Asbo Jack meets his match

There are some days (not many, admittedly) when I think I have the best job in the entire world. Today was one of them and what made it even nicer was that it was so unexpected as it didn’t start remotely well. It started, in fact, at 3.30am as Adrian got up to drive to Heathrow. He’s off to northern Spain to visit the International Cider Conference (and there are some – ragrug probably included) who would say that really there’s little doubt that actually he has the best job in the world.
Anyhow, I stumbled out of bed to say goodbye and wish him luck. Stumbled back and, how unfair is this, could not get back to sleep for love nor lavender oil, nor even the reading of a seriously boring book on the Spanish Civil War. So by the time the alarm clock fizzed at 6.20am (it gave up alarming a few years ago – thank God) I felt like I’d already lived through Thursday and was ready for bed again.

I dropped James off for the school bus and then drove over to see my author. As I’ve told you before, she lives in the most idyllic thatched cottage down a sleepy lane. It’s the kind of house all our buyers wistfully told us they really wanted - to which we used to reply that if we had a thatched roof hiding away we would happily bung it on for them. Thatched and cute isn’t normally my thing but today I could really ‘get’ this one. The garden winds in and out with arches and pergolas dripping with clematis. There’s a teeny waterfall splish-splashing into a pool and loads of mellow old stone walls. Asbo had come with me and M said why didn’t I let him out? So, with a swift prayer to the patron (or should that be probation?) saint of bad dogs, I did. He bounced out, all pleased with himself and then, because he was bouncing backwards (how stupid is that?) he bounced straight into M’s JTR, Ruby (short-legs, smooth-coat, dead feisty). They did a typical terrier war-dance around each other, had a brief fight (all noise and no real action) and then decided to rub along.

So M and I found a spot under the apple trees and sat on the grass and mapped out the last two chapters of her book. I bunged on the tape recorder and we chatted some of it through. Jack didn’t help much by sitting on it from time to time. But I couldn’t help thinking, as I listened to the robins having a bust-up in the border, and the doves cooing gently, that, if this is work, I like it.

We had a cappuccino (M has every gadget known to woman) and went to say hello to the horses, ponies and donkeys (nearly all rescues). The largest donkey took an inordinate interest in Jack and ended up chasing him round the field to Asbo’s complete shock and horror. His JRT pride was severely dented (he likes to think of himself as the chaser not the chased) and there was a lot of affronted sniffing. But he was also just the tiniest bit rattled (rare and beautiful to behold) and stuck very close behind me as we went back. But, being a JTR, the lesson was forgotten the very moment we got to the house and off he went, exploring upstairs.

Next thing we heard the most unbelievable sound – just like a very large rabbit being slowly killed by a stoat (and, trust me, I know that sound all too well). We both jumped up and ran to the stairs to find Asbo shaking and whimpering with one large puffed up black cat glaring at him from the power position on the third step. Fantastic. Maybe we can get a cat when we move after all.

I drove back over the Brendon Hills, with a chastened Jack sitting meekly on the passenger seat, and dropped down into town. The perfect parking space was waiting for me right outside the florists and I went in to pick up an arrangement – all soft blues and whites in a vivid pink square box. Now, a few months’ back I went Nordic walking (as you may recall) and I offered to write a feature for the local Exmoor magazine to try to attract more business for Angela who runs the walks. The feature had – it transpired – brought her loads of enquiries and she emailed to say that if I popped into the florists, there would be a ‘small thank-you’ waiting for me. I was really touched – it was so lovely to get a genuine and totally unexpected sign of appreciation like that.

So Jack and I bounced back down the valley road in high spirits and stopped off at the village shop to pick up our organic bag. While I’d already met the woman who had bought the shop, this was the first time I’d met her husband.
‘Hello. I’ve come for the organic bag,’ I said cheerily.
‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘I thought you might have.’
‘Why? Do I have the look of an organic bag-lady?’ Which I thought was quite funny. But he laughed nervously and vanished out the back.
As if the day wasn’t already going my way I spied one remaining bunch of the new asparagus from a local Exmoor producer. That went in the bag too, along with a packet of Serrano ham and some stuffed vine leaves and I left a happy woman.

Adrian lives to cook and every meal is a production. So, when I’m on my own, I tend to eat very simply. And what could be more simple – yet more delicious – that a huge plate of steamed asparagus with a knob of butter and plenty of freshly-milled black pepper, all wrapped rather fecklessly in dry-cured ham? I ate it (OK gorged it) sitting out on the patio, gazing over the valley and figured this is as good as it gets. Blessings? Too many to count. Gratitude? You bet.