The Countryman's Daughter

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(This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times  on 13th July, & the Gazette & Herald on 11th July 2018).

For the few years that I’ve been caring for other people’s dogs, I’ve come across all sorts (and that’s just the owners!). I can say with some authority that almost all problem behaviours with dogs are down to the owner’s relationship with them. I’ve seen it time and time again, and so I thought I’d pass on some of the useful things I’ve learned through this work.

A dog is happiest and most relaxed when it is in the right place within the family hierarchy – at the bottom. Generally, all a dog wants is to be allowed to be just a dog, nothing else, and then in return it will be well behaved, placid, and shower its owners with oodles of love. A dog that is not confused about its role is one happy dog.

But problems occur when we treat them too much like furry substitute children, and communicate with them on a human level rather than in a way that a dog can clearly understand. That is when they get anxious and confused and issues creep in.

You are likely to get the desired response with a short, loud ‘No!’ and accompanying hand gesture, rather than from a: ‘Rover, my handsome little poochy wooch, please be good for mummy wummy and don’t jump onto the sofa because we’ve just been out for a muddy wuddy walk and you are all stinky winky.’

Rover hasn’t a clue what you’re saying and is confused by all the words, but he does hear your soft tone of voice, which to him is a happy tone, and so he will think it is OK to jump on the sofa. And then when you get cross with him, he ends up anxious because he doesn’t understand why in the next breath you’re angry with him. Poor old Rover!

Another common complaint from owners is that their dogs are aggressive towards other dogs or people. In almost all the cases that I’ve dealt with, they are not naturally aggressive, but are simply anxious and confused. A dog which grabs the mail as it comes through the letter box, or who snarls and snaps at other passing dogs, does so because it has come to believe that its role is to protect its home or owner.

The most common reason is that the owner has not been assertive enough with their dog and has unwittingly allowed the problem to develop. It can be reversed, but you have to be patient and persistent. One simple tip is to make sure you ALWAYS go through a door or gate before your dog. I use the word ‘Back!’ very firmly, and put myself physically in front of a dog waiting eagerly by the door. If you persist, you will be amazed at how quickly they pick it up. Doing this shows them that you are in charge and don’t need them to go out first, which they do because they are checking there’s nothing out there that might harm you.

Also, never allow a dog to sit higher than you (on the back of the sofa, for example). This often is protective behaviour, and might seem cute at first, but later you might find the dog starts to snap if other people try to sit down because it views the sofa as its territory.

It is debated as to whether animals can feel emotions like we humans do, and there are many documented cases of dogs and other animals pining for lost owners or mates. In my dad’s column from 15th August 1978, he recounts the story of coming across two yellowhammers in the road. One was dead, and the other stood next to it. Dad moved the dead bird to the side of the road, and as he drove off, he saw the other bird go back to what he presumed was its mate and continue its sad vigil.

Although I don’t believe animals can feel emotions in the same way as us humans, I do believe they are sensitive. I’m certain my friend’s dog, a labrador-springer cross, actually smiles with joy when I turn up at his house, while other dogs do appear genuinely sad when they know I’m going to leave them at home while I go shopping. So what do you think? Does your dog show emotion?

Visit my blog at countrymansdaughter.com. Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug.

ENDS

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(This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times  on 6th July, & the Gazette & Herald on 4th July 2018).

When I was small, I was terrified of the bumblebee, as I knew it could sting and it seemed so big and buzzy. One day my dad caught one on his finger and I couldn’t believe he was so calm while this dangerous and threatening creature contemplated its moment to strike his bare flesh.

I recoiled as my reckless dad then began to gently stoke its furry little back, as if it were a tiny cat. Instead of wreaking its stinging revenge, to my surprise, it sat quite happily there showing no signs of aggression. Dad explained that bees actually had very docile temperaments and would only sting you if they felt threatened.

From that moment, I lost my fear of bees, and know that if they do fly close, they are probably drawn to a bright colour I’m wearing, or to a sweet scent they have picked up nearby. They’re not out to get me, and if I stay still, they will fly off when they realise I’m not a source of pollen. I know many people who get into a tizzy at the mere sound of a buzzing insect and flap their arms crazily about their head like they’re trying to stop a bat landing on it. Honestly, unless you suffer from anaphylaxis, get a grip! By doing that you are more likely to get stung anyway and, more importantly, harm one of our precious bees.

As most people today know, bees are not faring very well, with 13 species in the UK already wiped out, and 35 more under threat of extinction. If bees were allowed to disappear, its effect upon the the planet would be catastrophic. The decline is due to a combination of things, such as a reduction in flowering meadows (97% lost since the 1930s), pesticides, disease and invasive species. Bees are the most productive pollinators in our food chain, so without them, we’d lose the plants and food crops they pollinate, and then all the animals that rely on those plants and food crops, and then, food-wise, we humans would be up the creek without a paddle.

With that in mind, doesn’t it make you think twice about the bees that come within arm-flapping distance? Why not take a few minutes to familiarise yourself with our fascinating buzzing fraternity, so you know the difference between a harmless hoverfly and an angry wasp. There are many websites around that can help you with identification, although one of my most trusted sources (naturally, inherited from my dad) is Collins’ Complete British Wildlife photo guide. In there, you’ll see that certain hoverflies are similar in colouring to wasps, but hoverflies are generally smaller and have a flatter body shape. And they hover. And look like flies.

One organisation doing its bit to educate us about bees is Buckfast Abbey in Devon, famous for its tonic wine and, once upon a time, for its honey. In his column from 8th July 1978, Dad talks about a visit there, and was impressed with their entrepreneurial spirit, the monastery having been destroyed and rebuilt several times over the centuries of its existence. Having started from very little, the Benedictine monks had established a thriving cattle and dairy herd, a pottery, a stained glass workshop and an excellent café.

They were at the time famous for their apiaries and their honey, thanks in the most part to a monk called Brother Adam Kehrle. The monastery had been making honey for a long time, but early in the 20th century, 30 of the abbey’s 46 colonies were wiped out through a virulent disease called Acarine. What Kehrle noticed was that all the bees that died were native British black bees while those of an Italian strain survived. He then set out on a mission to come up with a disease-resistant strain of bee that would be perfect for keeping. After many years of study, travel, experimentation and dedication, he managed to breed a bee that was a good pollen-gatherer with a mild temperament and, most importantly, resistant to Acarine. It was, and still is, known as the Buckfast Bee and is now a recognised species.

The monastery emphasis these days has moved away from commercial honey production and now concentrates on what is termed ‘gentle’ bee keeping with a focus on education and conservation to raise awareness of one of our most precious insect friends (Sources: buckfast.org.uk, bbc.co.uk).

Visit my blog at countrymansdaughter.com. Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug.

ENDS

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(This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times  on 27th June, & the Gazette & Herald on 29th June 2018).

I’ve just emerged from a busy but fun-filled weekend. On Friday night, I was out at the fabulous Velma Celli Show (Yorkshire boy turned West End star, highly recommended!) and then on Saturday, along with my children and a healthy posse of friends, I completed the St Leonard’s Hospice Midnight Walk in memory of Dad and my sister Tricia (as many of you know, both recently died in St Leonard’s). The theme was ‘Walking Royal Miles’ and we were encouraged to dress in red, white and blue, wear crowns, carry flags and enthusiastically embrace the royal theme. A sea of 800 or so patriotically-adorned men, women and children walked a seven-mile route around York between midnight and 2.30am to raise money for this wonderful cause.

The weekend was rounded off on a beautiful Sunday with a visit to the pretty village of Coxwold with my mum for the village’s ‘Hidden Gardens’ event. I haven’t been to many of these kinds of occasions before, and was amazed to see so many cars filling the local playing field which was acting as a make-shift car park.

According to the organisers, there were well over 500 visitors – and well over 500 cups of tea poured (according to my exhausted friend Sharon who was serving them non-stop all afternoon).

I am pretty much the kiss of death for most plants, so I steer clear of proper gardening, content instead to admire the handiwork of others (including my mum’s, who turned her garden of mud and rubble into a gorgeous oasis of colour and life).

But the Coxwold gardens were another level of horticultural excellence, hidden behind the quaint facades of the village’s yellow stone cottages. Borders were brimming with flowers of all colours of the rainbow, curving their way in and around the lawns which were surrounded by crowds of lush trees and shrubs. Creepers like like honeysuckles, clematis and wisteria twisted up wooden arches and gazebos and every so often, we came across a bench or a table where we we could sit for a while and appreciate the splendour that has come about thanks to years of hard graft and dedication by the owners.

Now, I’m not very good at naming cultivated flowers and shrubs, but one class of plant that I do recognise is the fern, and they were well represented that Sunday. They’re not what you would call the lead singers in the show, but more like a very reliable backing band, providing support by filling in the gaps and giving coverage in areas that other plants might not do so well.

As my dad explains in his column from 1st July 1978, the fern is quite an unusual plant in being a combination of leaf and fruit. In most cases, the fruit is carried on the underside of the leaf. He says that in autumn, “…you may walk in places where ferns are plentiful and find ripe spores on the undersides of the fronds…By carefully removing one of the fronds, you will acquire many spores from which new ferns can be gown.” So no digging them up, then!

I discovered a couple of rather interesting facts while writing this (thank you woodlandtrust.org.uk!) including that the fern is one of the earliest vascular plants (i.e. they have special tissues within them to conduct water and other essential nutrients through the plant). They are believed to have evolved over 300 million years ago, being very plentiful and growing to tree-like heights. They later died out and their compaction helped to create the coal which we use as fuel today (hence the term ‘fossil fuels’).

Open gardens have become a traditional way for the rural community to raise funds for their own local causes and charities. The first event was held 37 years ago in the Suffolk village of Walsham-le-Willows, and the idea quickly caught on. This year, there are 860 events taking place nationwide, with 42 in Yorkshire alone.

Villagers pitch in to bake cakes and serve teas, local musicians entertain, artists exhibit their works and artisan producers display their wares and, together with the gardeners, raise tens of thousands of pounds for local charities and community projects across the country.

To find out where and when your next local open gardens event is, visit the Open Gardens National Directory at opengardens.co.uk.

Visit my blog at countrymansdaughter.com. Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug.

ENDS

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(This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times  on 20th June, & the Gazette & Herald on 22nd June 2018).

As I write this, I’m recovering from the emotional turmoil of watching the final episode of the latest series of The Yorkshire Vet. One of the main protagonists, Peter Wright, lost his beloved canine companion, 10-year-old Alf. Peter’s sadness was tangible, and hankies were a must.

I absolutely love the programme, love witnessing the ups and downs of life as a country vet, the trials and tribulations of treating the agricultural animal community, the roller-coaster of emotions every family experiences when a cherished pet is sick.

The stories are so engaging, and the compassion that Peter and his (then) colleague Julian Norton so obviously feel shines through and is reflected by the staff at their practice in Thirsk. Not only that, but the way it is filmed celebrates the rural beauty of North Yorkshire in a way that makes you feel proud and truly blessed to live here. What an asset for our tourism industry.

The programme ends on a positive note when Peter and his wife take home a kitten in need. It made me think about my dad, and how much he loved animals. Like Peter Wright, he wasn’t a cat ‘or’ dog person, but rather a cat ‘and’ dog person. He loved both equally, although we just had cats for the practical reason that they were easier to look after (and the fact that stray cats chose to adopt us, which had nothing to do with us kids bribing them to stay with food).

Dad was insistent that he never wanted a dog himself, which used to baffle me whenever I saw how he fussed over other people’s. And despite me pleading with him at least once every few months for the best part of the twenty years or so that I lived at home, he never caved in.

I must have inherited that side of his character, for I love both cats and dogs, and had two lovely rescue cats for about ten years. When they grew old and had to be put to sleep, I didn’t feel the need to replace them as by then I had my own litter of very energetic young puppies (known more commonly as ‘children’).

Just like the young me, they have pleaded to get a dog. Unlike my dad though, I eventually (sort of) caved in, but in a way that suits us all. Instead of having our own dog, we now look after other people’s. It means we get all the pleasure, but less of the pain of things like vets’ fees, kennel fees and, worst of all, of losing them. I’ve experienced a whole variety of breeds and temperaments and can honestly say I adore them all, and yet still enjoy the liberation of my dog-free days. Best of both worlds, I’d say.

Dad genuinely loved most animals, and had been fascinated by our bird population since childhood, so that by the time he started his columns, he was arguably a self-taught expert. In his column from June 24th 1978, he talks with clear passion about the songs of the warbler family, particularly the willow warbler that is so active at this time of year. He writes that he would find it difficult to describe the tune, but that an ornithologist he knew captured it perfectly: “The song of the willow warbler was like a sixpence spinning on a china plate, and being allowed to slowly come to rest.”

I had a go with a five pence piece on a saucer, but found it hard to recognise it as birdsong. However, I also have access to a trusty ornithological friend, also known as the RSPB website, and you can look up just about any native bird. Within seconds I’d found a video of the willow warbler in full song. I then understood where the reference to the sixpence came in, but to my mind it is more like the sound of a loose hub cap spiralling off and gradually spinning to rest in the middle of the road. Look it up, have a listen, and see if you agree.

(This is my 53rd column, so it means I’ve completed a full year! Thank you so much for reading them and for all the encouraging comments, letters and messages to date.)

Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug