Joy and Rapture

The Nidd Gorge: rootling heaven

What a relief to go for a civilised walk in proper beagle country.  You can keep beaches: what they have in space, they lack in interest.  To me, a beach is akin to a one scented perfume.  What's the point?  I imagine that beaches appeal to clean freaks.

Auntie Gill is a clean freak and so are the daddies.  Their lives are consumed with banishing human smells and drenching themselves in artificial ones.  They should be careful about what or who they might attract. Being able to scent is a very good way of sussing someone out.  It's no good trying to lie to a beagle about what you like to eat.

I know the signs when this purging of odours will happen.  Auntie Gill screws her nose up in distaste and then directs a baleful gaze in our direction.  'I smell of dog,' she announces, 'and so does this kitchen!'  I suppose I should be offended, but I am more puzzled and amused.  I mean, why wouldn't she smell of dog?  We lick her a lot and try to sit on her and we smell of human! (despite all the scent concealers she wears, it's still there - just! It's only because I'm a beagle that I can detect it.)

Anyway, then she rampages through the house with the vacuum cleaner and chemicals, before going for a shower.  She emerges and says, ' I feel clean now!'  She smells of chemicals.  We did like the body butter she used, but we were in trouble when we tried to lick it off, so she stopped using it.

In beagle culture, it is a great honour to carry the scent of another beagle.  It means that they are Brothers-in-Scent and from that day onwards, will always be able to find each other.  It would be no use waiting for Auntie Gill to sniff me out, if I was in trouble.  She couldn't smell a pork pie in her own fridge .  Of course, I will always be able to find her.  I prefer odour-interest.

Thank heavens we're home

Well, Wales was an experience, but I don't think beach holidays are for me.  No doubt I will have to suffer one again, just to make sure. We endured the hideously long journey home through the constant deluge, which only stopped when we reached our beloved Yorkshire.  I always feel I'm home when I cruise down Harewood Bank, smell the hares, see the three fields and sniff the sawdust scent from saw mill on the bridge.

It was lovely to see the daddies, but unfortunately, because of hideous journey they had to go out almost as soon as we arrived.  So Auntie Gill took us to her house.  It was very disappointing to be denied unconditional love and indulgences and have to stay with old Starchy Drawers for a few more hours.

I took it all in my stride, confident that I would no doubt find the opportunity to express my displeasure.  We were frog-marched home for ten o'clock and STILL had to wait for the daddies.  I can tell you, I was incandescent.  I was somewhat mollified by their rapturous greetings, copious treats and lots of jumping up, which old Starchy Drawers doesn't like.  She shouldn't wear tights and skirts.

Brahms demonstrating the 'good boy' sit to Auntie Sophie

To say that we had (supposedly) been missed by the daddies, as far as I'm concerned, on Saturday morning, they did not devote sufficient one to one attention or treats to make up for last night.  I gave them plenty of opportunity to spoil me: unrequested 'good boy' sits; adoring looks; not jumping up (they didn't even notice).  Both daddies were doing the 'work thing'.  They are not supposed to do this at home. So I was bored.  I had to entertain myself.  What am I supposed to do?  

Well first of all, having been subject to scent deprivation in Wales, I could not resist the waste bins: the land-fill one is the most satisfying for sniffs; recycling is generally good for chewing.  Plastic bottles work for me.  Daddy Justin was exasperated with my behaviour and resorted to 'the Corrector', which sprays water.  Starchy Drawers has one too.  I don't like it.

Additionally, thanks to car-lag from Wales, I was having trouble sleeping.  I tossed and turned on Sunday night.  Brahms was snort-whistle and neither use nor ornament, so I had no option but to do my relaxation chewing exercises.  Given that I was in a sensory deprived prison cage, the only way to relieve my insomnia was to chew my cushion.  As the fluffy stuffing expanded into floaty clouds and the velvet textured fabric ripped with satisfying ease, I felt my tension ebb and I drifted off.  I woke to a nightmare of ranting, red daddies. Apparently this was the wrong thing to do. I tried to include Brahms in the event, but I had been rumbled by the clumps of polyester puff stuck to my nose. Was it worth it?  Undoubtedly.

Rhossili Bay

Well, this looks promising, I decided taking a gander at Rhossili Bay from the cliff top.  Once again, Auntie Gill insisted on the lead during the walk down. She is impatient when we want to rootle and tugs us, usually at the most interesting sniff. However, feeling somewhat reassured about beach prospects, we cooperated with her.  I quelled my frustration and did an unasked for 'good boy' sit to keep her sweet.  The nearer we came to the beach, the air became increasingly scent free.

'Smell the air boys!'  Auntie Gill was off again.  I paid no attention this time, it was as bland as yesterday's and boring.  I had also been bored on the walk down, when Auntie Gill had spotted some hairy lichen and gave us a lecture on how it only grows in clean air.  Humans seem to think that air with no smell is clean.  They like it.  To us, air without smells is about as interesting as a song on one note.

If you flattened my scenting sensor area, it is 60 inches square.  Humans have a puny one square inch.  The research says that their sense of smell is better than the puny area would suggest.  This is because they have a BIG brain.  I beg to differ with the research,  Their sense of smell is crap, (in spite of the BIG brain).  In any case, their noses are too short and not at all wet, except when they have a cold, when their noses leak profusely and turn red.  Then they complain that they can't smell at all.  To be honest, given their smell is so feeble, I'm surprised they even realise its gone.

Anyway, I did like the look of the vastness of the beach. Right now, I was itching to run more than I needed to sniff.  The beach felt squidgey-gritty between the toes.  'I'm not letting you off the lead until we're a long way from the cliffs,' announced Auntie Gill. After hours, she found a spot she liked and uttered the magic words, 'Off you go!'  Bliss!  She insisted on taking us down to the sea.  Why would she think we would like it?  We are beagles, not seals!

It took an hour to walk the length of the beach.  We did a bit of rootling, but the sea smell is not appetising and tastes gritty.  There was nothing to chase except for a few gulls and they were no fun, compared to rabbits. My friend Alyssia (stunning black pointer) would have loved it though.

Rootling

We only met one other dog: a stuck up Jack Russell called Frank. He had a perfect stick, which he wouldn't share.  He ignored our friendly overtures, stuck his nose in the air and kept his gnashers clamped on the stick.  I don't see how you can have fun like that.  Perhaps it was more of a fashion statement, 'I've got a stunning stick, so' ... Don't mess with me?  Admire me?

The next best thing about the beach were the sand dunes at the end, which held notes of rabbit, but Auntie Gill became hysterical when she couldn't see us and we didn't get far.  She snared us with treats and marched us back to the sea.  The rest of the walk was war.  We would run to the cliffs, wait for her to become hysterical, rush back for treats and then head cliff-wards again.  It was good fun. Auntie Gill was exhausted, but she has only herself to blame.  She should have just let us climb the cliffs.

Sea Air

Tuesday dawned blustery with sunny intervals between showers.  After breakfast, while Auntie Gill prepared for the beach expedition, Brahms and I explored our new surroundings and I found a way to escape.  Goody Two Shoes Brahms wouldn't come with me and barked just as I was trotting past the gate, alerting Auntie Gill, who spotted me from the farmhouse door.  I've never seen her move so fast.  Bugger! I thought to myself. I was going to be for it, so I decided to keep on to the end of the road and check out the village.

I allowed myself to be caught at the litter bin by the bus stop, whose scents were a mine of information.  I discerned that two West Highland Whites were in the vicinity and a Doberman had passed by recently.  Auntie Gill thundered down the road looking red and agitated.  She tried various tactics: a very stern 'Come here Bartok!' and when that didn't work, she tried wheedling and bribing me with treats.  I allowed her to grab my collar and submitted meekly whilst enduring the reprimands.  She locked me in the cage when we got back and I wasn't allowed out until it was time for walkies.  By then she had discovered my escape route, blocked it off with a hefty metal barrier and looked smug about it.

It takes Auntie Gill ages to get ready and she is always forgetting things, but there is no mistaking the moment to go, because she puts her bag, with the red bone poop bag dispenser (I wish she wouldn't display it so publicly.) across her shoulder and beagles are off.  I submit to the harness with dignity, although when she's not looking I'm quietly gnawing away at one of the straps and one day ....

'No!' she groaned on opening the door to rain.  I can't say I was thrilled, but we were determined to see the sea, so we dragged her gate-wards before she could bottle out.  Then we waited a ridiculous time at the road-side for no cars. We know this because we can hear better, but we have still have to wait while she looks.  She doesn't trust us, that's apparent.

Despite my best efforts to avoid it, we crossed by the litter bin and I received yet another reprimand for my earlier misdemeanour.  Auntie Gill really is like a beagle with a bone; she won't let go!  I have learned that the best way to deal with this is to perform a 'good boy' sit, gaze at her adoringly and twitch my ears, before drooping with shame.  She immediately forgives me, makes a fuss and says she doesn't like getting cross with me.  I droop a little longer, just to convince her of my sincerity and then slowly lift my eyes to meet hers.  If she is still stone-like, I emit a few bars from the Song of Despair and she cracks every time.


At last we were heading down a divinely sniffy track that reeked of sheep, rabbits, horses and Farmer Jones's wellies.  Neat wire  fencing kept the sheep confined and despite my best rootling I could detect no way in. We had to stay on the lead, but the excitement was unbearable.  Auntie Gill was urging calm and patience, but how do you react to delay?  (Auntie Gill becomes very impatient and agitated - you should have heard her in the car on the way here.)  However, we rootled the best we could, looking forward to freedom at the last gate.

The big shiny thing

'Look Boys!  There's the sea!' Auntie Gill was transfixed by a big shiny thing in the distance.  'Smell the air Boys!  It's so clean!'  Noses aloft, we sniffed.  I snorted, inhaled and exhaled vigorously.  'Smell the sea air Boys!' There was that pervading smell again.  So this is the scent of sea, I thought.  Dull, dull, dull!  There were few odours and not much I recognised, yet in contrast, scent heaven was oozing from beneath my feet. And there were sheep wandering free on the cliffs!  I wanted to Chase desperately.  Auntie Gill said, 'No Boys, I'm not letting you off the lead.  I can't trust you not to chase sheep!'

Gloom.  That was it.   We tried pleading, barking, whistling and as a last resort the Song of Anguish, but she turned deaf ears.  I know she was fed up too, because she was looking forward to a rest and looked saggy.  We walked the cliffs and then over the moors, where we observed horses running free!  It didn't seem fair.  The walk was hard work as we had to half drag Auntie Gill up hills.  We staggered back to the farmhouse.  I was pissed off that I hadn't been able to run fast.  Auntie Gill promises the beach tomorrow is great for running.  I hope it doesn't turn out to be as great as its view or smell.

Tomorrow we will see the sea

I can tell you that I have never experienced such trauma as that of human pack (I use the term loosely) behaviour when Chasing on the M1: so different to when we Chase.  I prefer our way, where we take account of everyone's strengths and weaknesses. We know that sticking one's radiator up a beagle's boot has messy consequences, so we don't do it.

The purpose of the M1 Chase was to reach another country called Wales. 'We're going on our holidays!' said Auntie Gill, 'And you'll be able to run on the beach and see the sea - you'll love it!' She paused dreamily, 'the landscape!  Mountains! Valleys!' and then she went into teacher mode, 'Different people live there - they're called Welsh ...'

At this point I switched off and while looking at her intelligently, was mentally trying pick out anything that might be of interest to Beagles.  I was most interested in the mountains and valleys, which would be rabbit country.  I have never heard of Beach Beagle Packs,  (My nearest Pack is the Airedale Beagles, dale being Yorkshire for valley.) so I'm not sure that beaches have much to offer a well-bred hound dog.  We'll see, I thought to myself.

Brahms and I are beginning to realise that when humans like something, they assume that you will too.  (Then, when you don't like it and indicate as much, they look at you in disbelief, convinced that you must be mistaken and subject you to it again!)  It is possible that we may share your opinion, but if we do, it is often for different reasons.  My daddies have paintings of landscapes because they like colours.  I see in black and white, so spending hours staring at a monochrome landscape that doesn't move at all (I don't mind cartoons), doesn't light my fire.  But, the scent of the landscape does and I can spend hours sniffing the different tones and textures of leaf litter, which hold the story of the forest: who has passed by recently and not so; male or female; what they've had for breakfast; where I might find dinner.

So I am quite happy walking in the landscape and Auntie Gill is too.  It would do her good to get her nose into some leaves and start to improve her pathetic sense of smell.  If she were a beagle, we would have had her to the olfactologist for smelling aids.  She really is a liability in her condition - so are the daddies.

After the M1, there were a lot of other roads and four hours later Auntie Gill announced, 'Boys, we're in Wales!'  Through the twilight and deluges, I could see sinister hills iced with thunderous clouds.  I was quite happy to be on the inside looking out.  It was another three hours before we arrived at the tip of the Gower peninsula, in the dark.

Auntie Gill needed help to stand up. She is not really compact enough for her car.  We took advantage of her difficulties and dashed off to inspect our new territory.  There was an odd, savoury scent that permeated everything.  So this is what makes a different country, we thought.

Tomorrow, we would see the sea.