and they'd return the compliment and not a harsh word was spoken.
By the time she was eighteen months old, Wilhelmina was sleeping in an old coach house where my grandfather had kept his wood-turning lathe, and she was free to come and go during the night. Unfortunately this meant that others were free to come in, and at her first season a big boar badger sought her out. It was not her sexual condition that excited him, rather was he offended by her state of domesticity and her treacherous alliance with man. He gave her a terrible beating and nearly killed her.
Wilhelmina recovered and, in due course, came on heat for the second time. And now she left for good to seek her wild fortune, and the stable yard never heard that magpie chatter again.
Two years later, Tony was driving home late at night, going fast up the long, winding drive to the house. He saw the badger that suddenly crossed the road but, try as he would, could not avoid it. It was a sow, with a stripe down its face so wide as to distinguish it forever from all other badgers.
My closest contact with a badger at Woodlands Farm was of a nature so unlikely as to be unbelievable. Many years ago I put the incident down on paper and sent it offto a journal called
The Countryman.
I did not even receive the courtesy of a note of rejection.
It was my morning to milk, a peerless morning towards the end of June. Going out to fetch the cows, my way lay across a seven-acre field called the Big Ground. This had been cut for hay the previous day, and the tight uniform swathes of grass lay bluish and shining in the risen sun. Suddenly, out in the middle, I saw a badger. By chance I had no dog with me that might harry it, so I ran, fast, to see if I could get a closer look before the brock could leg it away to the safety of the bordering Brake. Not only did it not run away, it took not the slightest notice of my panting arrival but continued to snuffle about in the cut grass with as much unconcern as though I had still been in bed. It seemed the most comprehensive snub. Embarrassed, I took off my hat and with it patted the broad bottom. I began to murmur inanities.
“Hullo, old chap! What's the matter, then? Don't you speak to strange men? Sent me to Coventry, have you?”
But indeed this was the unkindest cut of all. The badger would not in any way acknowledge my presence, it simply moved, achingly slowly, towards the shelter of the woodland, my hat beating an unavailing tattoo on its backside. It found a hole in the hedge and disappeared.
Two mornings later, at the very same time in the verysame place, I saw two badgers. With the nonchalance and élan of a man on hat-slapping terms, I ran gaily towards them. My friend! I thought. And his friend! Asinine words formed themselves ready for my smiling parted lips. “Hullo again! Wanting some more of the same treatment, old fellow? And have you brought your girlfriend?” But at a short hat's throw from the pair, it became suddenly obvious that this was a case of mistaken identity. With a horrid chorus of noises, squeaks, chatterings, and fierce piggy grunts, all unmistakably menacing, both badgers rushed madly at me on their short legs with mouths agape, and my camaraderie was forgotten as I fled at top speed.
It's a perfectly true story. But you can't really blame the editor of
The Countryman.
Chapter 10
D OGS
Wednesday 3 January
Wonderful surprise! Susie returned after
eight days and eight nights missing in this
v. cold weather. Very weak and thin but OK.
Obviously has been stuck somewhere.
M feeding her hourly with milk and glucose.
W e've owned so many dogs over the years, but two unforgettable individuals at Woodlands Farm were Anna the dachshund and Susie the terrier. Anna's speciality was maternal love. Very early on, her name was usually corrupted to “Nanny,” and the sight of any nursling brought her running. You could hear the crackle of her starched apron as she fussed and fidgeted, certain of the
By the time she was eighteen months old, Wilhelmina was sleeping in an old coach house where my grandfather had kept his wood-turning lathe, and she was free to come and go during the night. Unfortunately this meant that others were free to come in, and at her first season a big boar badger sought her out. It was not her sexual condition that excited him, rather was he offended by her state of domesticity and her treacherous alliance with man. He gave her a terrible beating and nearly killed her.
Wilhelmina recovered and, in due course, came on heat for the second time. And now she left for good to seek her wild fortune, and the stable yard never heard that magpie chatter again.
Two years later, Tony was driving home late at night, going fast up the long, winding drive to the house. He saw the badger that suddenly crossed the road but, try as he would, could not avoid it. It was a sow, with a stripe down its face so wide as to distinguish it forever from all other badgers.
My closest contact with a badger at Woodlands Farm was of a nature so unlikely as to be unbelievable. Many years ago I put the incident down on paper and sent it offto a journal called
The Countryman.
I did not even receive the courtesy of a note of rejection.
It was my morning to milk, a peerless morning towards the end of June. Going out to fetch the cows, my way lay across a seven-acre field called the Big Ground. This had been cut for hay the previous day, and the tight uniform swathes of grass lay bluish and shining in the risen sun. Suddenly, out in the middle, I saw a badger. By chance I had no dog with me that might harry it, so I ran, fast, to see if I could get a closer look before the brock could leg it away to the safety of the bordering Brake. Not only did it not run away, it took not the slightest notice of my panting arrival but continued to snuffle about in the cut grass with as much unconcern as though I had still been in bed. It seemed the most comprehensive snub. Embarrassed, I took off my hat and with it patted the broad bottom. I began to murmur inanities.
“Hullo, old chap! What's the matter, then? Don't you speak to strange men? Sent me to Coventry, have you?”
But indeed this was the unkindest cut of all. The badger would not in any way acknowledge my presence, it simply moved, achingly slowly, towards the shelter of the woodland, my hat beating an unavailing tattoo on its backside. It found a hole in the hedge and disappeared.
Two mornings later, at the very same time in the verysame place, I saw two badgers. With the nonchalance and élan of a man on hat-slapping terms, I ran gaily towards them. My friend! I thought. And his friend! Asinine words formed themselves ready for my smiling parted lips. “Hullo again! Wanting some more of the same treatment, old fellow? And have you brought your girlfriend?” But at a short hat's throw from the pair, it became suddenly obvious that this was a case of mistaken identity. With a horrid chorus of noises, squeaks, chatterings, and fierce piggy grunts, all unmistakably menacing, both badgers rushed madly at me on their short legs with mouths agape, and my camaraderie was forgotten as I fled at top speed.
It's a perfectly true story. But you can't really blame the editor of
The Countryman.
Chapter 10
D OGS
Wednesday 3 January
Wonderful surprise! Susie returned after
eight days and eight nights missing in this
v. cold weather. Very weak and thin but OK.
Obviously has been stuck somewhere.
M feeding her hourly with milk and glucose.
W e've owned so many dogs over the years, but two unforgettable individuals at Woodlands Farm were Anna the dachshund and Susie the terrier. Anna's speciality was maternal love. Very early on, her name was usually corrupted to “Nanny,” and the sight of any nursling brought her running. You could hear the crackle of her starched apron as she fussed and fidgeted, certain of the
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