Coming Home to Story

Captain Midnight here reporting from ‘this best garden of the world.’*

We finally made it across La Manche though it was touch and go. As avid readers of this blog will know, we got bumped from our original crossing because the Brittany Ferries’ computer ‘bots’ decided we couldn’t have a camper van and a pet-friendly cabin. Himself is still scratching his head about that, though it might be fleas.

Then, after 8 weeks of perfect blue skies, the heavens opened the minute we set off from Folly Cottage to drive to Portsmouth. Why a few inches of rain should bring everything to a halt is beyond me – I like a drop of the wet stuff.  Suffice to say that we arrived at the Ferry Terminal after all manner of delays and diversions, with about 5 minutes to spare.

Himself says that the crossing itself was a tad rough and that up on the passenger deck it was a like a Roman vomitorium on a two-for-one feast day, whatever that means. He said there were screaming kids and sick bags everywhere. I could tell there was something going on by the banging and crashing on the car deck as I tried to have a snooze in Rosie, down below.

But here we are, three years since Himself and I were last in France, à deux. Not much seems to have changed: he still cooks himself steak on the BBQ and drinks lots of red stuff. He says it’s wonderful to be in a country where people appreciate food.

I say the dog biscuits still taste the same.

Tomorrow we’re going wine shopping (o joy, o bliss) and then we’ll head off to Limoges to a house called Paradise to meet up with Herself and a bunch of other friends. I’m looking forward to a couple of weeks in Paradise.

There’s bound to be a bit of chicken every now and then in Paradise.

Wouldn’t you think?

*Fellow lovers of the bard will recognise these words from a speech by the Duke of Burgundy in Henry V, Act V, Scene 2

Captain Midnight voyageur du monde ici, avec un scandale maritime.

This fine vessel is M/V Baie de Seine operated by Brittany Ferries. Himself and I had passage booked on it from Portsmouth to Le Havre for Thursday 9 August with a ‘pet friendly’ cabin so Himself did not have to be left on his own for the night crossing.

Because Himself has hurt his hip recently we thought it would be better to travel in Rosie the VW Campervan rather than the sporty little number in which we had originally planned to drive down to Limoges. I sat next to Himself as he called Brittany Ferries to change the vehicle.

“No problem, Sir. What is the registration number of the new vehicle.”

Himself gave the number over the phone.

“Would that be a VW Transporter, Sir?”

“Yes,” he said. “Campervan. Same thing.”

“In that case, Sir,” said the young lady. “I can change the vehicle but you can no longer have the ‘pet friendly’ cabin.

“Why on earth not?” said Himself. “I’ve already booked the cabin.”

“As it’s an oversized vehicle it has to be parked on a different deck.”

“That makes sense, I suppose.” said Himself. “But how does that affect the cabin?”

“You would have to take the dog up some stairs.”

“He’s an intelligent beast. He can manage stairs. What’s the problem?”

“It’s the rules. We’re not insured for that.”

“Excuse me! That’s rubbish. I don’t believe you.”

“The computer won’t let me book an oversized vehicle and a ‘pet friendly’ cabin.”

“That, I believe. Are you suggesting that I leave my dog in the vehicle?”

“I’m afraid not, Sir. The oversize vehicle deck is not temperature-managed.”

“So, I either have the Campervan or my dog? Is that right?

“I’m afraid so.”

“W.T.F. !?”

“There’s no need to swear, Sir.”

“I’m not swearing at you. I’m swearing at the staggering stupidity of a world ruled by computer algorithms that assume a dog can’t walk up stairs. There is every need to swear. You do see how idiotic this is don’t you?”

“I can’t really say, Sir. Those are the rules and the computer won’t let me do anything different.”

“What do you suggest I do?”

“I can book you on an alternative crossing to Le Havre. There’s one on 2 August.”

“Since today is 4 August, that’s not much help, is it?”

“Sorry. Er… there’s one on 2 September.”

“I’m booked to return on 26 August. It would be a bit tricky to come back before I’ve actually gone, wouldn’t it?”

“There’s a different ferry going from Portsmouth to Caen on 9 August. That’s close to Le Havre. I could get you on that.”

“Great. Can I have a ‘pet friendly’ cabin?”

“There aren’t any on that ship. But you could leave your dog in the Campervan as the deck is temperature controlled.”

“Let me just check this. Company policy – or at least the computer – says that it’s alright to leave my dog in a vehicle for 8 hours but not to take him up some stairs to a ‘pet friendly’ cabin?”

“I’m sorry, Sir. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“For the sake of argument, if I book this crossing can I have an ordinary cabin to sleep in?”

“They’re all taken, Sir.”

“Have you ever heard of Franz Kafka?”

“Who?”

Himself rang off at that point to stick his head under the cold tap.

The next day he spoke to someone different and for an extra £65 on top of what he’d already paid, booked us on a fast crossing to Cherbourg instead, so I’ll only have a 3 hour sojourn in the Campervan.

“£571.25″ he said as he put the phone down. “We could fly to San Francisco and back for that. They’ve got us by the short and curlies, old boy!”

I licked his chops to make him feel better.

It took quite a while.

Captain Midnight here with exciting news.

I’ve entered Himself for the obedience class at Kingscote Village Fete. It was that or the agility class and – frankly – that was never going to work. I mean look at him, he’s about as agile as a hippo (and that’s doing a disservice to my river dwelling friends who are quite nippy when needs must).

I had an idea this morning for a new manoeuvre. The idea is to make him open the back door for me to go out. It works like this…

I take one of his socks from the heap of clothes on the bedroom floor, making sure he sees what I’m doing, and head off. Himself can’t resist the lure and follows me downstairs to the kitchen calling out: “Oi you, give me back my sock!” This is good because you score extra points for getting your human to vocalise,

He still has an unfortunate tendency to lunge for the sock (definite loss of points for that behaviour) but I discourage him by picking up speed on the staircase. Then I stand, sock in mouth, and paw at the door. This is what they call a ‘silent command’ and is permitted under Owner Club rules.

With bit of luck, Himself will now turn the key and open the door for me. At which point (once he says “Thank You” of course) I will release said hosiery, now pleasingly moistened by my saliva, into his outstretched hand and exit into the garden.

He’s not very bright but he is learning. I used to have to chew actual holes in his socks to get his attention but after only four and a half years of training, the mere threat of damage is sufficient to propel him into action.

Et voila…

Royaume Unis – Dix Points!

Captain Midnight here, and we are not amused!

Now, I take my duties as custodian of Folly Cottage very seriously and Himself decided it would be a good idea to tell visitors to the house that no-one gets in the gate without my permission. I wasn’t averse to him putting up a sign giving notice of my presence. You know the sort of thing: The Captain is Home – Superdog on Patrol – Be Nice to the Hound.

But not Crazy Dog.

He was laughing as he screwed the sign onto the gate. It was a smug rather superior kind of laugh. Presumably Himself thinks I can’t read French. He’s forgetting that I’m half Poodle. Je parle Français perfectamento.

What I can’t do perfectamento is operate a screwdriver so I’m looking for someone with opposable thumbs willing to remove the offending item for me and replace it with a little something I’ve purchased online from the Canine Defence League.

Himself has not, I fancy, heard the last of this one.

Any volunteers?

Captain Midnight, your international religious affairs correspondent here with a last dispatch from St Sedna’s Well in the Glen of Aherlow in County Tipperary before returning to Blighty on the ferry tonight. This is me lapping up some of the holy water this afternoon when I took Himself for a walk before he packed up Rosie and got her ready for the road.

I was in two minds whether or not to show you the next picture because frankly it’s a bit embarrassing. It’s also of me, this time trying to get out of St Sedna’s Well having fallen in whilst lapping up said holy water. For once I was glad to have Himself on the end of the rope since I could use him as an anchor to pull myself out.

I asked Himself to find out who St Sedna was, in case he was the patron saint of toads or something that falling in the well might change me into. It turns out that he was the patron saint of pretty much nothing at all. So I don’t think I have to worry about transmogrification.

Apparently Sedna was Bishop of Ossory in the 6^th Century. Apart from that, no-one has ever heard of him. It seems you didn’t have to do very much apart from turn up to be made a saint in the 6^th century.

I’m just left wondering whether falling in the well counts as being baptised? In which case, has my doggy soul been saved? If so, this could be a problem since Himself is definitely not going to get to heaven and despite all his faults I wouldn’t want a little thing like death to separate us.

I might have to push him in the well.

Captain Midnight here reporting from Tipperary.

Yes, I know it’s a long, long way.

It’s raining outside and I’m dreaming of the riverbank and open fields. Today is Day 15 in Rosie the Campervan and she’s beginning to get a bit claustrophobic. I don’t mind it most of the time because it means Himself can’t get away when I feel like sitting on his head. On the other hand, there’s not much room to stretch out and we do seem to be running out of conversation.

I can hear him now, sitting at the table bashing something out on the laptop. I suspect that it’s just another attempt to stave off the maudlin self-pity that overtakes him when he thinks he’s got nothing worthwhile to say.

“Write what you know,” I tell him.

“But I don’t know anything,” he says.

“Then write what you don’t know,” I cunningly respond.

“I’ll try,” he whimpers.

“There is no try, young Padawan,” I declare. “Only write or not write.”

Sometimes, I think Himself will never make it as a Jedi. He doesn’t seem to understand that the Force won’t hang around while he agonises about whether or not he’s ever going to be a real writer. Meanwhile, the Dark Side is calling me. Just imagine how terrifying I would be dressed in black and wielding a light sabre as Commander Midnight.

Don’t worry, dear reader. It’s not going to happen.

I never come when I am called.

Captain Midnight here reporting from my berth in Rosie.

For reasons which I have yet to understand, Himself seems to feel entitled to share my bed. As you can see, I’m not going to make this easy for him. Yes, he’s bigger than me and has opposable thumbs but possession is nine points of the law and I’ve got much bigger teeth than he has.

He’s going to have to be awfully nice (chicken comes to mind) for me to move over and let him crawl in. Outside, the trees are waving and creaking in the wind. Himself has checked the weather forecast and apparently it’s going to blow a hoolie, whatever that means. All I know is there will be lots of new sticks lying around in the morning.

We’re as snug as two bugs in a rug in here and I confidently predict a good night’s sleep. I’ve got a PhD in sleeping and he’s getting better every night we spend in the great outdoors. He says it’s the fresh air but I think it’s because I make him feel relaxed.

I suppose that means that I’ll have to let him get in.

I just wish he didn’t snore.

Captain Midnight here, reporting from the wilds of Munster

Himself and I are staying in Rosie for a couple of nights beside the River Blackwater so that he can have a day’s salmon fishing. You may recall that we tried this last year but Himself took sick and ended up in Cork Hospital for 24 hours with a bout of gastro-enteritis from eating dodgy bangers.

So we’re giving it another go this year.

The trouble is that Himself has watched Salmon Fishing in the Yemen too many times and fancies that he is Ewan McGregor. He’s kidding himself, of course. Ewan McGregor’s grandfather, maybe. Mind you, in a certain light, our lovely guide Glenda does bear a passing resemblance to Emily Blunt.

Also, Ewan McGregor looks like he can fish. As far as I can see, Himself thrashes around with the rod until the fly drops into the water from sheer exhaustion. Salmon fishing seems to require a great deal of skill and a large helping of luck followed by a lot more skill. Skill to choose the right fly and cast it in the right direction; luck because it’s pure chance that a passing fish might snap at the lure; and more skill because hooking a salmon is one thing but landing it is another.

Skill and fisherman’s luck: two attributes I can’t help noticing that Himself does not possess in abundance. Even so, he managed to get a salmon on the end of his line. Not for long, of course. The wee beastie felt the spring of the rod tip, shook its head and dropped the hook in a matter of seconds.

From the fuss Himself made you’d think he’d harpooned Moby Dick and then let it get away. Still, it brought a smile to his weary chops for a few moments. I did ask him what he was so happy about. He looked at me ruefully.

“Getting a take gives me hope,” he said. “If I can get a take in only the second year of trying, there’s a real possibility that if I come back every year until I’m 80, I might actually catch one.”

I wouldn’t mind that at all. I get to run up and down the bank, barking encouragement and occasionally diving into the water to look for sticks and make sure that he’s OK out there. Salmon fishing is great fun!

Who needs fish?

Photo credits and thanks to our guide Glenda Powell: glendapowellguiding.com