60 Going On 16

The WWOOFer, the FiNZ and the chain gang

There is nothing that my Friend in New Zealand (AKA the FiNZ) and, indeed, many of my friends, and I like more than a tale of coincidence, synchronicity, or six degrees of separation. I'm never sure whether to attribute the fascination I have with these notions to my early love affair with the great Victorian novelists, many of whom thrived on the stuff, or the story I was told by one of my first bosses. As well as teaching me everything she knew about working with the media, she also kept me entertained with a plethora of Fleet Street stories and sayings, from the time when all our national newspapers were actually produced there - or as near there as makes no difference.

Given my predilection for the above, this was my favourite: 'There are only thirty-two people in the world and, sooner or later, you meet them all.'  I may not have the number exactly right; it is, after all, more than thirty years since I first heard it but you get the idea. The words are those of Louis Heren, one of this country's most distinguished journalists, who worked for The Times for almost 50 years.

Tales of coincidence are best savoured, I always think, when they come out of the blue, as the one I am about to relate did . . .

'We've got a WWOOFer* from New Zealand staying with us for a while,' said my Smallholder Friend, on our most recent weekly get-together, when we set out for a trudge across muddy fields a bracing walk with our Labradors, together with Basil, one of my canine guests. 

'Oh, whereabouts in New Zealand?' I asked.

'Somewhere near Nelson, I think,' said my Smallholder Friend.

'Ah, that's where the FiNZ is,' I replied, my Smallholder Friend having met the FinNZ when she was in England a couple of years ago. 'In fact, she was a sort of WWOOFer, when she first moved there. She went to stay on . . .' and I mentioned the type of farm where the FiNZ had lived and worked. 'What's his name?'

My Smallholder Friend told me and said she would ask her WWOOFer if, by any remote chance, he had come across the FiNZ and I said I would do likewise, although both of us thought it highly unlikely that they had met, Nelson having a popuation of about 60,000. Our questions were, we felt sure, going to receive a similar response to the one that travellers give when they are asked: 'So, you're from X? Hey, I have a brother-in-law called John Smith in X. I don't suppose you've come across him?' (For X, substitute the name of any city with at least several million inhabitants.)

But not this time.

The WWOOFer did, indeed, know the FiNZ and had met her several times . . .

This information arrived via email early on Saturday evening just as I was finishing my previous blogpost and I could hardly wait to tell the FiNZ, for whom it was already Sunday morning, and who - by chance, of course - just happened to be checking her messages. We exchanged a rapid flurry of questions and answers. Yes, yes, she knew the WWOOFer and his family, whose land just happened to adjoin the farm where she had stayed. She had fed their chickens when they were away and even, on one occasion, employed 'some fancy footwork and elaborate planning' in herding her farm's small flock of sheep to the WWOOFer's family land to graze.

We both agreed that what was needed now, at our respective ends of the globe was a pot of strong tea and a sit-down to contemplate the relatively small number of people and the equally small chain of events that spanned 11,000 miles of land and sea, connecting a woman, originally from Zambia - who had travelled from South Africa to live in New Zealand, and who had stayed on a farm in a very quiet valley, on the outskirts of Nelson - with a young man from the very same spot and who had travelled across the world to stay on a smallholding in a quiet valley in Devon.

Before we sat down with the tea, however, I mentioned that she might enjoy the post I'd just written because it was a subject close to her heart - dark skies, environmental responsibility, carbon reduction and so on. (At this point, you need to scroll down to the previous post or click on this link to see - and hear if you wish - the song that it includes.)

Fifteen minutes later she was back online: ' I read your blogpost and I'm in the kitchen making tea . . . listening to Radio NZ National . . . and . . . WHAT do they play?'

I suspect, dear readers, that you already know the answer. And you would be right.

*You can read more about World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms (WWOOF) here.

Starry, starry night

There are many reasons to recommend living on or very close to Exmoor, not least its stunning landscape - a combination of moorland, woodland, fields, and sea - and the wildlife. Those of us who live here would add the night sky, which is swathe of ebony velvet, studded with stars.

The first night I spent in this house was New Year's Eve 1997 and my daughter and I invited a group of friends to celebrate my long-planned escape to the country. At midnight, we went out into the garden, looked up at the sky and gasped. Living in London, as I had almost all my life, I had rarely glanced upwards at night because there was so little to see. Here I can gaze at the Milky Way, meteors and stars galore. According to this recent article in the Daily Telegraph, city dwellers are lucky if they can see 200 stars; look up to a dark sky and it is more like 7,000 . . .

To see a night sky in its full beauty, you need an absence of artificial light - and, thankfully, Exmoor has that absence. This has now been officially recognised: Exmoor National Park has been designated an International Dark-Sky Reserve, only the second place in the world to receive this accolade. (The first was Mont Métignac in Canada.) Read more about it here. 

A recent move on the part of a few neighbours to have more artificial lights installed in the village (so that they wouldn't have to carry torches when they walked to the village hall . . . ) was roundly defeated by a sizeable majority. Most of us wanted less artificial light, not more. Meanwhile, as a carbon reduction measure our local authority is switching off street lighting in most areas between the hours of 12.30 and 5.30am, so now we can enjoy Exmoor's night sky at full strength. 

I find all this quite thrilling and, unsurprisingly perhaps, have had this song in my head for days:

This video may not change your life . . .

. . . but it will help to start your week on an uplifting note and offers a reminder, if one were needed, that we are all connected. Including seals.

The video first appeared on the internet at the beginning of this year but then the original was taken down. Now it's back.

A tourist visiting Gold Harbour, South Georgia* is sitting on the beach, watching seals and penguins. And then, one of the elephant seals is drawn to her, snuggles up and appears to flirt with her. (Don't worry, it's not an X-rated video.) The tourist remains remarkably composed, given that an elephant seal can weigh up to 6,000 pounds. Someone, thankfully, managed to capture the whole thing.

*According to the notes that accompanied the video's arrival with this morning's emails - thank you, Friend in New Zealand - Gold Harbour is located in a sub-arctic region, 1,100 miles east of the southern tip of Latin America. it is a small bay, five miles S-SW of Cape Charlotte, with Bertrab Glacier at its head, along the east end of South Georgia Island. The west end of the beach, where a glacial stream flows, is a breeding ground for various types of penguins and large seals. You can read more about South Georgia here. Don't miss the webcams, including this one.

Letting go . . . and what dogs know

If you have been visiting this blog for a while, you may remember, the story of Christmas Holly, the very elderly, unwanted Labrador, who came to live here last December, after being offered for rehoming on Facebook and Twitter. She was already 14 when she arrived, had an open wound to her leg, was wearing one of those large plastic collars and hadn't had the best of care, so I had no idea how much time she had ahead of her.

Christmas Holly, as she appeared on Facebook

I soon learned what a redoubtable, determined old dog she was when, despite her great age, she sailed through surgery, which enabled the wound to heal, and then, against all the odds, made an almost complete recovery from a stroke, going on to enjoy spring and then summer here in Devon, not to mention visits to my family in the Chilterns. Twice a month, we would set out for the 30-mile round trip to South Molton for the acupuncture sessions that made such a difference to her mobility. And, being a Labrador, she could, had I let her, have eaten for England.

And then . . .

And then about three weeks ago, I sensed that she was beginning to struggle more with everyday things; meanwhile other symptoms started to materialise. I know enough about old dogs to accept that, this time, there would be no amazing recovery. Last week, I took Christmas Holly to see Rachel Foster, the vet who had been gving her acupuncture and we both knew that this would be Holly's final visit. 

Two days ago, our regular vet, Sherry Waite, who hails from Kentucky and is just the best possible advertisment for American vets, together with one of the practice's vet nurses came to the house. Sherry is kind and compassionate and made sure that Christmas Holly did indeed 'go gentle into that good night'. My much-loved and erstwhile stubborn old dog slipped away, almost imperceptibly, and without a murmur.

'It was the right thing to do,' said Sherry, 'and the right time.'

The Edinburgh Boy had already gone to spend the afternoon with his best chum, Duke, and, after Sherry and the vet nurse had gone, I was acutely aware of the absolute silence in the house.

A litlle later, a friend and I took Holly on her last journey, across the Devon countryside to the place where we take all our companion animals when the time comes.

Although Christmas Holly was with me for less than a year, she came into my life at such a significant time and the bond we formed was unbreakable. She saw me through that first, post- cancer year and I realised that it was almost a year to the day since my surgery, that my dear old canine companion started to fail. She began to become anxious if she could not see me; she would wake into the darkness of night and bark at who knows what; her breathing had changed, and her old legs had become much weaker. 

The Edinburgh Boy sensed the changes too and, having spent every night of the six years since he arrived here curled up in his bed, at the foot of mine, he spent the night before Christmas Holly died stretched out beside her. The night after she died I woke  from a dream, thinking - in that half-awake, half-asleep state - that I had heard her bark. I ran downstairs only to find the Edinburgh Boy fast asleep in the same spot, just a foot away from where her bed had been.

So now, it's just the Boy and me and Mr C, the tabby cat, again and I can't quite believe how swiftly the 10 months that Christmas Holly shared with us have gone. Do I have any regrets about taking her in? Absolutely not. Would I do it again? Almost certainly, although I could not say where or when. I firmly believe that rescue animals have a way of finding us when we can help them most and when they have something unique to give us. It isn't always apparent what that might be but I know exactly what Christmas Holly gave me and it was, is, something beyond measure.