, strong, sparkling, feisty and brave lady, who I was lucky enough to be able to call Mum. And I would not change that for the world.
Saturday, 16 January 2010
The Ballad of the Drunken Honey Badger
Okay, okay, I give in. The pressure's just too much. Here, in all its glory, is the story of the drunken honey badger.
I should perhaps explain first what a honey badger is, shouldn't I? The name sounds lovely - all cuddly and sweet. Honey badger. You imagine a snuggly, cuddly little furry animal with beetle-black eyes, a sweet disposition and big floppy paws, right? Wrong.
Honey badgers are psychotic with a capital P. More vicious than Mike Tyson on acid, harder than Vinnie Jones with a chainsaw and more irritable than me after I've just found a parking ticket on my car. These chaps mean business. They are, for all their ferocity, relatively small - about a metre long, with big claws and very sharp teeth. And a slightly squished nose. Although don't tell them I said that. They live in the wild bush of Africa, and their staple diet is....you've guessed it, honey. But of course in Africa, eating honey is not all about popping down to your local supermarket and buying a jar. Oh no. These chaps rip open bees nests with their bare paws and scoff down the honey then and there. Whilst being stung. Repeatedly. All over. By millions of bees. Are you beginning to get the picture?
But that's not the only thing they do. Legend tells of honey badgers attacking land cruisers, lions, hyenas and even killing buffalo. Don't ask me how they do it. Suffice to say a bull buffalo has a very tender area dangling between his back legs, and honey badgers have very sharp teeth. Nuff said.
So, when we discovered that we had a resident honey badger at my camp, I have to say I was none too pleased. I think my exact words were "we need more ammunition". I was not happy that he'd moved in. So I named him Herbert. Very anthropomorphic, I know. The other resident animals around camp weren't too happy either. For months beforehand, our camp had entertained the wonderfully dimwitted Henry, our resident hyena. Henry was a sweetie. And I say that even though he used to break into my shower (hosepipe in a tree, to be exact) and steal my soap and toothpaste. We would find the bars of soap outside camp with teethmarks and slobber all over them. At least it would freshen his breath! But Henry was harmless. I think goofy would be a good way to describe him. He'd blunder around in our kitchen scullery area looking for scraps, try to get into the kitchen and occasionally wander off with a coolbox in his mouth. We quite liked having him around.
But all this changed when Herbert moved in. Poor Henry got the shock of his life one evening, when, mooching around the kitchen as was his routine, he came round the corner to find a snarling, growling, spitting honey badger. Now I must add here that Henry was about twice the size of Herbert. And hyenas are known for their incredible bite strength - their jaws can crack elephant bones. So what did Henry do? Draw himself up to his full height and growl back? Start squaring up? Nope. He turned tail and ran, whimpering. Such is the fear engendered when a honey badger is around.
So, having Herbert resident in our camp certainly kept us on our toes. Heading into the back of camp to get more ice, or more glasses, we were all on the alert for that raspy growl that signalled that he was around. More than once he chased me right through camp, growling all the way. He was not popular.
So, onto our story. Camp was a simple affair, with a big wooden bar between the trunks of two trees, and a couple of makeshift shelves for all our bottles of gin, vodka, amarula etc. One night, as usual, Herbert came into camp and started ferreting around in the kitchen area. A few days previously, he'd broken into our storecupboard, ripped open all the packets of sugar and flour, pooed on it and then slept in it. When Frances, our chef, opened the door the next morning, a floured, sugared and pooey honey badger hurtled straight between his legs and off into the bush. Poor Frances was so shocked he had to sit down and have a glass of brandy. Given that Herbert made his escape between Frances' legs, and Frances knew about honey badgers and buffalos, I'm not surprised he was a bit shaky. So when Herbert came back, he found the storecupboard door firmly boarded up.
I can only assume what happened next, but I imagine the following: Herbert, thwarted in his quest to make another Honey Badger Mud Pie, then sauntered down to the bar area. I imagine that he climbed up onto the bar, stood on his hind legs and sniffed at the bottles there. I imagine that the Amarula bottle fell down onto the sand, and that Herbert, with his very strong teeth, chewed through the metal cap.
The evidence the next morning was clear: scratch marks on the storecupboard in the kitchen, footprints leading to the bar, footprints on the bar counter and an empty bottle of Amarula behind. Oh, and, not forgetting the unconscious honey badger, lying on his back in an attitude of utter bliss. And snoring loudly.
This presented us with a dilemma. We had guests in camp, and the world's most irritable creature was about to wake up with the world's worst hangover. Nul points for 'elf and safety. It was decided that he must be moved out into the bush to sleep it all off. And there started the second problem of the day. None of the camp staff wanted to go near him, let alone touch him (honey badgers can be very smelly at times. But again, don't tell them I said that.) I tried bribery. I tried threats. I tried stamping my foot. In the end my wonderfully brave scout offered to help but only if he could be at the foot end. I would have to take the head end, close to those needle-sharp teeth. We took up our positions. I grabbed Herbert's front paws, John grabbed his back paws, and together, puffing and panting, we half-dragged, half-carried him off into the bush. About a few hundred yards out of camp (a safe distance, we figured, although our exhaustion may have played a part in the decision) we dumped him unceremoniously under a large tree and went back.
I have to say, I can be quite sentimental sometimes. For even though Herbert was the bane of my life, and terrified me to my very soul when he chased me around camp, I found myself feeling rather concerned about him. Would he ever wake up? Had he drunk so much that it might kill him? Obviously I didn't want that. How would I explain to the park authorities that I'd poisoned a honey badger with a bottle of Amarula? So I kept just wandering out of camp and checking on him. Our guests came back from their morning walk - he was still slumbering. After brunch, I checked again. Still asleep. I went out just before afternoon tea, and he was still blotto. Finally, as we were clearing away afternoon tea and the guests were heading out on their afternoon walk (in the opposite direction, I might add) he started to stir. We watched from a safe distance.
Having staggered to his feet, he then shook his head a few times and growled. Clearly he had a stonker of a headache. He then attempted a few steps. But ended up walking in circles, as if his left legs were shorter than his right. He sat down hard on his haunches a few times, and then wobbled back to his feet, growling all the time. Finally he managed to take a few steps - and walked headlong into the tree that we'd put him under. He jumped back, growled at the tree trunk, and then unsteadily made his way round the tree and off into the bush. We heard his growls getting fainter. Isaac, our camp barman, swears he heard a hiccup.
Poor Herbert! I did feel rather sorry for him. Having never had a hangover before, how must he have felt after an entire bottle of Amarula! He didn't appear in camp at all for the next week, giving Henry a welcome holiday from being snarled at. I actually started to miss him. But then he came back. And let us know in no uncertain terms how grumpy he was at having been poisoned. When we walked into the (animal-proof, or so we thought) kitchen the next day, it had been well and truly Herbetted. I won't describe the carnage. Suffice it to say, Herbert had got his revenge. Well and truly. And as a final "cherry on the top", he'd left his calling card. Not just anywhere though, as you might think. No. He positioned it very carefully, right on top of our booze store.
That's one honey badger that you could end up seeing at an AA meeting.
I should perhaps explain first what a honey badger is, shouldn't I? The name sounds lovely - all cuddly and sweet. Honey badger. You imagine a snuggly, cuddly little furry animal with beetle-black eyes, a sweet disposition and big floppy paws, right? Wrong.
Honey badgers are psychotic with a capital P. More vicious than Mike Tyson on acid, harder than Vinnie Jones with a chainsaw and more irritable than me after I've just found a parking ticket on my car. These chaps mean business. They are, for all their ferocity, relatively small - about a metre long, with big claws and very sharp teeth. And a slightly squished nose. Although don't tell them I said that. They live in the wild bush of Africa, and their staple diet is....you've guessed it, honey. But of course in Africa, eating honey is not all about popping down to your local supermarket and buying a jar. Oh no. These chaps rip open bees nests with their bare paws and scoff down the honey then and there. Whilst being stung. Repeatedly. All over. By millions of bees. Are you beginning to get the picture?
But that's not the only thing they do. Legend tells of honey badgers attacking land cruisers, lions, hyenas and even killing buffalo. Don't ask me how they do it. Suffice to say a bull buffalo has a very tender area dangling between his back legs, and honey badgers have very sharp teeth. Nuff said.
So, when we discovered that we had a resident honey badger at my camp, I have to say I was none too pleased. I think my exact words were "we need more ammunition". I was not happy that he'd moved in. So I named him Herbert. Very anthropomorphic, I know. The other resident animals around camp weren't too happy either. For months beforehand, our camp had entertained the wonderfully dimwitted Henry, our resident hyena. Henry was a sweetie. And I say that even though he used to break into my shower (hosepipe in a tree, to be exact) and steal my soap and toothpaste. We would find the bars of soap outside camp with teethmarks and slobber all over them. At least it would freshen his breath! But Henry was harmless. I think goofy would be a good way to describe him. He'd blunder around in our kitchen scullery area looking for scraps, try to get into the kitchen and occasionally wander off with a coolbox in his mouth. We quite liked having him around.
But all this changed when Herbert moved in. Poor Henry got the shock of his life one evening, when, mooching around the kitchen as was his routine, he came round the corner to find a snarling, growling, spitting honey badger. Now I must add here that Henry was about twice the size of Herbert. And hyenas are known for their incredible bite strength - their jaws can crack elephant bones. So what did Henry do? Draw himself up to his full height and growl back? Start squaring up? Nope. He turned tail and ran, whimpering. Such is the fear engendered when a honey badger is around.
So, having Herbert resident in our camp certainly kept us on our toes. Heading into the back of camp to get more ice, or more glasses, we were all on the alert for that raspy growl that signalled that he was around. More than once he chased me right through camp, growling all the way. He was not popular.
So, onto our story. Camp was a simple affair, with a big wooden bar between the trunks of two trees, and a couple of makeshift shelves for all our bottles of gin, vodka, amarula etc. One night, as usual, Herbert came into camp and started ferreting around in the kitchen area. A few days previously, he'd broken into our storecupboard, ripped open all the packets of sugar and flour, pooed on it and then slept in it. When Frances, our chef, opened the door the next morning, a floured, sugared and pooey honey badger hurtled straight between his legs and off into the bush. Poor Frances was so shocked he had to sit down and have a glass of brandy. Given that Herbert made his escape between Frances' legs, and Frances knew about honey badgers and buffalos, I'm not surprised he was a bit shaky. So when Herbert came back, he found the storecupboard door firmly boarded up.
I can only assume what happened next, but I imagine the following: Herbert, thwarted in his quest to make another Honey Badger Mud Pie, then sauntered down to the bar area. I imagine that he climbed up onto the bar, stood on his hind legs and sniffed at the bottles there. I imagine that the Amarula bottle fell down onto the sand, and that Herbert, with his very strong teeth, chewed through the metal cap.
The evidence the next morning was clear: scratch marks on the storecupboard in the kitchen, footprints leading to the bar, footprints on the bar counter and an empty bottle of Amarula behind. Oh, and, not forgetting the unconscious honey badger, lying on his back in an attitude of utter bliss. And snoring loudly.
This presented us with a dilemma. We had guests in camp, and the world's most irritable creature was about to wake up with the world's worst hangover. Nul points for 'elf and safety. It was decided that he must be moved out into the bush to sleep it all off. And there started the second problem of the day. None of the camp staff wanted to go near him, let alone touch him (honey badgers can be very smelly at times. But again, don't tell them I said that.) I tried bribery. I tried threats. I tried stamping my foot. In the end my wonderfully brave scout offered to help but only if he could be at the foot end. I would have to take the head end, close to those needle-sharp teeth. We took up our positions. I grabbed Herbert's front paws, John grabbed his back paws, and together, puffing and panting, we half-dragged, half-carried him off into the bush. About a few hundred yards out of camp (a safe distance, we figured, although our exhaustion may have played a part in the decision) we dumped him unceremoniously under a large tree and went back.
I have to say, I can be quite sentimental sometimes. For even though Herbert was the bane of my life, and terrified me to my very soul when he chased me around camp, I found myself feeling rather concerned about him. Would he ever wake up? Had he drunk so much that it might kill him? Obviously I didn't want that. How would I explain to the park authorities that I'd poisoned a honey badger with a bottle of Amarula? So I kept just wandering out of camp and checking on him. Our guests came back from their morning walk - he was still slumbering. After brunch, I checked again. Still asleep. I went out just before afternoon tea, and he was still blotto. Finally, as we were clearing away afternoon tea and the guests were heading out on their afternoon walk (in the opposite direction, I might add) he started to stir. We watched from a safe distance.
Having staggered to his feet, he then shook his head a few times and growled. Clearly he had a stonker of a headache. He then attempted a few steps. But ended up walking in circles, as if his left legs were shorter than his right. He sat down hard on his haunches a few times, and then wobbled back to his feet, growling all the time. Finally he managed to take a few steps - and walked headlong into the tree that we'd put him under. He jumped back, growled at the tree trunk, and then unsteadily made his way round the tree and off into the bush. We heard his growls getting fainter. Isaac, our camp barman, swears he heard a hiccup.
Poor Herbert! I did feel rather sorry for him. Having never had a hangover before, how must he have felt after an entire bottle of Amarula! He didn't appear in camp at all for the next week, giving Henry a welcome holiday from being snarled at. I actually started to miss him. But then he came back. And let us know in no uncertain terms how grumpy he was at having been poisoned. When we walked into the (animal-proof, or so we thought) kitchen the next day, it had been well and truly Herbetted. I won't describe the carnage. Suffice it to say, Herbert had got his revenge. Well and truly. And as a final "cherry on the top", he'd left his calling card. Not just anywhere though, as you might think. No. He positioned it very carefully, right on top of our booze store.
That's one honey badger that you could end up seeing at an AA meeting.
Friday, 1 January 2010
'Tis the season to remember...
I've had a fantastic Christmas. No, I'm not boasting (well, maybe just a little bit). But it was simply lovely. Snow, mulled wine, an enormous great glistening turkey, wonderful company, lunchtime pub-visits, presents, it was a picture-postcard of how Christmas should be. All this despite the fact that Wonderful Man and I both came down with the Christmas flu bug that's been going round (a perfect excuse for a hot toddy!).
But today I'd like to remember something else. In fact, someone else. My wonderfully eccentric, slightly dotty, larger-than-life Auntie Gwen. Sadly we heard that she'd died of a heart attack early on Boxing Day morning.
It's always hard when someone dies at Christmastime - in the midst of all the celebration, the Christmas cheer, the laughter, there's a sad pause, an emptiness that doesn't dominate but still affects. As Sting rightly puts it, "there's a little black spot on the sun today...."
Auntie Gwen was a character. My first memories of her were trips down to her house on the edge of a huge valley, sitting in her large drawing room with its oil paintings of ducks, making funny shaped bread rolls with her in her oven, climbing the trees in her orchard and shaking the branches so the apples would fall, and playing with her dogs. For Auntie Gwen always had dogs. From Patsy, her horse-sized Newfoundland who I could ride on as a small child, to a huggably soft springer spaniel called Bracken (if memory serves me) to her last dog, an enormous and excitably bouncy labrador cross called Shadow. Auntie Gwen was never without a dog. Legend had it that when she'd adopted a tiny little dog (her one and only small dog) and it bit her, she bit it right back. On the nose.
We loved our visits to her house, scrambling up and down the steep banks of her wild garden, thrashing around with Patsy, fishing in the streams and then climbing the trees to crunch down mouthfuls of teeth-gratingly sharp apples. Patsy taught me one of my first lessons about animals and death - hearing a high pitched cry, I jumped over the wall to see her shaking a rabbit, floppy and broken-necked in her mouth. Rather than being repulsed, we were fascinated.
While we made free with her garden, she would sit for hours in her swinging seat with my mother, their gentle laughter drifting over to where we would be digging up worms, making dams in the stream, or simply making huge piles of shiny apples. She and my mother had a beautiful connection, ever since my mother was a child and would go and stay with Auntie Gwen on her farm. Together they would pick daffodils, feed the calves, walk along the hedgerows, go and say hello to the horses (starting a lifelong love affair with horses for my mother) and spend their days outside in the sun. My mother used to tell us her favourite story about bathtime - Auntie Gwen would station her golden retriever, Goldie, to watch over Mum in the bath. The moment she walked out of the room, Mum would call the dog, who, ever playful, would leap merrily into the bath, splashing water everywhere. When Auntie Gwen came back in with warmed towels, she would find Mum shampooing Goldie's hair, the dog sitting in the bathwater looking utterly blissful.
In later years, Auntie Gwen lived halfway up a remote welsh mountain, overlooking hills and valleys, first with another newfoundland, Bumble (approximately the size of a bear), and then with the inimitable Shadow. A little older, a little more stooped, and maybe a little more dotty, she still replied to my letters faithfully, telling me about Shadow, about the village, the weather. On one memorable occasion when I visited with my brother, she demonstrated her bath-lift to us. Fully clothed, of course but still slightly disconcerting!
Auntie Gwen was the last of the older female generation in our family. I like to think that she's happy somewhere with the rest of her family - her mother (my great-grandmother), her sister (my grandmother), her niece (my mother) and all the other strong and feisty females that make up my ancestors. Probably with a large gin and tonic in her hand.
Auntie Gwen, wherever you are...we salute you.
But today I'd like to remember something else. In fact, someone else. My wonderfully eccentric, slightly dotty, larger-than-life Auntie Gwen. Sadly we heard that she'd died of a heart attack early on Boxing Day morning.
It's always hard when someone dies at Christmastime - in the midst of all the celebration, the Christmas cheer, the laughter, there's a sad pause, an emptiness that doesn't dominate but still affects. As Sting rightly puts it, "there's a little black spot on the sun today...."
Auntie Gwen was a character. My first memories of her were trips down to her house on the edge of a huge valley, sitting in her large drawing room with its oil paintings of ducks, making funny shaped bread rolls with her in her oven, climbing the trees in her orchard and shaking the branches so the apples would fall, and playing with her dogs. For Auntie Gwen always had dogs. From Patsy, her horse-sized Newfoundland who I could ride on as a small child, to a huggably soft springer spaniel called Bracken (if memory serves me) to her last dog, an enormous and excitably bouncy labrador cross called Shadow. Auntie Gwen was never without a dog. Legend had it that when she'd adopted a tiny little dog (her one and only small dog) and it bit her, she bit it right back. On the nose.
We loved our visits to her house, scrambling up and down the steep banks of her wild garden, thrashing around with Patsy, fishing in the streams and then climbing the trees to crunch down mouthfuls of teeth-gratingly sharp apples. Patsy taught me one of my first lessons about animals and death - hearing a high pitched cry, I jumped over the wall to see her shaking a rabbit, floppy and broken-necked in her mouth. Rather than being repulsed, we were fascinated.
While we made free with her garden, she would sit for hours in her swinging seat with my mother, their gentle laughter drifting over to where we would be digging up worms, making dams in the stream, or simply making huge piles of shiny apples. She and my mother had a beautiful connection, ever since my mother was a child and would go and stay with Auntie Gwen on her farm. Together they would pick daffodils, feed the calves, walk along the hedgerows, go and say hello to the horses (starting a lifelong love affair with horses for my mother) and spend their days outside in the sun. My mother used to tell us her favourite story about bathtime - Auntie Gwen would station her golden retriever, Goldie, to watch over Mum in the bath. The moment she walked out of the room, Mum would call the dog, who, ever playful, would leap merrily into the bath, splashing water everywhere. When Auntie Gwen came back in with warmed towels, she would find Mum shampooing Goldie's hair, the dog sitting in the bathwater looking utterly blissful.
In later years, Auntie Gwen lived halfway up a remote welsh mountain, overlooking hills and valleys, first with another newfoundland, Bumble (approximately the size of a bear), and then with the inimitable Shadow. A little older, a little more stooped, and maybe a little more dotty, she still replied to my letters faithfully, telling me about Shadow, about the village, the weather. On one memorable occasion when I visited with my brother, she demonstrated her bath-lift to us. Fully clothed, of course but still slightly disconcerting!
Auntie Gwen was the last of the older female generation in our family. I like to think that she's happy somewhere with the rest of her family - her mother (my great-grandmother), her sister (my grandmother), her niece (my mother) and all the other strong and feisty females that make up my ancestors. Probably with a large gin and tonic in her hand.
Auntie Gwen, wherever you are...we salute you.
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