SUMMER

Summer was judged to have begun at Owl Cottage when the house martins arrived and diligently began to build their nests of dried mud and grasses against the stone walls high up under the overhanging roof of the cottage. It is fascinating to see the dark brown nests finally assume their full rugby ball shape with only the smallest of openings at the side for the birds to enter. Toby Jug sat on the lawn watching for hours, mesmerized by the comings and goings of these amazing birds. To me they were always a welcome sight in spite of the proliferation of their droppings which, as the season progressed, lay encrusted on the bedroom window-sill and marred the elegance of my much-prized and newly tiled patio.

During that first summer with Toby Jug there were many developments in the life we shared that surpassed anything I had encountered before with cats. For one thing he delighted in being with me, not for him the often haughty disdain that some cats show to their owners as an assertion of their independence. Whenever I called to him, he would come running to me from wherever he was, no matter what he was doing. This attachment extended even to travelling in the car. My work at the rural-based college entailed a great deal of travelling around the country visiting schools and other institutions and whenever possible I took Toby with me. He would sit or lie on the rear window shelf and slither enjoyably about as we took corners fast, much to the hilarity of passengers in other cars, especially children who often mistook him at first sight for a toy. On other occasions he would sit perched on my shoulder and purr into my ear at the sheer excitement of us travelling together. He never needed an invitation nor did he show any fear of travelling in the car. He was never car sick.

Wherever I took him he was always so exuberant that I was afraid of his recklessness. He would jump out of the car after me with complete disregard for traffic, big dogs or people who didn’t like cats. With this problem in mind I resolved that he would have to be restrained in the same way as I had done earlier during his first ventures into the garden. However, the small guinea-pig harness I had acquired for him was too small now that he had grown and dog harnesses were too large.

One day I was browsing around in a pet warehouse store which had just opened in the city shopping mall. There I discovered a harness and lead suitable for a breed of small Mexican dog, the Chihuahua. These tiny dogs were a very popular choice of pets at the time. The harness seemed to fit the bill exactly and without further ado I bought it and eventually coaxed Toby Jug into wearing it. It was made of stiff new leather, unlike his other one which had been made of soft fabric. This one came around his chest and extended over his back so that if it was tugged it would restrain without choking him. He definitely wasn’t very happy about wearing it but, being the valiant little fellow that he was, he accepted it. When I began to use it regularly he soon learned not to pull away. After a short while he got the knack and would run alongside me like a small dog. Occasionally, I would have to pull on the lead to guide him along and prevent him sidetracking but he gradually developed an awareness of what was required to keep in step with me and the arrangement worked out fine. I doubt if many cats would have accommodated so well to this restriction but Toby Jug was a fast and willing learner.

Using the harness, we were able to visit many places where few cats could ever have ventured. If danger threatened in the form of a large dog I would swing him up into my arms and, if necessary, fend off the attacker with the stick I carried on our walks. I can only remember a couple of such incidents happening. The vast majority of the time we had highly enjoyable, event-free excursions. For example, I had to supervise a student teacher on teaching practice in a school on Holy Island and, because I could keep him under control, I thought it would be nice to take Toby Jug along with me. Whilst having a cup of tea with the head teacher of the school I kept going to the window of her study to check that Toby Jug, whom I’d left in the car with the window slightly open, was all right. On our car trips, Toby would more often than not curl up and sleep away the time when I had to be involved in work matters, but occasionally he would become anxious as he used to be in the cottage during the first few weeks of life and then he would prowl around the car whining for me.

As I kept frequently getting up and looking out of the window, the head teacher became curious and, on learning the reason for my behaviour, she persuaded me to tell her the full story of the way I had rescued Toby Jug. She then told me she was a devoted cat owner herself and insisted on my bringing Toby Jug in to meet her. With some trepidation I agreed – what else could I do in the circumstances? And so I duly brought in Toby Jug and introduced him to the head. To my surprise he took to her immediately and purred loudly when she stroked him. I had, of course, been worried about his reactions to a stranger but he was fine and I was proud of him. Nevertheless, I thought the artful little beggar knows when he’s well off as I watched him scoffing a saucer full of cream from the school canteen. The good lady had insisted on giving it to him as she said he must be thirsty after his car trip.

The head teacher was so taken with Toby that she prevailed upon me to allow her to carry him around the school to show the children. With a careful glance or two in my direction to reassure himself that I was following, Toby Jug, exhibitionist that he was, basked in the attention he attracted in the classrooms he visited. Never again would I need to worry about my little cat’s capacity to adapt to other people. He enjoyed the whole experience hugely and responded beautifully, like a real star, to the children’s affectionate curiosity. Before leaving the school the head told me that she intended to use the story of Toby Jug’s rescue at the school assembly next morning to help the children appreciate how special animals are and how we need to care for them. It was a rare and happy experience for all concerned, especially Toby Jug, and it served to remind me that there are many other people in this world who love cats and share my feelings about them.

After I had completed my work at the school, as a special treat I took Toby Jug along the beach and bought us both a fish from a travelling fish-and-chip van which was parked in the lee of the castle near the bay. Toby Jug, sensible cat, ate only the juicy white cod flesh and not the batter, which I had to remove for him. After we had finished eating, and because it was such a warm sunny day, I let him off the lead to relieve himself and nose around while I kept a sharp lookout for stray dogs. Toby sniffed and roamed about where I was sitting on the beach. He apparently found the seaside smells quite delicious and investigated thoroughly a number of seaweed clumps that lay about the sand. He probably found it a welcome change to nosing around in his garden, but he didn’t go far away. I don’t think it would ever have entered his head to leave my side or to lose sight of me, not even for a delectable and most tempting scent. We both enjoyed our time out on the island. It was another perfect day.

 

While Toby Jug and I ventured far afield on my professional travels, it was at home that we spent most of our time together. He would always be at my side in the garden and often accompany me on short walks by the river bank and in the woods. During that first year of his life the things that I saw as just ordinary experiences of country life were for him new adventures, which were sometimes overwhelming and rather scary.

I can recall several such incidents which give a flavour of Toby’s early life outside. For instance, on one hot summer’s afternoon of sunshine, Toby was foraging in the long grass near where I was weeding a garden border. Suddenly, a sparrowhawk flew in low over the beech hedge and zoomed across the lawn on a flight-path that took it directly towards Toby Jug, who was hunting grasshoppers. In the instant that Toby Jug raised his head and saw the hawk coming straight for him he fled as fast as his legs could carry him to my side, jumped on my shoulder and conveyed his terror by biting the lobe of my ear. The result was that we both ended up in a state of shock whilst the sparrowhawk blithely went on its way, hedgehopping as it hunted for small birds and not the least bit interested in Toby Jug or the shock that I had suffered. For the rest of the day, when outside, Toby Jug was on constant alert and inordinately watchful of the airspace above him. Whenever and wherever I moved that day, he shadowed me closely.

On another occasion we were together in the garden enjoying the fresh air on what could be poetically described as a ‘beauteous evening’. It was one of those delightfully calm summer evenings that are such a welcome change from our normal breezy and bracing climate in this part of the world. I was savouring the tranquil stillness of the trees and the scents from the flower beds whilst sipping a glass of claret. I noticed that Toby had climbed into the higher branches of the crab-apple tree and was busily investigating the insect-buzzing and small bird-fluttering among the leaves of the topmost branches. I gazed with pleasure at the sky as it became suffused with the delicate shades of colour that the Scottish describe as gloaming. Gradually, the sunset gave way to twilight and twilight was the time when the pipistrelle bats emerged from the eaves of the cottage to begin their insect-hunting aerobatics. The apple tree in which Toby Jug was perched was full of insects and when the bats came out they immediately began a strafing attack that Toby mistakenly believed was directed solely at him.

Cats are normally good climbers when going up trees but, like children, often find coming down a slower process of reversing and clinging on to the branches whilst at the same time glancing from time to time apprehensively over their shoulders. At least, that was the way Toby usually, and rather cautiously, descended from a tree-climbing expedition. Now though, with a squadron of bats hurtling around him, he reverted to what best can be described as ‘flying squirrel tactics’. In alarmed desperation, Toby launched himself into a series of acrobatic swings from one branch to another that brought him perilously close to falling but also brought him swiftly to earth. Whereupon he headed straight for me and repeated his standing jump to my shoulder, his head whirling from side to side in fearful anticipation of an imminent attack from the skies. This time, thankfully, he didn’t bite my ear but he did cause me to spill some of my wine. The bats continued their evening aerial display unperturbed as Toby refused to leave my shoulder until we were safely indoors.

This action of jumping on to my shoulder whenever something scared him soon became established as a habitual response to many other situations such as greeting me when I’d not seen him for a while, when he just felt particularly affectionate or when he wanted me to carry him. On reflection it was an athletic feat of gold-medal proportions for such a little cat and quite extraordinarily his own invention since no other cat of mine before had ever behaved in such a way. It could be quite disconcerting though when he didn’t get his take-off just right and landed short of his target. Then he would have to crawl his way up over my jacket or sweater, which did my clothes no good at all! This behaviour worried me a little because Toby was an exuberant socializer. He loved company and would move from person to person for strokes and compliments and I feared that one day he might jump on some unsuspecting guest’s shoulder and terrify them. But my fears proved to be unfounded. He reserved his shoulder leaps solely for me.

As Toby grew stronger I began to take him with me whenever I took short walks in the evening, especially now that he had his new harness. Usually, we followed the path through the fields that bordered a wide subsidiary stream of the River Coquet. Because a large expanse of the river bank had been fenced off to preserve private fishing rights, it was normally free from dogs and had become a favourite walk of ours. If Toby did see a dog coming he would run and jump on my shoulder even before I could haul him up by his harness. As usual on our walks, I had my stick ready to fend off any persistent barkers. They were few and far between.

Late one summer evening everything on our walk looked strangely different, perhaps due to it having been an exceptionally hot day. Ghostly white veils were rising from the damp fields and they skirted the trees and the holly hedges in swirling wreaths. Toby Jug, as was customary on our walks, was impatient to be ahead of me and since it was quite late and there was no one about, I unfastened his lead so that he could do some independent roaming. I often couldn’t see him due to the ground mist which at times came up to my knees but I knew from experience that he would not stray far from my side so I wasn’t unduly concerned. We had just passed the remains of an ancient ruin called Black Friars Mill when Toby Jug made a flying leap from the fog-covered ground to land, scrambling for balance, on a crumbling stone wall. He crouched there on full alert with his body straining forwards like a pointer dog as he stared into the mist. In the half-light he looked like a diminutive Black Friar ghost returned to haunt the place! From his appearance it was obvious that something had startled him. I followed the direction of his rigid gaze and there, emerging from the gloom like phantoms, were three dark forms which proved to be nothing more frightening than a vixen hurried along by her two romping cubs. I kept very still and the trio passed within three feet of us. A wondrous sight to behold but Toby Jug was not impressed. Casting a rueful glance in my direction he gave his back a quick wash just to show that he hadn’t really been scared, and then we carried on with our spooky walk.

 

By late summer, when Toby Jug was about six months old, I felt reassured that he was here to stay and would not suddenly be smitten by some terminal condition caused by his hazardous start in life. However, I was still not free from parental anxiety. I was uneasy about the possibility that he might catch cat flu or pick up something lethal through contact with another cat. Then there was the worry that, as he matured into a full-grown tom cat, he would go off seeking to mate with female cats. I had heard stories of male cats disappearing for weeks on end in search of a female cat on heat. All of these potential problems had but one solution and that was a visit to the vet.

If Toby was concerned at all by traumatic memories of the tragic loss of his mother and brother and his own near demise on his introductory visit to Mackenzie the Vet, he didn’t show it. I took him into the clinic and sat him on the same wooden table from which I’d snatched him away that terrible winter’s night not a year ago, literally from the jaws of death.

‘So you succeeded in rearing the wee thing,’ Mac exclaimed, all smiles as he recounted the tale to his young female assistant. ‘Well he seems strong enough for us to neuter him now,’ he said amiably, as Toby began to display the first signs of alarm at the feel of Mac’s rough, searching hands.

‘I’ll give him his injections too. Aye, he’s turned into a bonny wee thing all right; all power to you,’ he grudgingly conceded as he whisked Toby away. ‘You can call back for him in a couple of hours’ time, aye?’

Suddenly I was alone, not knowing what to do with myself. Would Toby Jug die under the anaesthetic? Why hadn’t I left him intact to enjoy his life instead of putting him through this? These were the questions that kept coming and going through my mind while I waited, fearful of the awful things that might happen to him.

I spent almost two hours in a tea shop in Alnwick agonizing about it all. After two hours and one minute I was back at the vet’s surgery. Mac was there examining a huge but gentle Labrador as I entered the surgery area. After a moment he glanced my way and to my immense relief said, ‘You’ll be wanting your wee cat now.’

With that remark he disappeared. He clearly hadn’t heard my hoarsely voiced question, ‘Is he all right?’

Shortly afterwards, Mac returned with Toby Jug, looking slightly flustered and pained by what had happened to him but none the worse for all that. Toby celebrated our reunion with his habitual fulsomeness and ended up in his usual position on my left shoulder. I revelled in this public display of our bonding and indulged happily in the look of astonishment on Mac’s face. I took the vaccination and other certificates he handed me and headed out to my car with Toby Jug clinging on to my shoulder like a koala bear.

Happily reunited we headed homewards with me whistling happily and Toby Jug still perched on my shoulder as we drove along. His claws dug in as he hung on over every bump in the road but I didn’t mind a bit. I was so happy to have him back with me, alive and well. Before we left the vet’s surgery Mac’s young assistant had handed me a tablet which, she explained, contained an antibiotic to prevent any infection after Toby Jug’s operation. I told her that Toby would not take a tablet of any kind and that I had tried unsuccessfully on several occasions to administer some proprietary health tablets for cats.

‘Oh nonsense,’ she exclaimed. ‘Look I’ll show you how to do it.’ And with that remark she took hold of Toby Jug’s head and to his astonishment quickly prised open his mouth and popped the tablet in. ‘There you see, as easy as that,’ she said. Toby snapped his mouth shut and stared pop-eyed at me in amazement.

After we had been on the road for quite some time, I heard a ‘Pitttth’ sound from Toby. What remained of the said tablet was spat out and landed in my lap. He had kept the offending tablet in his mouth and waited until he was well away before spitting it out. So much for the expertise of callow young vets. I chuckled as Toby Jug, obviously feeling pleased with himself, purred loudly in my ear all the way home.

On arriving home Toby seemed to be suffering no ill-effects after his operation and ate a specially prepared meal of chicken livers with his usual gusto. However, when I went to file the veterinary certificates I noticed something strange. Under the column headed ‘Breed of Animal’ there was written in bold handwriting: ‘Cat: Black & White Long Haired Maine Coon’. I looked down at Toby Jug happily eating away and thought, ‘What on earth is a Maine Coon?’

I looked at him with new eyes. Here I was thinking of him in the most affectionate terms as an ordinary ‘moggie’, but perhaps he was really a special breed of cat or some kind of hybrid. More than slightly bemused, I resolved to try to sort out Toby Jug’s past history as soon as possible. The thought of telephoning Mac to ask him for information did cross my mind but I neither wanted to appear ignorant nor did I want to give him any satisfaction if he was playing some kind of joke on me. The local library in Alnwick couldn’t help me at all but then on an impulse I telephoned the area RSPCA and a kindly woman’s voice informed me that a Maine Coon was an American breed but apart from that she couldn’t tell me any more. All the more intrigued, I determined to pursue the matter further. For the next five days I was going to be in Oxford to speak at a conference so I thought that I would take some time out to do more research there about the Maine Coon breed.

Assuring him that I would soon return, I left Toby Jug in the loving care of my mother and set off for Oxford on one of my rare trips away. It was the first time Toby and I had been separated overnight. A short distance from St Catherine’s College, where I was staying, I discovered what I was searching for in Blackwell’s bookshop at William Baker House on Broad Street. There, in the Natural History Section, I found, among the various cat books and reference authorities, a photograph of a cat almost identical to Toby Jug. It was described as a ‘Black and White Maine Coon’. So Mac was right he hadn’t been kidding me.

Scanning the information which followed I found a very comprehensive description of semi-long-haired breeds of cat starting with the Maine Coon. There before me lay the full historical details of my little cat’s ancestry and an interesting one it was, too. It appeared that the Maine Coon was so called because the breed originated in the American state of Maine. The explanation of the name Coon was that it derived from a mistaken belief by the inhabitants of Maine who thought that, because of the cat’s similarity in looks and mannerisms, the animal was the result of crossbreeding between cats and racoons. According to scientific evidence, this is not genetically possible.

As I read on it became clear that cats, such as the Norwegian Forest cat and the Persian Longhair, were taken on board sailing ships to kill rats and as a result they were introduced to North America by seafarers from Europe. The ship cats most likely interbred with the local short-haired cats to eventually produce, by a process of natural selection, the Maine Coon. This breed became very popular and appeared at cat shows in the USA as early as 1895. I was fascinated by all of this and it made me ponder just how a breed of cat from over 3,000 miles away in the United States could have turned up in a semi-wild cat’s litter just over a mile-and-a-half from my cottage in Northumberland. But then I suppose sea traffic goes both ways and cats are inveterate and promiscuous breeders. Whatever his background might be, it was clear that Toby Jug was an identifiable living descendant of the American Maine Coon breed.

I was further intrigued when I read the description of the particular temperament associated with the Maine Coon breed. The picture the book portrayed was a ‘spitting image’ profile of my Toby Jug. I read that Maine Coon cats are friendly, good-humoured and uncomplicated cats that are highly adaptable. They are inquisitive and tend to retain a kittenish attitude to life even when fully grown and mature but they are easily bored and therefore need constant variety and stimulation; they love to romp and play and become easily attached to people, more especially to one or two persons who are primarily involved in their care and upbringing. This, in a nutshell, was Toby Jug as I knew him.

Reflecting at leisure on what I’d learned, I recalled the night of the rescue and the appearance of Toby’s mother. She had a long body with a lengthy, fluffed-out tail that was darker in colour than her body, which was a light silver-grey. I remembered thinking what a beautiful cat she must have been as I watched her on the vet’s table that awful night. Consulting again the Encyclopaedia of Cats, the book by Esther Verhoef which I’d bought that morning, I leafed through the photographs. On page 34 I saw once more the image of my Toby with the description ‘Black and White Maine Coon’. As I flicked further through the pages I came at once upon the familiar face of the cat I had freed from the gin-trap and had last seen in her death throes. The simple inscription below the coloured photographic plate read ‘Silver Black Tabby Maine Coon’. Toby Jug’s mother, from my memory of her, had looked very similar. And so I thought if Toby Jug is really a descendant of the Maine Coon breed then it followed that either or both of his parents must have been Maine Coon. I resolved that on my return from Oxford I would make some local enquiries.

 

Back in Northumberland, I was delighted to be re-united with Toby Jug who ran and leapt on to my shoulder the moment he saw me. Obviously we had missed each other but it must have been worse for him because he wouldn’t have been able to understand that I’d be coming back for him. He had been well cared for by my mother but, of necessity, he had been locked indoors in one of the old stables on her land for most of the day. This was a precaution we had worked out before I left to prevent him wandering off in search of me and his home. My mother said that he hadn’t eaten much and seemed to be suffering from homesickness in spite of all the attention she had lavished on him. We were glad to be together again and we soon resumed our happy life at the cottage.

Whenever you want to know about anything in my village, there is always one sure place you can go. It’s the place where people gather of an evening to relax over a drink and talk, namely the village public house. Felton has two pubs: the Northumberland Arms and the Stag’s Head. Over the course of several nights and a weekend soliciting gossip in the two aforementioned hostelries, I discovered that there was a woman who bred pedigree cats in the nearby village of Shilbottle. In Shilbottle Post Office my attention was directed to a typed note amongst the advertisements with an address in the village where pedigree cats were for sale.

It didn’t take me long to find the cottage which was set back from the road in an extensive garden. I walked up the well-kept drive that was bordered with a wide variety of flowering plants and shrubs. A Victorian-style wrought-iron gate led to an inner paved area and a huge front door. The cottage branched out on both sides of the frontage in keeping with the style of the period. The windows upstairs had old-fashioned wooden shutters which I noticed were closed even on this warm, sunny afternoon. It struck me as rather odd but then possibly there had been a bereavement or loss in the family which necessitated a time for mourning. I did not wish to intrude unnecessarily on private feelings but I was anxious to pursue my quest, so I rang the bell and waited in anticipation. A frail woman of mature age answered the door and, on hearing my inquiry, invited me inside. I introduced myself to her and learned that she was called Sarah Erskins, that she was a widow who lived with her daughter and that she was a specialist breeder of thoroughbred cats.

There were well-groomed cats everywhere in the sitting room into which I was shown. There were Persian Longhairs, Colourpoint and Sealpoint, Siamese, Abyssinian Reds and Balinese Bluepoints, all of which she identified by name for my benefit, but there were no Maine Coons as far as I could tell. Over a cup of tea, standard local hospitality, I asked her if she’d ever had any Maine Coon cats. Her expression became serious and pained at my question and instead of answering she rose and walked over to an old writing desk just like the one my grandmother had. Rummaging about in the draws she withdrew a photograph album. Quickly turning the pages she found what she wanted and placed the album on my knees.

There before me lay an enlarged photograph of a silver cream tabby female Maine Coon. Underneath was inscribed her name: Silver Girl Bonny and there was a certificate pasted on the same page which identified her as being registered with the Governing Council of the Cat Fancy (GCCF). I was both surprised and a little shocked to see that the cat pictured was one and the same she-cat I had rescued on that fateful January night. There could be no mistake. At the sight of her picture I was transported briefly back in time to the wind-swept and tumbledown hayloft where I had found her with her kittens. Suddenly the voice of Mrs Erskins cut through my reverie and I looked up to see tears in her eyes.

‘She was my Bonny,’ she said with feeling. ‘And we lost her! And I haven’t had the heart to seek a replacement for her. How could I?’

With that she sat slowly down on the edge of her armchair and I waited patiently for her to go on.

Holding her cup tightly in both hands, without drinking from it, she stared intently at the carpet as she recounted the story of her loss.

‘We were taking her to the Harrogate show along with Bluebell and Chi-Chi. Bonny was such a pet, I used to let her sit on my lap during most of the drive. I wish now I’d kept her in the show cage with the other two cats,’ she said tearfully and paused. I sipped my tea in silence until she was ready to go on.

‘My daughter was driving and on the spur of the moment she decided to call at the Running Fox in Felton for a newspaper and some sweets for the long journey.’

I nodded to indicate that I knew where she meant.

‘Having parked in front of the shop she opened the rear door of the Land Rover to get her handbag. Then she came around to my side and opened the passenger door to ask what she could get for me. At that exact moment two RAF jets flew low-level over the village. The noise was like a thunderclap and both of us nearly jumped out of our skins. Then I realized that Bonny was gone. She must have been startled when the planes flew over and fled. We never saw her again,’ she sobbed.

‘We searched for hours but there was no sign of her. We never got to the show. In the evening both my son and daughter went looking for her as I was too upset to go. We have heard nothing since even though we’ve put notices around and offered a reward, nothing, nothing at all.’

Her voice tailed off as she sagged back in her chair in despair. Looking at the expression on her face I remembered what it was like to lose a pet cat and never know what had happened to it. Only in this case, I did know and felt duty bound to try to ease this poor woman’s feelings but I hesitated in case I caused her even more grief.

I looked again at the photograph. I had to be sure now that the she-cat I’d rescued and the missing Bonny were the same before I said anything to her. Just then my dilemma was resolved because she looked straight across at me and said, ‘You know something. Tell me,’ as she leaned forward in her chair. ‘Has she been found?’

I spared her the gruesome details as far as I could. But I saw just how shaken she was to hear of Bonny’s death. For several minutes after I’d finished my account she remained silent, staring into the fire, then she said: ‘You say there’s a kitten? A hybrid?’

I nodded, fearful now of what she might want.

‘Tell me about the kitten,’ she said.

I told her briefly about Toby Jug, how he looked and how he was and lastly how much he meant to me. Her face positively beamed as she said, dabbing at her eyes, ‘So there is a happy ending to this after all.’ A noise from the hallway announced that her daughter was home from work and, leaving her to retell the tale, I left. She followed me to the door and, pressing her frail hand on my shoulder, she thanked me for what I’d done for Bonny and her surviving kitten.

I waved from the car as I drove away and reflected on the tremendous depth of feeling a pet animal can generate in a person’s life and then I recalled reading somewhere that the RSPCA had estimated that there were at least five million cat owners in the UK. So many people have a great affection for cats. I knew what Mrs Erskins was feeling because I felt the same way about Toby Jug.

‘Well,’ I sighed to myself. ‘Now I know who his mother was perhaps I can trace his father as well.’

This idea ranged through my mind until I arrived home. The thought kept coming back to me for days afterwards. Eventually, I decided that at some time in the future I would have to investigate this whole matter further but then fate took a hand again.

I cannot honestly say that Toby showed any emotion at the news about his mother but merely yawned in that off-hand way that cats have when they are bored with the conversation. I expect to him it was dim dark history and in no way to be confused with the bliss of his current life. Nevertheless, I did tell him about her as a matter of duty and for her sake. Now that I knew more about Toby’s background and inherited characteristics, I studied him with new eyes and decided that the two words I would add to the descriptions of a Maine Coon cat’s personality would be ‘mischievous’ and ‘perceptive’.

 

Toby Jug was remarkably brainy for a cat and sometimes quite deceptive with it. He was also quick to tune-in to what people were thinking, as I found out many times, including when I bought him a small red ball to play with whenever I had to leave him alone in the cottage. It was the kind that bounced easily and, if struck even moderately by a playful paw, would shoot across the room in a way that invited a headlong chase. Toby Jug loved this plaything and would sometimes carry it around in his mouth and occasionally bring it to me to be thrown so that he could jump and attempt to catch it. Here again was a link to his Maine Coon breeding since these cats are well-known for retrieving small objects and carrying playthings to their owners.

One day the red ball disappeared and couldn’t be found. Obviously, Toby had carried it out of doors and it had gone astray somewhere in the garden. No amount of careful searching unearthed the lost ball. Tired of searching we eventually abandoned the hunt as a lost cause and I made a mental note to buy him another. Some days later I was puzzled to find a number of tomatoes lying around the patio, some of which were in a severely bruised state. When I set about retrieving these I noticed that Toby looked suspiciously guilty and I became quite perplexed at what was going on. Was Toby Jug bringing these tomatoes and if so where was he getting them? It was most bewildering.

The mystery was solved several days later when Alice, the neighbour from the cottage next to mine, knocked on my backdoor and told me, with some embarrassment, that she really liked my little cat but could I stop him from going into her greenhouse and stealing her tomatoes. She explained that she left the greenhouse door partially open for ventilation. Then it dawned on me what had been happening. I started to give her an account of the saga of Toby’s lost little red ball when, to my horror the villain of the piece appeared around the corner of the cottage in full view of both of us, carrying a red tomato in his mouth.

I have always believed that animals, and more especially cats, have a full range of emotional sensitivities which includes a conscience. At the sight of the two of us, Toby Jug skidded to a stop, dropped the tomato and scampered off to hide in the bushes. I assured an indignant Alice that I would remonstrate with Toby Jug (although at the time I wasn’t quite sure how I would do this) and punish him at the earliest opportunity. I also mentioned that I would buy Toby a multitude of small red balls that very afternoon. I suggested that for a few days she might like to close her greenhouse door. I communicated all of this in the most apologetic manner I could summon, stopping short only of getting down on my knees to say sorry. I did offer to buy her some tomatoes from the village shop but this only seemed to add insult to injury since she angrily assured me that her tomatoes were homegrown and far superior to any that were store bought. We parted on reasonably good terms, though, and I resolved to buy the dear lady a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates as a peace offering. This I duly did and friendly diplomatic relations were re-established.

Thankfully nothing more was ever heard of the tomato incident, but I suspect that Alice took steps to prevent Toby’s entry into her greenhouse. After his exposure as the tomato thief Toby was not seen until mid-evening, when hunger pangs overcame his guilty feelings. When he did at last appear for his dinner I confronted him with the stolen tomato and let him off with a light scolding and, from the shamed look he affected, I was sure he understood me only too well. The scolding appeared in no way to diminish his appetite, though, and merely served to confirm for me the inherent resilience of a cat’s nature to shrug off adversity.

Following this incident I made sure that my other neighbours were aware of Toby Jug’s eccentricities and, fearful of angry reprisals against him, I offered compensation for any damage he might in future cause. But in the small community in which we lived Toby Jug had quickly become accepted for the playful character that he was. His friendly, extraverted nature tended to ingratiate him with the neighbours, especially the ladies of the households, some of whom regularly saved titbits of cooked meat and fried bacon for him.

Since that event Toby was given a regular supply of red balls which periodically had to be changed, either because he forgot where he last played with his ball or because the old one had too many bits chewed out of it and he liked me to supply him with a new one. I often found discarded balls in unusual places, like in cupboards, under the bed, in the vegetable rack and once behind a cushion on the sofa, not to mention those discarded in the garden. This made me suspect that there was a conspiracy afoot – something of the order of T.S. Eliot’s ‘Macavity – The Mystery Cat’ (described as ‘the Napoleon of Crime!’) – but I never could catch him at it, which led me to suspect him all the more. Toby Jug, I’m glad to say, was developing into quite a maverick personality.

There was, however, something which perturbed me about the incident recounted above which had nothing to do with tomatoes but everything to do with the way that cats, unlike any other domestic animal, wander as they please. I could not control Toby Jug’s excursions unless I tethered or imprisoned him all the time, which was to my mind unthinkable, especially since we lived in such appealing surroundings. Also I hated the idea of caging any creature. Some pet owners who keep caged birds may care for them in such a way that they have a good life, but my own feelings for Toby Jug prohibited restricting his freedom to roam. With regard to the need to give Toby Jug the freedom to wander at will, I was anxious to know what rights cats had under the law.

I raised this point with a police inspector friend of mine whilst we were having a drink together one night in the Northumberland Arms. The gist of what he told me was that a domestic cat cannot be owned in law by anyone, it is not property as such nor is its owner obliged to be responsible for whatever it does on its wanderings. He also added, with respectful deference to my feelings for Toby Jug, that cats are classed in the same category as vermin such as rabbits, rats and mice. I trusted my friend’s words and did not consult a solicitor on this point because it just seemed to be the way things were. Yet the prospect of Toby Jug’s wayward adventures worried me considerably to the extent that I felt I must do something about it. I was also aware of scare stories about cats being abducted by unscrupulous people to be sold to laboratories for vivisection and other kinds of experiments.

Consequently, I bought Toby Jug a collar, a fine collar of fluorescent yellow plastic (so that I would more easily spot him in the darkness), with a bright silver bell attached. The collar had a strip of elastic built into its length as a safety precaution so that, in the event of it becoming hooked on to something, it would slip off the cat’s head without harming him. Also, I bought a miniature brass cylinder containing a slip of paper with my name, address and telephone number and the words ‘Reward for return of this cat’. I didn’t put Toby’s name on it in case someone stole him. But in this way I sought to protect Toby Jug as my cat by means of ‘Common Law’, since the collar and identity cylinder were certainly my property.

 

In the last few weeks of the summer term, whilst I was still very busy at the college, I had given Toby Jug the freedom to wander and play as he wished rather than shutting him in the house or tethering him on a lead in the garden. I believed that he was now mature and experienced enough to manage on his own, and he had his brand new collar. He loved the freedom and coped very well with his newfound independence. As far as I knew he stayed close to home and ventured over the fence to other gardens only where he was welcome, except of course for his clandestine visits to Alice’s greenhouse. But as my homecoming time approached he would always be waiting in the drive to welcome me. Until this particular day.

When I returned home on a Friday afternoon I was confronted by the worst fear any pet owner can have. Toby Jug was nowhere to be found.

Generally, he would sprint to my side from wherever he was playing or reposing as soon as he heard the car approaching. If he was not there to greet me immediately I had only to call his name and whistle and he would come running. On this occasion I whistled and called his name many times, but to no avail. This was most unlike him and I began to panic. First I checked the roadway outside the cottage. Had he been run over and left lying at the roadside? Thankfully there was no sign of him there. But then I began to think of other equally dreadful alternatives. Had he got caught by his new collar and strangled himself? Many alarming thoughts and improbable scenarios filled my mind as I searched everywhere I could think of looking.

All the while I could feel myself becoming more and more panic-stricken. He had never done this before and I began to fear the worst. Something terrible must have happened to him. Sad memories of pet cats disappearing without trace flooded my mind. As I rushed here and there in a lather of anxiety, I was stopped in my tracks by a faint whine which seemed to come from above. Glancing up with relief, I spotted Toby Jug high on the conservatory roof that sloped up to my bedroom window. In the throes of panic I had failed to look for him on the roof.

He turned when I called his name and gave me another whine of recognition but then turned his attention back to the window. He began to make the strangely aggressive chittering sound with his teeth that he sometimes made when watching birds through the kitchen window. He made no attempt to come to me and was obviously engrossed in something or other within the bedroom. Puzzled by this odd behaviour, I decided to investigate the bedroom from inside the cottage; perhaps a bird had flown down the chimney and was fluttering around the room, causing Toby Jug’s displeasure.

As I climbed the stairs I could hear a strange humming noise coming from behind the bedroom door. I flung the door open, only to slam it shut again instantly, aghast at what I had seen. The room had been invaded by a swarm of bees. My bedroom, as I briefly saw it, was black with their presence. They must have come down the chimney and in through the fireplace.

A neighbour, who had noticed the tail end of the swarm clustered around one of my highest chimney pots, kindly offered to summon the help of a friend who kept bees. I was confused and disturbed by this situation and in the circumstances any offer of help was to be welcomed. Meanwhile, I still couldn’t entice Toby Jug down from his vantage point since he seemed obliged to stand guard by the window.

We waited, a little group of neighbours, looking skywards to check on the situation and I listened with a sinking heart to tales of doom about rogue swarms of bees that invaded houses and drove the occupants out, sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks, until a solution could be found. A murmur of expectancy arose from the small crowd as the friend of my neighbour arrived in his van. The curiosity of this peaceful community, normally starved of dire events such as this, was fully aroused and news had spread by word of mouth from one cottage to the next. Soon an appreciable number of onlookers had gathered to witness the excitement.

After introductions and a brief consultation with us, followed by a quick inspection of the cottage interior, the beekeeper thoughtfully appraised the situation. Then, undaunted by comments from the crowd such as, ‘You wouldn’t get me to go in there for a thousand pounds’, he prepared to tackle the problem at first hand. Armed with various beekeeper’s hoods and nets he marched upstairs, with a boldness and professional aplomb that was truly impressive, and entered my bedroom, closing the door firmly shut behind him. Before going into the cottage he had told us that his purpose was to locate the queen bee and bring her out and this would result in the swarm then dispersing. At least, that was the carefully worked-out plan. Toby Jug meanwhile, maintaining his vigilance on the conservatory roof, had by now moved up to peer into the window, his courage no doubt strengthened by the arrival of reinforcements. He still would not come down.

As the beekeeper disappeared inside the cottage a hush came over the crowd. We waited for several minutes in silent anticipation. Suddenly there came exclamations of pain and anger from inside the cottage, which caused cries of alarm from the waiting onlookers. Then, the beekeeper erupted from the back door of the cottage and hurtled into the yard. Several angry queen bee guards had seemingly penetrated his protective attire. He flung off his face-mask, uttering various unrepeatable expletives. For a while all was confusion as my neighbour and I tried vainly to help by swatting his clothing whenever another bee appeared or wherever we thought there might be one. Far from being well-received, this attention only seemed to add to his stress and exasperation. By now the bee expert was becoming increasingly distraught and had totally lost his calm and confident demeanour of a few minutes ago.

The crowd, anticipating an angry scene, began to drift away. Finally the beekeeper lost his temper completely and vented his spleen in no uncertain manner on my neighbour, myself, all species of bees and the universe in general. Having been severely stung and suffered the public indignity of defeat, he stormed out of the yard and roared off in his van, leaving behind only the stunned aftermath of his wrath and a few dead bees as evidence of his efforts. Deeply apologetic, my neighbour returned to the company of his television, shaking his head in commiseration and remarking that his friend had always been known to have a volatile disposition. All at once I found myself as alone with the problem as before except that now the bees were humming even more aggressively. Toby Jug and I had been abandoned to our fate.

Eventually I managed to coax Toby Jug down from the roof with the promise of food and we both warily entered the kitchen where Toby Jug gulped down his meat morsels all the while looking around apprehensively as he listened to the aggressive humming coming from upstairs. A simple little cat he might be, but he knew peril when he heard it. Having finished his meal in record time, he rushed outside, still licking his lips and burping with the haste of his eating. Having made his escape he sat on the kitchen windowsill anxiously awaiting further developments.

‘Coward!’ I accused him, but Toby Jug was unmoved.

Left to my own devices I pondered the situation and after a cup of tea I decided upon my own battle plan. I would light the fire downstairs and load it until it was a roaring inferno. Then, since it used the same chimney vent as the fireplace in my bedroom, the bees would be persuaded to go elsewhere. I stoked the sitting room fire into a furnace of heat and observed from outside with some satisfaction that the swarm around my chimney stack had grown considerably as they retreated out of the chimney away from the heat and smoke. But relief soon turned to dismay because, as the fire died down, the bees once more crowded back inside the chimney. It was a stalemate. To add to my distress Toby Jug refused to come into the cottage. No amount of coaxing could change his mind.

Back in the sitting room, I determined to keep the fire as hot as possible to prevent the bees from occupying the whole house. Obviously, I couldn’t sleep upstairs. Instead, I was forced to use the settee as a makeshift bed. Nor could I use the bathroom, which contained all my toiletries, because it was en-suite to my bedroom. Fortunately there was a primitive outside toilet but I had only the kitchen sink in which to wash. It really was an uncalled-for nuisance and showed one of the downsides of country living. In a mood of abject misery, I wondered what I should do next.

Soon it began to grow dark and as I was very tired after the day’s exertions I decided to turn in for the night and somehow find a way to deal with the problem the next morning. Before locking up I went outside and, to his alarm, grabbed Toby forcibly from his refuge on the windowsill and brought him into the cottage. Then I shut us both in the sitting room after first filling the coal-scuttle, not to mention the fire, to ensure maximum burn. We were in a state of siege. In case of a bee attack I armed myself with a rolled up newspaper and prepared to repel any invaders. I also jammed the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door with a blanket I took from the car to prevent any bees entering the room whilst we slept. Toby Jug, far from settling down, began to prowl around the room looking for a way out. Ignoring him, I lay down and tried to rest.

We spent an uncomfortable night, tossing and turning, and it was a relief to awaken with the dawn and greet the day with a cup of coffee. I was tired out and not a little angry at the situation. After a demanding week at work, I’d spent a restless night all scrunched up on a two-seater settee. Each time I had opened my eyes I saw Toby Jug’s grizzled face anxiously staring down into mine as he lay stretched out on my chest. Now, both of us were glad to be outside in the cool, fresh morning air after the stuffy heat of the sitting room. I immediately began to reconnoitre the lay of the land and Toby Jug disappeared into the garden. As far as I could see, from looking up at the roof and the chimney stack, it was becoming increasingly serious since the swarm around the chimney had grown hideously in size and the sound from my bedroom had become an ominous drumming noise. Perhaps the message ‘Come and join us’ had gone out over the bee grapevine.

Having slept in my clothes and unshaven as well, I was in no way fit to face the outside world but I was just about angry enough to do so. Opening the garden gates I backed the car out of the garage and from nowhere was at once joined by Toby Jug who leapt on to the front passenger seat, obviously determined not to be left behind to ‘guard the fort’, especially since it was under attack. If the captain was leaving, then he wasn’t going to be left behind. In times of adversity, Toby Jug believed that discretion was the better part of valour. His motto was: if danger threatened, then the safest place was behind me.

Heading down the A1 to Morpeth at speed, a journey of approximately eight miles, I had the usual difficulty in parking on a Saturday morning. Eventually finding a parking place in a shadowy tree-lined backstreet and leaving one window partially open for ventilation, I assured Toby Jug that I would soon be back. Then I headed off for the main thoroughfare to find a chemist.

The white-coated teenage assistant found my requests somewhat bizarre and hastily summoned the pharmacist, who treated my emotional outburst about the bees with remarkable professional detachment. By now a small crowd, drawn by the unusual nature of my request and the intensity in my ‘lecture-room voice’, had gathered near the pharmacy counter. When I turned to look at them none would make eye-contact. Obviously I sounded and looked like some kind of crank. The chemist nodded in an aloof manner and departed into his inner sanctum. Some moments later he emerged with a cylindrical container with enough poison to kill all the troublesome bees in Northumberland. Poor bees! But I was in desperate straits and the bees had the option of leaving. I didn’t.

Hurrying back to the car, I was greeted with the not unusual sight of a group of children looking into the car at Toby Jug, who was enjoying the attention hugely. On the drive back I wondered what would happen if these tablets didn’t work. What were my options? As far as I could see I didn’t have any.

Arriving back at the cottage I immediately set about carrying out the pharmacist’s directions. The bees were still in fervent occupation and some had even begun to swarm around the smaller chimney which served the kitchen. It was time for desperate measures. Since leaving the car, Toby Jug was nowhere to be seen. No doubt he would be watching from some concealed viewpoint of comparative safety as he reviewed the situation.

First of all, I vigorously stoked the fire until I could see smoke pouring out of the chimney but still the bees remained and were beginning to establish a second beachhead in the corner of the ceiling at the top of the stairs. I was puzzled by this at first until, with a raincoat over my head for protection, I crept a little way up the stairs and, peering through the banister supports, I saw to my horror that bees were streaming out from under my bedroom door. Any feeling of compassion for these creatures was quickly dispelled. From now on it was total war and I was not in the mood to take any prisoners.

Following the pharmacist’s direction to the letter, I allowed the fire to die back to glowing embers and then threw two of the white tablets on to the red coals and immediately blocked the opening with a ‘blazer’, a heavy sheet of iron which had a handle attached to the outside, traditionally used in the coal burning cottages of the northeast to increase the draught up the chimney. Then I stood back and awaited the results. I was becoming increasingly fearful that if this didn’t work I would have to abandon the cottage. To add to my alarm some stray bees had already invaded the room in which I was standing and were obviously reconnoitring the area for a full-scale invasion.

At first there were no discernible results from my latest gambit but after about ten minutes of anxious watching from the front lawn I could see that there were signs of a gathering of bees which soon covered the whole of the chimney breast and eventually spilled on to the roof itself. Elated at this development I dashed inside and added a further two pellets to the fire. The view from outside was heartening. A swarm of tremendous size had gathered on the roof, covering the whole area of the chimneys and the adjacent tiles. The sight was awesome. In effect the noise of agitated buzzing made by the swarm sounded like a muted chainsaw and caused a curious tickling sensation in the ears. Passers-by stopped to gape at the phenomenon. The buzzing of the bee swarm was so loud that it had already caused a number of the neighbours to gather in their gardens to watch the spectacle. From the comments people made, it was clear that we all hoped to see an exodus. There was an expectation it would be imminent. I certainly wished it to be so and feeling quite buoyant I began to exchange opinions with my neighbours. It was then that I noticed that Toby Jug, unseen by me, had somehow joined our expectant throng, but then cats have a way of knowing things.

The lift-off occurred somewhat later than we all thought. It was almost three hours after I had first put the chemicals on the fire. It was a sensational sight. It seemed that thousands of bees became airborne at the same time, almost as if guided by a single mind. In flight they formed an ominous black cloud which swirled in columns way high above the trees and over the river to eventually disappear from sight. A collective sigh of relief, possibly even a muffled cheer, from the crowd greeted their departure. Although magnificent in their own way I hoped that they would not invade any other hapless person’s house. Several of my neighbours congratulated me on my good fortune in having got rid of the bees. One of them cheerfully advised me to get a bee guard around my chimney. Try as I might around the hardware stores in the weeks that followed I could not find out what a bee guard was. Perhaps it was a hoax.

I cautiously re-entered the cottage with Toby Jug following at a safe distance behind looking from side to side with his ears and his tail on high alert. Aware that there might still be some remnants of the invasion force who had not been able to escape, I explored the house gingerly at first and then with increasing confidence. There weren’t any bees anywhere as far as I could tell. What was even more surprising was that there was no sign, either in the bedroom or the upper landing, that they had ever been there. It was mystifying. The look on Toby Jug’s face mirrored my own amazement as we tentatively moved from room to room.

That night we were reminded intermittently of the bees’ former presence as, sitting by the fire after dinner with Toby languishing in my lap, there came periodically a sszzzzzzzzzing down the chimney followed by a zitzzz as a dying insect landed in the fire. It seemed that those bees too overcome by the fumes to escape the chimney stack with the rest of the swarm were now expiring and dropping down the chimney. For the first few buzzes and zitzzes Toby Jug lifted his head, ears pricked intently, to identify what was happening, then as the sound became commonplace we both relapsed into a restful snooze amid hopes that the morrow would bring a happier day. The episode of the bee invasion was over and we could contentedly relax. It had been a harrowing experience.

 

It was the final day of the summer term at Alnwick College. The setting of examinations, the marking of exam scripts and the endless committee and qualification board meetings had served their ritualistic purposes to the full. Now, and for the next ten weeks, the college would be closed and the Duke of Northumberland’s castle would belong solely to him, his family, the tourists and, of course, the ravens. I was greatly relieved to be going home to the peace and quiet of the cottage after the hectic term that had just finished. I arrived home to find one of my colleagues, Diane Forester, who taught Art and Craft Design, waiting for me at the entrance to my drive. As I got out of the car to open the gates she rushed forward and began speaking urgently as if she had no time to lose.

‘Sorry that I didn’t catch up with you at college,’ she said. ‘I got your address from the office. Could you do me a real big favour and look after my horse, Fynn, for the summer? She’s no trouble really and I believe you rode her a few times when she was at Moorgate Stables.’

Somewhat taken aback by this full-frontal approach I stared at her with apprehension, while she had a look of anxiety doubled with desperation. She looked genuinely all hot and bothered. Obviously, she was experiencing some kind of emergency otherwise she wouldn’t have come to me as we really didn’t know each other at all well. In the meantime Toby Jug was pacing up and down, rubbing himself against my legs and trying to remind me that it was his dinner time. I invited Diane into the cottage and got the whole story whilst I fed Toby Jug.

The following day she was due to go on holiday abroad for several weeks with her family. Unfortunately, the arrangements for the care of her horse, a dark grey Connemara filly which I rode a few times before she bought her, had fallen through and someone at the college had suggested that I might be able to help her out. I could see that she was on the verge of tears as she sat on the edge of a kitchen chair clutching a handkerchief tightly in her fist.

‘Of course I’ll pay you for your trouble,’ she began and I waved dismissively with embarrassment. I told her that as I didn’t intend going away this summer I was prepared to look after her horse to the best of my ability. With that her eyes suddenly lost their intensity and heaving a sigh of relief she sat back in the chair and accepted the cup of tea I offered her.

Then she noticed Toby Jug who, having finished his meal, was busy washing himself. She leaned forward and stroked him but he wasn’t sure of her and swiftly moved away to lie down by the door. I had noticed before that cats tend to avoid people acting nervously.

‘Fynn was very fond of the stable cats at Moorgate,’ she said as she groped for something to say. Toby changed his mind and leapt on her lap for some strokes. He didn’t stay there long, though, and I felt that Diane was much relieved because she commenced assiduously brushing down her light-coloured skirt and examining it for cat hairs and paw marks. I was relieved that she didn’t find any as I gently nudged Toby with my foot out through the open patio door and into the garden. Then she changed back into hurried mode and, fishing in her handbag, handed me the keys to the tack room and a sketch map of the location of the field in Denwick where Fynn was stabled.

‘I really am most awfully grateful,’ she said. She’d got what she came for and didn’t know how to leave without giving offence. I decided to help her out. ‘You’ll no doubt have a lot of packing and arranging to do,’ I ventured.

Her smile gushed relief. Springing to her feet she grabbed her car keys from the coffee table and said, ‘Yes I have. I must be off. Thanks for the tea.’

This must have been no more than a politeness since I noticed her cup was still full to the brim on the coffee table where I’d placed it. I followed her out to the car, slightly amused by her agitated manner. Before she sped away she called out to me from the open car window: ‘Ride her just as much as you like. Regard her as yours for the next six weeks. Thanks again. Cheerio!’

Her inky blue-black Jaguar hummed as she drove away.

‘Now what have I done?’ I said, pacing the garden as Toby Jug frolicked around my feet. He loved these accompanied walks around the garden and was longing to show me the special places that he’d discovered that day, like the hedgehog’s nest of dried grass and fern where she was rearing three piglets and the broken remnants of starling’s eggs under the lilac tree. But tonight I was wrapped up in my own thoughts and didn’t pay much attention. I had other things on my mind, like what was I going to do with a horse for the next six weeks.

The dawn next morning was so full of sunshine that it woke me by shining through my bedroom window at around five a.m. I find sunbeams seen through the leaves of the trees especially appealing in the early morning and the sight invited closer inspection. Once outside I sat for a while, enjoying my first mug of tea and the clean fresh air. It had rained overnight and as the breeze shook raindrops out of the trees they sparkled like jewels in the sunlight. The urge to get up and savour what promised to be a glorious summer day had been too strong to resist even though it was so early. Toby Jug was an exuberant early riser and always keen to be involved in everything that was happening. He was particularly excited in the morning whereas I took a while to surface. For my part I was thinking about the practicalities of caring for the horse and deciding what we could do together over the coming weeks to relieve the boredom of carrying out the repetitive chores of feeding, exercising and mucking out the stable as well as all the household and garden jobs in the cottage. Still, it was great to think that the day belonged to me and that I could forget about work for a few weeks.

Later that morning, accompanied by Toby Jug, I set off in the car to find out where in Denwick village the horse was waiting for us. The village is in reality a hamlet and travelling by car it is easy to bypass without realizing it. After driving to and fro several times, and making hasty consultations of the sketched map, I eventually found the entrance to a long field flanked by tall hedges of overgrown hawthorn and beech. At the far end of the field, under a huge spread of horse chestnut, stood Fynn in perfect pastoral repose.

After parking the car and leaving a more than slightly miffed Toby Jug shut inside with, as ever, the window slightly open for fresh air, I walked to the gate and tentatively whistled an invitation to Fynn. At the sound, she turned her head in my direction, took a momentary look and then resumed her relaxed pose. She obviously hadn’t recognized me. Sighing with misgivings at the task ahead of me, I unlocked the tack room in search of a rope and bridle. Walking slowly down the field towards her, she again glanced my way, rolled her eyes and trotted off to a far corner of the field. This was going to be harder than I thought.

About an hour later, with sweat running off me, I led a roped, bridled and frisky horse up the field and tethered her to the stable door. By this time a frantic Toby Jug was jumping from one side of the car to the other in a state of apoplexy at being left out of the proceedings. Feeling guilty, I retrieved him from the car and introduced him to Fynn who gave a whinny of greeting but also surprise as Toby leapt from my arms and settled comfortably on her back just below the withers, between the shoulders. Fynn turned her head, gave Toby Jug a long look, snorted and bobbed her head up and down a few times in approval and then resumed standing quietly as I combed her tail.

‘Well I never would have believed it,’ I exclaimed to myself as the two of them obviously hit it off from the very beginning. Diane Forester must have been right about Fynn liking cats and I had thought she had just been making conversation. Sometimes the behaviour of animals really amazes me. The idea of Toby Jug taking so readily to a horse hadn’t crossed my mind as a possibility but then he was so unusual that I should have expected it.

The rest of the day was spent with Fynn and I getting to know each other. I rode her around the field, schooling her to my way of riding and generally familiarizing us with each other. I left a confused and somewhat jealous looking Toby Jug to sniff around the stable and later to watch us forlornly from the roof of the tack room.

Back at the cottage that evening I was in good spirits, having enjoyed the day thoroughly. Fynn was a fine horse, gentle-natured and, once she’d got used to me, easy to handle. I like horses and horse-riding has always appealed to me. With Toby Jug resting peacefully on my lap I got to thinking and had a brilliant idea, or so I thought at the time. It was partly stimulated by the sense of freedom that holiday time brings on but also by the weather forecast on the radio that predicted a prolonged spell of good weather with high pressure systems coming our way. I found the desire to be outdoors and into the countryside an irresistible temptation. Nursing the idea secretly to myself I thought what a surprise it will be for Toby Jug when he finds out. Our life together would soon be taking a more adventurous turn.

My idea was to take Toby Jug with me on horseback to camp for a few days in the Cheviot Hills. I could take full advantage of the fine weather and also Diane Forester’s offer to ride Fynn as much as I liked. It would also do me the world of good after spending so much time indoors at college on office administration. However, there would be some serious planning to do if the trip was to be a success. Transporting Toby Jug on horseback would present a major challenge but I thought I might have a solution if I did decide to take him with me. The alternative of leaving him at my mother’s or a cattery was unthinkable. Anyway, he was sure to get wind of my intentions and if he thought he was going to be left behind he would be inconsolable. If it was possible, I wanted to have him with me. Life with Toby Jug was good fun most of the time and, after all, he deserved a holiday as much as I did.

Setting out to find the supplies I needed necessitated a quick visit to Rothbury, a market town situated over the moors from Alnwick. The main street in Rothbury stretches up a hill on each side of which are all manner of shops. I was looking for one in particular, an archaic leather goods shop, a veritable storehouse of Victoriana that sold antique and second-hand items, including old-fashioned objects for horses and carriages. I wondered if the shop would still be there or whether it would have been by now turned into a snack-bar or coffee shop. It seemed ages since I’d been across to Rothbury, which is such a picturesque town.

Thankfully, the shop was still in existence. After spending an hour or so rummaging amongst old street lamps, various bridles and saddles and even rat-traps, I found what I’d been looking for: a pair of large saddle bags of burnished mahogany leather with strong brass fasteners which I bought for the bargain price of £3.10 shillings. The prize find was a set of twin picnic panniers, in basket weave with leather lids, made to be carried by a donkey, which I reckoned could be adapted to stretch across the back of a horse in front of the saddle. They would be exactly right for packing some food and drink on one side and Toby Jug on the other as long as Fynn didn’t have a tantrum. The panniers were covered in dust and cobwebs and there was a small hole in one of the baskets but I was delighted and cheerfully paid £1 each for them.

Leaving Rothbury behind and delighted with my finds, my next stop was the Army & Navy Supply Store in Alnwick where I equipped myself with a double size sleeping bag for extra comfort, and two lightweight survival tents with a free battery-powered hanging torchlight thrown in. I also bought a mess tin, a billycan and a set of ‘field’ cutlery. Now I was ready for what I hoped would be an adventure.

The night before we were due to leave I caught the bus from Alnwick across to Denwick and rode Fynn back to the cottage for the night. There I bedded her down with some hay and horse nuts and tethered her to an iron ring in the wall of one of the stone outhouses which was open-sided and in which she could find shelter if necessary. Toby Jug was fascinated by all these goings-on and made himself comfortable in the pile of hay near Fynn. For a while I thought he’d deserted me to spend the night by Fynn’s side but when bedtime came around he hastened inside to join me as usual.

 

I slept only a few hours that night and mostly lay awake imagining everything that could go disastrously wrong with the trip. The sun again woke me and I lay dozing a while, listening to the morning birdsong which served to relieve some of the tension. I was nevertheless glad to be up and about at around six to complete the last minute preparations. I hate waiting about and was eager to get underway. The Horse Transport had been booked for ten that morning and was to take us as far as Alwinton to give the expedition a good start. It arrived an hour late and Fynn refused to go in the horsebox.

As a last resort I copied a trick I had heard from one of the Duke’s grooms who was well practised in dealing with spirited horses. I covered her head with a towel, led her around at a quick trot and raced her into the cab. As I removed the towel she snorted hard and kicked the sides in temper but when I spoke quietly to her and stroked her neck she settled down to munch a few apples I’d brought her. Toby Jug had watched these proceedings at a safe distance but now climbed unbidden into the horse cab and sat atop Fynn’s feeding trough. He could stay there I decided until we were ready to go.

Before departing I slipped Toby Jug into his harness and lead as a precaution and took him to sit up front with the driver and me. As we drove away we were waved off by a small group of infant-school children returning from a nature walk who had stopped with their teacher to watch us loading. I could imagine them having to draw a picture in crayons of what they had seen and I wondered what tales they would tell their parents that evening. Thankfully, I had been spared the attention of my neighbours who were all at work and who, I guess, might have been dubious about the advisability of embarking on such a trip.

Wending our way through the sunlit leafy lanes of rural Northumberland was so restful that I found myself unable to resist nodding off, especially since the driver was rather surly and not at all pleased at being given this particular job.

‘You must be ruddy daft,’ had been his only comment when I’d explained our trip to him. ‘You with a horse and a cat right up the ruddy “sticks”. Mad,’ he added for emphasis.

I decided to ignore him. Meanwhile, Toby Jug had perched himself on top of the engine and gearbox cover inside the driver’s cab and was happily surveying all he could see in between catnaps.

Alwinton is a small community in the heartland of rural Northumberland. It took us nearly two hours to reach the Rose and Thistle pub there, which was to be our starting point for the trek. The arrival of the horse-wagon proved to be a momentous event. The lunchtime regulars ambled out, pint glasses in hand, to view our arrival with slack-jawed disbelief. Having resisted going in to the horsebox, Fynn now refused to come out. The driver, exasperated beyond his tolerance level, swore and cursed as he attempted to move half a ton of stubborn horse by manpower alone. He failed miserably.

Somewhat angered by this show of brutality, and embarrassed by the sniggers of the onlookers, I determined to take over myself. Picking a handful of bruised apples from the supplies, I purposefully strode into the horsebox, closely followed by Toby Jug. Fynn slowly turned her head at our approach and, feeling much aggrieved, whinnied in self-pity. Feeding her an apple at a time, and holding her headband, I backed her out of the box to the cheers of the drinkers who eventually drifted back inside the pub. The driver, in a further show of anger, banged shut the doors of the horsebox and, with a sneer in our direction, drove off. I hailed his departure with a sigh of relief.

Toby Jug watched me in a curious mood from his seat on the fence as I loaded Fynn with our supplies. I could see that he was wondering why we were here and where we were going. I had no really firm ideas except for the site of our camp, which I remembered having seen on a country walk some years previously. I guessed it would still be there as little changes in these remote parts of the county. I did expect that we would have some fun along the way. In other words, the journey would unfold as we progressed, that simply was all I had in mind. Finally, everything was packed and with Toby comfortably settled in the left-side pannier, we set off with me leading Fynn towards our first objective. Apart from snorting hard and stamping the ground really hard with a foreleg, Fynn had accepted the indignity of having the panniers on her back but I didn’t dare ride her until she became used to them. Like me and Toby Jug, she was anxious to be moving.

The field climbed away rapidly as we left the Rose and Crown behind us. With a few shaggy-haired Highland cattle and a light breeze to keep us company we climbed ever higher into the hills. It proved to be an excellent day, weather-wise, and I was soon sweating profusely. Casting off my anorak I searched ahead for the campsite I had in mind. Soon, but not early enough for my weary limbs and raging thirst, the ruin of a stone building appeared on the hilltop ahead of us. It was the remains of High Steads Youth Hostel which had been abandoned after a mysterious fire. At the sight of it Fynn, who was no fool, stretched her neck and moved forward at a thrusting trot and I struggled to keep pace with her. On reaching the ruin all I could do was slump on to the grass with a cool drink of water from my flask. Fynn wandered off to the side to drink from a stony burn which had gouged a deep channel down the hillside. Toby Jug, whom I had momentarily forgotten, emerged yawning from his pannier wondering no doubt why we had stopped. He lost no time in joining me on the grass, his eyes vertical black slits in the bright sunlight.

After a brief respite I felt obliged to get things sorted. Donning a pair of sunglasses against the glare, I tethered Fynn to a rusty pole protruding from a crumbling wall and set about unpacking and making camp for the night.

On looking over the ruin I decided it would be too risky to camp within its walls and chose instead to pitch the tent in the lee of the building under a stunted hawthorn tree which had a most wonderfully shaped trunk, all rugged and gnarled. A product of nature’s artistry, it was a delightful thing to look at. I placed the saddle-bags and panniers between the back of the tent and the trunk of the tree and covered them with a waterproof sheet. I fed Fynn some small pellets of food known as horse nuts and some apples, and Toby Jug a tin of his favourite cat food. For myself I unpacked some prepared meat sandwiches and a flask of hot coffee and, for later, I wedged a bottle of Moscatel de Valencia in the stream so that it would become refreshingly cold to bring out the full Spanish flavour. While the horse contentedly rested and Toby Jug hunted insects in the grass, I collected twigs and branches from a nearby stand of trees to make a cooking fire in the morning.

In the cool of the evening I saddled Fynn and rode off in search of the farmer whose hayfields we’d passed on the journey up to the campsite. Toby Jug seemed happy enough to scramble after us on the short grass as Fynn walked and trotted the short distance. As we came nearer to the field I could see that men were already busy loading hay so I was just in time. Thankfully, there were no dogs about and I was able to leave Toby Jug playing around while Fynn cropped the hay stubble and I went to talk to the labourers. The farmer and his two helpers were very friendly and when they heard where I was camped, offered to drop off a couple of bales at the camp before they finished for the night.

Returning to the camp proved to be a marvellous experience, which made all the tasks of the day worthwhile. As we topped a ridge, the sky enveloped everything around us in glorious colour, glowing with vivid reds and pinks intermingled with subtler shades of aquamarine and purple. I felt as if I was in another world, so enriching were the sensations of being at one with the landscape and the heavens above. Mesmerized by the view I could only stare. Fynn, of her own accord, came to a halt and stood motionless. Toby Jug stopped gambolling and settled down in the grass to be part of it, too. I gazed in awe at the scenic feast around us. No sound disturbed the perfect stillness. Man, horse and cat were enchanted by a vision of nature, which was primeval in essence. We remained for a long while, captivated by its splendour.

Back at the campsite I unsaddled and loose-tethered Fynn and had just finished rubbing her down when the farmer arrived with the hay bales. We exchanged pleasantries for a while during which he mentioned that he could let me have some fresh eggs and home-cured bacon in the morning if I wished. Accepting this unexpected bonus with pleasure, I paid him immediately and we bade each other goodnight.

‘Look here!’ he called as he went to start his tractor. And there was Toby Jug lying in easy comfort on the soft cushion the farmer used on the steel seat of the tractor. ‘Should I take him with me?’ he laughed as he stroked Toby Jug who responded in typical extravert style by rubbing his head against the farmer’s tweed jacket and making throaty purrs.

‘He’s a bonny little thing,’ he said affectionately as he lifted him down.

Spooked by the noise of the tractor starting up, Toby Jug abandoned his social graces and headed straight for my shoulder as I waved goodbye to the friendly man. Such friendliness was not uncommon in the countryside and made me feel most welcome and at home here in the hills.

After spreading a night’s ration of fresh hay for Fynn I retrieved the bottle of Moscatel – pudding wine my grandmother called it – from the stream and unpacked the carefully wrapped wineglass I’d brought with me. Wine didn’t taste the same to me if it was sipped from anything other than a well-formed wineglass. The setting sun suffused the amber liquid with dancing lights as I held the glass high before me to better appreciate the colour of the wine and to toast Mother Nature and the universe at large. One glass was all it took to start me nodding with tiredness. Partly undressed, I slipped into my sleeping bag and leaned back against Fynn’s saddle which, in true cowboy style, was to be my pillow. I remember little of the night except for Toby Jug moving around the tent as he changed sleeping positions and some bird calls that added an exquisite wild tone to the whole experience.

 

The sound of hooves pounding the ground jerked me awake. Bleary eyed I squinted through a gap in the tent flap only to see a herd of sheep moving by the tent, guided by two sheep dogs and an shepherd waving his crook. It was 5.30 a.m.

‘Country dwellers rise early, really early,’ I muttered to nobody in particular as Toby Jug merely stretched and yawned without apparently once opening his eyes. Feeling stiff and crotchety after lying on the hard ground, I was glad to be up and about. Imagine my surprise to find a cardboard box containing half-a-dozen fresh eggs still with hen’s droppings on them, four thick slices of home-cured bacon, wrapped in greaseproof paper and a free half pint of milk, all left as promised by the friendly farmer. And I hadn’t heard a sound of his coming or going.

Glad to be standing and stretching after the cramped conditions of the tent I gazed around at the green hillsides. They were coated in a film of mist through which the pale yellow sun was just beginning to burn. Fynn lifted her head from her grazing and snorted a welcome. She seemed perfectly content to be here and had eaten all the horse nuts and most of the hay during the night. As I rubbed her muzzle and stroked her neck by way of saying ‘Good morning’, she looked more at ease in these natural surroundings than she had done yesterday. The air was exhilaratingly fresh, smarting my lungs with its coolness. There was no sign of movement anywhere except for a sudden wafting of wings through the sky above as a covey of partridges flew in the direction of the hayfield we’d visited last night.

Hunger drove me to work and after a few false starts I eventually had the fire going and a billycan of water from the stream was soon boiling cheerfully. As the bacon and eggs were reaching the ready stage Toby Jug emerged from the tent and after two or three affectionate strokes from me, he headed off towards a patch of bracken for his morning toilet. I ate my breakfast and drank coffee laced with plenty of the fresh creamy milk, all whilst sitting on a tree stump and being warmed by the morning sun. Toby Jug, having finished his own breakfast, was lying on the broken wall near to Fynn’s head. They acted like old friends, glad to be near each other as if they’d been together for years. Nothing disturbed the serenity of that early morning which served to recharge me emotionally and gave me a healthy dose of peace.

My plan was to use the site as a base camp for a few days while I explored the hills and valleys beyond. Leaving the provisions out of sight inside the tent and trusting to luck that they wouldn’t be stolen, I took one of the panniers and secured it on the right side of the saddle for Toby Jug. Finally, I filled my water bottle from the stream and the preparations for departure were complete. As we started off, with the hot sun on my back and Toby Jug for the moment happily scampering about alongside Fynn’s left flank, I headed north towards a stretch of pine forest at the top of the Cheviot valleys of Ingram and Langleeford.

As Fynn jogged along, my eyes were filled with an abundance of green and brown hillsides, thick with bracken and rye grass as yet untouched by human habitation. I was riding through part of the last great northern wilderness, England’s natural heritage, which was regretfully being gradually whittled away as the twentieth century progressed. This morning, however, I could only hope that these wild places would be preserved for future generations of people and animals to enjoy as we were now doing. I looked around for Toby and saw him intently investigating some droppings near a rabbit hole, acting as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be doing. Fynn walked with her head held high, her eyes roving the terrain ahead and her nostrils testing the air. As for me, I was in my element and felt vibrantly alive and contented to be here.

Soon we drew near to a forest of fir trees and I called Toby Jug and signalled for him to join me on the saddle. He hesitated momentarily, enthralled by his own explorations, but when I called again his common sense took over and he leapt neatly to my lap. Fynn whinnied in alarm at the intrusion. I patted her neck to comfort her and eased Toby Jug into the pannier after first attaching the lead to his harness. I wasn’t sure what we would find in the wood and judged that Toby would be safer attached to me.

There were areas of deep shadow in the forest as we picked our way along well-defined animal paths which I assumed were deer tracks. Most striking of all to my senses was the all-pervading stillness of the thick conifer trees. I sighted a roe deer hind standing in a glade watching us through the trees, sunlight dappling her back and neck. Alarmed by our sudden presence she swiftly moved off, shepherding twin fawns before her. They made a magnificent sight and it bothered me that the scent of a human being scared her so much. As we progressed further into the forest the conifers bunched even closer together and I frequently had to hold on firmly and lie forward along Fynn’s neck as we passed beneath thick branches. Sometimes Fynn had to rise up on her haunches and jump over fallen trees that barred our way.

‘Not much life in this neck of the woods,’ I said to myself, but I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

As Fynn continued to move ahead warily, Toby Jug peeped apprehensively from his low position in the pannier, his nostrils flaring as he scented the delicious pines and conifers. I could see that his little body was bursting with excitement to explore these strange places. Several times I wondered about the advisability of turning back as the forest ahead grew more impenetrable. In a short while the thick wall of trees became an arched avenue and gave way to a variety of deciduous trees. There were huge oaks and ash, sycamore and beech which made the forest feel much more like an old English wood. Eventually, we arrived at a most welcome sight for weary travellers: a sunlit clearing, a grassy meadow deep in the forest. In relief I called a halt to give us all a well-earned rest.

I hadn’t a clue where we were but it was such a liberating experience to be wandering at will, without having to care about the ordinary demands of life. I felt like a schoolboy playing truant. It was a delicious feeling. I loosened Fynn’s saddle and let her go to enjoy the sweet meadow grass. As for Toby Jug, I could see he too wanted to be off exploring the woods but I didn’t dare risk losing him here, so I lengthened his lead with a piece of rope which I tied to Fynn’s saddle. Then as I was settling down to eat a bacon and egg sandwich made from the remains of breakfast, I was startled by strange bird calls which seemed to come from all around the meadow.

At first I could see nothing. The calls were different from anything I had ever heard, a kind of sharp metallic sound repeated over and over again. It was as if they were flying around us but able to use the camouflage of the tree foliage to stay out of sight. Some birds, of course, prefer to be heard but not seen.

Mystified, I looked around the clearing several times before I finally spotted what I thought was a budgerigar, only slightly larger. It had a red body with dark brown and green-shaded wings and a thick neck like a parrot. Once my eyes became more accustomed I could see several of the birds moving about in the fir trees around a swampy part of the meadow. There were some duller, olive-coloured birds as well, which I guessed might be females. They were coloured white on their lower backs and the white patch could be seen whenever they flitted from one branch to another. Watching them more closely I saw that they were tearing away at unripened conifer cones with hooked bills which resembled those of a parrot but were crossed. What an exciting find. These birds were not native to Britain. They were migrants, I was sure of that.

Then I realized what they were: I was witnessing a family group of crossbills at work. I had recently read about these birds who had been much in the local news in the mid-1950s. The article I read said that these birds were forced to leave their usual habitat in the more northerly regions of Europe and Russia when the cone crop failed. The birds had migrated out of necessity to the coniferous forests of Northumbria and were especially widespread in the Kielder area. I recalled that a member of staff at the college, an enthusiastic bird-watcher, reported having seen some in the Rothbury woods. Here I was, sitting amongst a flock of them deep in Thrunton Woods, which seemed a thousand miles away from my cottage, having an experience of which some bird-watchers could only dream.

Keeping as still as possible I watched them feeding. They seemed too pre-occupied to bother about us. Nevertheless, I expect the rapt attention they were receiving from Toby Jug had not gone unnoticed. The sight of these colourful birds was for me an additional bonus on what had already been a special trip. It was also an endorsement of what I had long held to be true. Northumberland was a treasure trove of natural beauty enriched by the rare wildness of its flora and fauna. Just as I was thinking this, a red squirrel emerged from an aged oak only yards from us and began chittering at the crossbill invaders. My pleasure in that perfect afternoon was complete.

Later, we were riding through thick forest when Toby Jug went on full alert. He looked toward a particularly dense clump of trees nearby. Clearly he had heard or seen, not for the first time in our travels, something I could neither see nor hear. Abruptly, he turned to face me, gave a little cry and before I could react, sped off and was soon out of sight. As frequently happened, I was caught out by the speed of Toby’s response. I started up in surprise and called after him to no avail. Fynn whinnied and snorted as if to say she too was mystified. ‘That makes two of us,’ I said as I tried to figure out what had caused Toby to run off like that. I asked myself if this could be a last goodbye, after all he had tried to communicate something beforehand. Was it perhaps the irresistible and inevitable call of the wild?

To go after him was impossible; it was already late afternoon and shadows were gathering. I would simply have to sit it out and wait for him to find me if he wanted to. I spent an uneasy night anxiously starting up at the slightest sound, hoping to see the grizzled black-and-white face I so loved. But it didn’t happen. Facing the possibility of not seeing Toby again was very hard. I began to reflect that perhaps he had become bored with living with me, that he yearned for adventure rather than being shackled, however lovingly, to me. After all, he was no longer a kitten. His cat nature would lead him to think as a more independent entity. I began to question who indeed was the slave and who the master in this relationship. I felt as emotionally bonded to him as he no doubt felt to me. But if there was this symbiosis between us, why did he run off like that?

As time went on and it began to grow dark, I became racked with anxiety. I fed the horse and soaked her muzzle with a damp cloth. Then, feeling quite miserable and depressed, I decided I’d turn in for the night. I had neither eaten nor imbibed my customary glass of wine. I felt abandoned and just wanted Toby Jug to come back to me. I slept fitfully, tossing and turning. Half asleep in the forest I began to imagine the worst, no doubt influenced by my rather intimidating surroundings. But then I awoke with a start. I heard a noise close by: something big, very big, was trying to get into my emergency tent. My worst fear was that it might be an angry badger or other wild animal. Grabbing my torch, I took my courage in both hands and yelled ‘Get away’ as I unzipped the flaps and rushed out.

Whatever had been there had disappeared. I checked my watch. It was 2.30 a.m. and, of course, it was not yet light. I flashed my torch around, at first discerning nothing. Then I spotted two bright green eyes staring out from the undergrowth. It was a small animal carrying something in its mouth. Peering through the gloom my heart leapt as I recognized Toby Jug, who padded towards me and dropped a huge woodpigeon at my feet. He seemed extremely pleased with himself and I was so overwhelmed at his safe return that, like a parent, I couldn’t decide whether to hug him or reprimand him. In the event I did neither; I just picked him up and cried with relief. He purred and meowed as if to say he was glad to be back. The woodpigeon was clearly meant as a gift for me. Perhaps Toby was also saying sorry he had left. Tomorrow we would be on our way but for tonight I put his harness on and attached the lead to my belt. I was taking no chances. There would be no more absences without leave in the depths of the forest. Actually, he seemed exhausted after his adventures and lay in his usual place across the top of my ankle and soon we were both in a deep sleep.

We rose later than we usually did the following morning and I accompanied Toby on his morning toilet and ablutions which he completed by rolling over and over in the heavily scented carpet of pine needles that covered the forest floor, luxuriating in the experience to the full. Then, saddling up with the tent and blankets tidily rolled up and tied on Fynn’s back, we set off for the open country bordering the top end of the Wooler Valley. As we rode clear of the forest down a well-travelled bridal path, Fynn snorted and stamped, Toby Jug’s little head turned from side to side and I thought here we go again, now what’s this all about. Were we being watched? Any fears we had were soon forgotten because as we came closer I realized that we had somehow managed to make our way back towards our original campsite.

I could feel Fynn tensing for a good run which, after all, is what horses are meant to do. At first we cantered, the rocking chair ride, and then I let her have her head and we galloped with the wind in our faces and the sun at our backs. Toby Jug hunched down in his pannier in fear at the motion and the sound of the pounding hooves, his eyes fixed intently on me all the time. For my part I fervently hoped that Fynn, in her gallop, would not step into a rabbit hole. However, in double quick time we were back at camp without any mishaps to find that all there was well and the same as we had left it.

Before turning in for the night I sat looking around me at the landscape in the light from the setting sun with my customary glass of wine. The mood at our camp was restful as we three took the opportunity to unwind after the day’s travel. I could hear the sound of Fynn munching contentedly in the background. Toby Jug stretched out comfortably by my side and I, at that moment, would not have wished to be anywhere else in the world.

There is a cadence to the sound of the wind in wild open spaces that has a musical pitch to it and the higher up the hills the more melodic it becomes. High up in the crags and over moorland the wind whines like massed violins, while down in the valley it lilts as it surges through the long grasses. Such harmony has a raw appeal and we three travellers, Fynn, Toby Jug and I, each in our own way, sensed its rare orchestrations. For the whole of the third day we heard only this eerie music as it coursed across the foothills and valleys of the Cheviot Hills. Lonesome birdcalls, many of which I didn’t recognize, accompanied the creak and jingle of Fynn’s saddle and harness. It was so quiet that at times I could even hear my own breathing above the sound of the wind and the muted snores of Toby Jug as he slept in the pannier.

Spiritually, it was very uplifting and it didn’t matter that the day was dull with heavy grey clouds. We were mute witnesses, Fynn and I, to the wildlife of the hills and heather. We were able to observe all of this because we were just creatures moving across the terrain without threatening anything. A hare loped alongside us no more than ten feet away, curious as to whom we were. We suddenly came upon a fox devouring a rabbit and were given only the merest of cursory glances. There were the birds, rustic-feathered kestrel hawks plaintively crying ‘KiKiKi’ as they scoured the moors for rodents, while overhead some kind of buzzard soared, warily inspecting us. The dark-shaded figures of grouse skittered through the moorland scrub, darting sideways for refuge in the gorse as we advanced. All of them were wild creatures not partial to the human voice, creatures who usually try to keep themselves hidden from its invasive presence. But there were no human shouts and chatter to disturb the ambience of that day.

It was dusk when we got back to camp and after hastily caring for the horse and Toby Jug, I ate a quick meal of cold baked beans straight from the tin. It had been a splendid day and I felt pleasantly tired. Toby Jug ran amok, catching and eating moths, which as usual upset his stomach, and he came and vomited near me. Clearing away the mess I didn’t have the heart to reprimand him because he hadn’t been his normal chirpy self that day and I suspected that he might be homesick. Having had enough of the moths, he snuggled down next to me. I made a mental note to give him extra attention in the morning. Tomorrow would be the fourth day camping and we were running out of provisions. It was with regret that I realized it was time to pack up the camp and move on. It would take us at least two days to reach home.

Rising early, I spent a lazy morning under an overcast sky packing for the return journey. I swear I could smell rain. Fynn greeted me with a loud whinny and came forward for some strokes. She had become much friendlier, rather like a big dog, as we got to know each other better. She had almost finished her supply of hay and it would have to be horse nuts and whatever she could forage on the way back. The air had a clammy feel to it and I guessed it would pour down sooner or later. I unpacked my oilskin slicker and tied it behind the saddle.

Toby Jug seemed to be his old frisky self again as I watched him jumping at flies in the short grass. What a change there had been in him since the time that the professional opinion was that he would never get better, that he would die or at the very best be only a sickly runt of an animal. Here he was in the prime of health and happiness. He had coped with the demands of this camping trip with characteristic enthusiasm and had so far shown the resilience to deal robustly with new situations and novel experiences. I reflected that whatever challenges life threw at this little cat he always came up stronger and more confident. He showed strength of personality in every situation he encountered and I felt proud to have him with me.

It was almost midday before we were ready to move off on a course that would take us down by Greenside Pyke and into the Ingram Valley. For a while Toby ran alongside but soon tired and rode the rest of the way with the bottom half of his body in the pannier and the top half stretched across the front of the saddle. As we descended to the valley floor we cantered through swathes of wild flowers, not many of which I could name but I recognized Wild Comfrey and Herb Robert as well as the brilliant yellow patches of Celandines.

We stopped briefly by a large pool in a fast-running stream at the lower reaches of the valley. It proved to be a mistake. After I had unsaddled Fynn, she wandered over to the pool to drink. I wasn’t paying much attention since I was opening a tin of beans for my lunch. The sound of loud splashing made me look up to see Fynn happily rolling in the pool watched by an attentive Toby Jug. Suddenly, Toby dived into the pool to join Fynn and, as he surfaced, was instantly swept away by the current. Shouting in alarm I scrambled to my feet and set off in hot pursuit. I tried to run fast but the last few days on horseback had jiggered my knees and in any case riding boots are not really suitable for sprinting.

Hobbling along I desperately searched the stream ahead for a sight of him but in vain. I was trying to look everywhere at once. Then I spotted him, a bedraggled dark figure at the edge of a bar of pebbles and stones which formed a confluence between two arms of the stream. Pulling my boots off took no mean effort but soon I was able to wade over the stream bed of slippery pebbles to reach him. He was still coughing and spitting water after his ordeal but, apart from being sodden, he was otherwise alright.

Back on land I dried him with my hand towel as best I could. Looking really sorry for himself he began the washing routine no doubt to groom himself back to normality. Meanwhile Fynn, curious as to what all the fuss was about, emerged from the pool, walked over towards us, shook water everywhere and managed to grind my can of beans under one of her hooves. It was the first calamity of the trip and I hoped it would be the last.

After a brief respite while the animals dried off, I ate my only remaining food, a bag of crisps, and then we continued our journey. As the afternoon wore on the cloud grew darker overhead and it began to rain, lightly at first and then it became a downpour. It took only seconds for me to don the waterproof slicker but I was already soaked. At least it served to cloak the saddle bags and panniers, one of which housed a subdued and half-drowned cat.

Leaving the valley behind we skirted the road wherever we could but were horn-blasted a number of times by unsympathetic car drivers. It was a miserable ride and it was with relief that the gaunt towers of Lemmington Hall appeared through the gloom.

The hall was used as a convent by the Sisters of Mercy who ran a residential facility there for girls with special educational needs. I had run an in-service course for the staff about a year ago and I fully expected that the good nuns would remember me and most probably offer food and shelter for the night. I rode around to the back of the hall where I knew there was a gatehouse entrance. By now the evening had turned really foul with a rising wind causing the rain to lash against us. A sharp-faced nun wearing spectacles peered around the edge of the door in answer to my knocking.

To reassure her I gave my name and asked to be remembered to the Reverend Mother. Then I explained my predicament and asked for help. In reply the door slammed shut without a word being spoken. I waited helpless, holding Fynn by the bridle, with the rain running down my neck under the cloak and through into my boots. In keeping with my mood and to add to my growing worries, Toby Jug began to wail, probably because the rain had dripped into his pannier and he’d been drenched enough. I felt the living embodiment of the saying ‘As miserable as sin’. Just as I was about to leave in despair to try to find some shelter in the woods, the door opened a crack and an unseen person directed me in a hushed voice to go to the gamekeeper’s cottage.

Alerted no doubt by a phonecall from the hall, the gamekeeper was already standing in the doorway waiting for me, the light behind illuminating his huge frame and deerstalker hat. No pleasantries were exchanged between us as he guided me towards a row of outbuildings which he identified as stables and a gun room.

‘Ye can bed down in the stable or the gun room as you like. I’ve unlocked the both,’ he said in a gruff bass voice.

I turned to thank him but he’d vanished. I was beginning to experience a creepy sort of feeling at these turn of events, as if I’d entered a weird village twinned with Transylvania, inhabited by spectres. Light-headed with hunger and tiredness I wondered if his name could be Igor or Drakos and whether we would ever leave this place alive. Nonetheless, I was thankful for the shelter, meagre as it was, but there were no offerings of food.

The stables were bare but dry. Under the light from a single electric light bulb I lifted a damp Toby Jug out of his pannier and set him down on the cobbled floor. Swiftly unpacking and unsaddling Fynn, I made her as comfortable as I could and fed her the last of the horse nuts. Next I filled a pail of water for her from a tap in the yard, although I doubted whether she would need any after the soaking she had already endured.

The gun room offered about the same level of hospitality as the stables but I consoled myself with the thought that it was better than spending the night out in the woods. Spreading my sleeping bag over the long ridged wooden table, I slid in and fell asleep with the sound of Toby Jug washing himself yet again while I stupidly pondered why there were no guns in the gun room.

I awoke cold, damp and stiff minutes after six o’clock in the morning, having spent the night tossing and turning with every kind of ache imaginable in my back and knees.

‘Well, it’s nobody’s fault but yours!’ I told myself as I decided to start on my way as soon as possible. We were on the last leg of the journey and I expected to be home by nightfall at the latest. Toby Jug had found a warm place for the night on a torn cushion which was lying on a bench under the barred window. Trust a cat to find the best berth, I thought. He raised his head, looked up at me and promptly went back to sleep. Fynn, on the other hand, was happy to see me and I had her saddled and packed up very quickly. Toby was reluctant to go back in his pannier but settled down when I stuffed a dry sweater in the bottom for him to lie on. I stroked him and told him gently that we would soon be home and that he had to stop his moaning and make the best of things. Whether he understood me or not, the simple reprimand had an effect because there was no more wailing or awkwardness from him for the rest of the journey.

I left Fynn standing in the yard whilst I walked over to the gamekeeper’s cottage to thank my host. The upper part of the country-style door was open and I could smell coffee and breakfast. The gamekeeper, a florid-faced man wearing the same hat I’d seen him in last night, sat at a kitchen table in his braces and a collarless shirt with his sleeves rolled up to reveal hairy arms and hands like those of a boxer. In front of him lay a huge plate of bacon, eggs, sausage and fried bread, together with a steaming cup of coffee. My mouth watered and my stomach rumbled in torment at the sight. His wife, a thin woman wearing a flower-patterned pinafore, caught sight of me and came over to the door. I thanked them and asked if there was any charge. At this the gamekeeper glanced over at me and said: ‘Y’ed best be leaving a couple a quid for the lad to clean up after ye.’

Having only offered to pay in jest I found myself blushing and having to rummage about in my clothing for the money. After paying I sensed that I was being a nuisance and bade them goodbye. There was no response and I have never been back.

The morning was dull but dry, although I had to be careful on the roads which were slippery wet after the storm. Having crossed Glanton Pyke and passed through the village the evening before, I was looking for the start of the old railway line from Alnwick which had to be close by. Finding a way around some fields under cultivation, I located the line at last. Fynn must have recognized it from her days at the riding school because she moved along at an eager trot. By ten in the morning we were on the outskirts of Alnwick and home was a mere ten miles away. It had taken less time than I had expected.

Circumventing the town we followed the bridle path through the pastures, an area of grazing land with common access owned by His Grace, the Duke of Northumberland. Riding alongside the River Aln, with Alnwick Castle in the background, my spirits rose again and I looked forward happily to journey’s end. Soon we crossed over the road to Boulmer and followed the Aln until we forded it within sight of Lesbury and Alnmouth. This was the long way round but I had to find a route that crossed riding country or suffer the hazards of riding along busy roads. After leaving Alnmouth behind, the trail headed inland and we were soon passing through the woods at Low Buston and in a direction due south again for Guyzance.

Pausing to give Fynn a breather and a chance for Toby Jug and I to stretch our legs, I took time out to admire the multicoloured mushrooms and toadstools the rain had brought out. They stretched between the trees like a carpet in strikingly beautiful hues of red, green, yellow and gold. Toby Jug made a brief foray amongst them and scattered some of their fleshy tops but swiftly turned away at the obnoxious smells they gave off. Perhaps some of them were the so called ‘magic mushrooms’, much prized among the drug fraternity for their hallucinogenic properties. As for the rest, they’d be deadly poisonous in spite of their bonny colours.

Mounted up again and with Toby Jug safe in his pannier, this time with the lid open so that he could lean on the edge and look out, we pressed on. By the early evening we caught sight of Foxhelliers Farm which meant that Owl Cottage lay only a mile beyond. We covered the remaining distance at a restful pace.

Unlocking the gates to the drive it was comforting to see that nothing had changed except that the grass of the lawn was longer. No doubt Fynn would soon take care of that. I led her into the garden and tethered her to the ring in the wall. Toby Jug leapt down out of the pannier, raced up the garden and climbed halfway up a beech tree for the sheer joy of being back. We were home again and glad of it.

The inside of the cottage seemed too enclosed and stuffy for my liking after the days spent out of doors. Strolling into the bathroom I got the shock of my life. There confronting me was the stark figure of a baddie from a low-budget Hollywood cowboy film. It took me long seconds to realize that I was staring at the mirror image of myself. The apparition that stared back at me was dishevelled, with dark hair covering a grimy face and five days growth of beard, dressed in a scruffy lumberjack-style shirt, mud-spattered jeans and dirty riding boots. No wonder the nun at Lemmington Hall had refused to fully open the door. I must have been a frightful sight in the semi-darkness, standing beside a bedraggled horse with a cat wailing in the background.

Two hours later Fynn had been rubbed down and brushed, supplied with hay and water and given a welcome home ration of horse nuts. Toby Jug had also been brushed and groomed and given one of his favourite meals. In addition, the figure in the bathroom had metamorphosed into a clean-shaven, well-scrubbed and fresh-smelling human being. Eating the first cooked meal I’d had for days was delightful and the glass of good wine to follow soothed away the aches and pains that are an inevitable side-effect of prolonged horseback riding. I reflected that I’d embarked on a rather foolish escapade with overtones of a schoolboy adventure. I shuddered to think what might have happened had I fallen and been badly injured or if Fynn had broken a leg. And what if I’d lost Toby Jug, drowned in the stream at Ingram Valley? But now that we were all safe and sound and I was in my cottage sitting comfortably in front of a warm log fire, my perspective on the camping trip became rosier. Overall, I had to admit that I’d had a wonderful time and I was glad that I’d taken the opportunity, despite the risks.

The next day we did very little. Fynn ate hay and cropped the grass; Toby Jug wallowed in sleep and arose only to feed and make a trip outside; I lay about reading, thinking and just watching the birds in the garden from a lounger in the conservatory. It would be time soon enough to resume the normal pace of life but for now we rested and whiled away the time in blissful abandon.

By the end of the week I had returned Fynn to her field in Denwick, done numerous household chores and attended to the garden. Everything was back to normal. Throughout the holiday period, whilst she was still my responsibility, I visited Fynn every day and took her riding three or four times a week. On the days when I didn’t ride her I took Toby Jug with me, the two animals seemed to have become even closer since the camping trip. I was kept busy mucking out the loose box, loading hay and cleaning the water trough. The sight of Toby Jug on Fynn’s back, sitting in little red hen-style, whilst Fynn moved around the field cropping the grass or stood dozing under the horse-chestnut tree near the bottom of the field, dumbfounded me. After a few weeks of this routine it mystified me how Fynn’s owner, my colleague Diane Forester, with her coiffured hair and long, painted fingernails, could manage to do all this and look so well groomed.

In the days following our camping trip I gradually became aware that Toby Jug had changed. He looked and behaved differently somehow and then I realized what it was. He’d grown up. He was no longer a kitten. With my overprotective attitude towards him I subconsciously still thought of him as vulnerable but in fact he was fast maturing into an adult cat with independent airs. As Toby Jug grew in confidence he liked to roam further and further afield when he was not with me. Although I valued his freedom and independence as a cat, I couldn’t help worrying about him whenever he didn’t come quickly to me when I whistled and called. He loved the nearby woodland copses where he could prowl in tune to nature’s call of the wild and I respected that. But the downside to a cat living and hunting as a wild creature is that the cat can, in turn, be hunted as a wild creature. Cats do seem to arouse more than a fair share of the violence meted out towards animals, even by humans, never mind dogs and foxes.

With all of this in mind, and because Toby Jug was so precious to me, I wanted to guard him from the world of hurtful happenings. Still, I had to learn all over again that a cat will go where a cat wants to go. Truly, the world is a cat’s oyster. I had to rid myself of the tendency to think of him as being different and more vulnerable because of his poor start in life and because of his size. Toby Jug was, day by day, teaching me that he had his own agenda and he was simply asserting his rights by sometimes straying away from our home environment. I recognized and respected this but continued to worry. There was an element of foreboding about my feelings for Toby Jug’s safety which on two occasions proved to be correct. One such incident was to rankle sorely in my mind for a long time afterwards.