I am walking on Pendle Hill with my The Gang of Four; one of our favourite walks. The sun shines from a flawless blue sky above us. The air is clear and the breeze brisk. In short, it is perfect walking weather and we all have a spring in our step.
Seamus is to the front, stepping out smartly, tail up, head up and alert to all around him. Shannon walks just to the rear of Seamus, his tail brushing her nose as they trot along. Shannon is in fact rather more athletic than Seamus, but she always defers to him when we are out. Although she could easily outrun him, she never does, and they always play tag or ‘chase-me-catch-me’ with Seamus in the lead and Shannon following. Seamus and Shannon adore each other.
Minnie potters along behind them, never quite catching up. Small, barrel shaped and short legged, Minnie is the spinster of The Gang of Four.
Duncan, my little canine tripod, pogos along beside me. Attached by an invisible rubber band to me ever since the day I adopted him, Duncan is never far away. This is not because he is not able to wander if he wants to. Despite his missing front leg, Duncan is speedy, agile and can pilot like a bluebottle. If called upon, he will be up front with the rest of the Gang, defending the pack against all comers. He enjoys all the Gang activities, but always, he comes back to his ‘Mum’.
We are walking a track towards the trig point of Pendle. Not being the weekend, there are few other walkers around, and right now, the Gang and I have the hilltop to ourselves. We cross a small freshet where chilled water, trickling down from the peat and clean as it comes, makes its way down the hill to join the main stream in the gully. The dogs all lap thirstily and I top up my water bottle.
Climbing up from the stream and back onto the track, we can now see well ahead across the Pendle plateau towards our destination. On the track, coming towards us, is a striding figure.
My mother always worries about me when she knows I am out walking in these places; The Lake District, The Fells, The Yorkshire Moors. I have no such worries. I carry my phone on me for contact. On the off-chance that I get lost, a very unlikely event, my phone also has sat-nav, a built in compass and Google Maps. I suppose that I could possibly slip and break a leg, but I could just as easily do that falling from a stepladder whilst painting the ceiling at home. “But you’re all by yourself up there.” my mother will say. “What if you meet the wrong kind of person?”
I have done a lot of walking. It is my experience that there is a kind of camaraderie among walkers. “How far to the summit?” you can ask, half way up Helvellyn.
“Oh about twenty minutes.” will come the reply. “But take it easy. There’s fog turning to rain up there. The going’s getting slippery.”
And if I did meet the ‘wrong kind of person’……
The approaching figure draws closer. I can see him easily now, but he has not yet been spotted by the Gang. My view of the world is nearly six feet from the ground. Theirs is eighteen inches. The man looks like a standard enough walker; thirtyish, jeans, chunky knit sweater, boots; a regular guy out enjoying a walk. Just as he comes close enough for me to make out his features, Seamus spots him and barks an alert to the Gang.
The Gang of Four draw together in front of me, not exactly blocking the way, but making it clear we are a group. Tails wag and faces smile, but there can be no mistaking the ‘All for One and One for All.’ message being projected.
The walker looks startled then meets my eye, laughing. “You’re okay aren’t you Love. I bet you never have any trouble!”
I laugh agreement and we exchange chit-chat for a minute or two while Seamus and Duncan deliver a forensic nasal examination of his trousers. Having learned from the man that the trig point is crowded out with a party of school children, I decide that we will change course. I am not anti-social and the Gang are all good with children, Duncan being an especial favourite with kids, but I would like to eat my lunch in peace. That is to say, as much peace as is possible with the Gang negotiating possession of my cheese sandwiches. I always pack up more than I need, so that I have my own lunch and plenty to hand round.
I curve away from my intended route and down towards the reservoir. The day is heating up and the dogs would enjoy a paddle or a swim.
Sheep graze here, but this is not a problem. All my Gang know the rules regarding sheep. i.e. they are strictly out of bounds. There are however, a number of dry stone walls to cross en-route, quite high ones, four or five feet. I am never convinced that these actually contain the sheep as they seem to wander randomly across the rough grazing. However, in Winter, the weather up here can be wicked. These high grounds are open to winds straight in from the sea thirty miles away. Beyond that, there is little but the Atlantic until America. On a clear day, I can see Blackpool from up here, but in bad weather, the rain will lash in horizontally and a good solid wall is welcome protection for the sheep huddled in the lee.
On more than one occasion, walking on the plateau and watching outwards to the West and North, I have seen clouds piled over Longridge Fell and heading my way, dumping rain as they come. This can be astonishingly beautiful, with rainbows forming through the falling rain, but as I see the downpour approach, I know that I have only a few minutes to make it to shelter, and I run.
Today however, this is not an issue. I walk through sunbeams under a curtain of blue, strip off my jacket and then my pullover. I begin to wish that I had worn sandals instead of boots. The dogs are panting heavily and Minnie in particular looks as though she is beginning to droop. I take a mouthful or two from my water bottle and then tip the remainder into the collapsible bowl I carry in my rucksack. Ensuring that everyone gets a drink, I pass it around them one by one in pecking order.
“Seamus.” My Head Boy has a slurp, and does not protest as I take the bowl away.
“Shannon.” Shannon drops her beautiful silken nose into the water and laps daintily.
“Minnie.” The ageing maiden aunt of the Gang snouts her way into the water, following the bowl with her furry nose as I move it along, trying to thieve an extra share.
“Duncan.” He smiles up at me, knowing that ‘Mum’ would not have left him to go thirsty. Duncan has a faith in me that goes beyond all human understanding.
There is still some water left, so the bowl does another round before it has been licked dry; then, refreshed, we move along.
Crossing walls is always a team effort. All the walls have stiles, but they are ‘human only’ constructions; ladders of four or five steps up and down, propped up over the walls in an A-frame arrangement with a small landing at the top. Shannon clears them easily, simply stepping up and down the ladder rungs as though they were made for her. Seamus ignores the stile entirely and jumps over the wall.
Minnie and Duncan wait at the bottom for assistance. Minnie is far too short legged for such athletics as ladder climbing and has to be lifted up to the top landing. From there she jumps down again on the other side. This routine was problematic when I first adopted Minnie. Completely unused to affection or any kind of handling, it took Minnie some months to develop enough trust to allow me to lift her bodily from the ground. Even now, several years later, almost anyone else trying to do this with her would get a snap and a show of teeth.
Duncan has no such reservations. He bounces up and down excitedly on his one front leg. He knows what comes next. Mum is going to pick him up!
I lift up my little lad, stepping carefully and making sure that he actually has all three legs on the landing before I let go. I give him a quick scratchy ear and then climb up the ladder to stand beside him. Climbing down the other side, with my feet on the bottom rung, I collect him up again and then deposit him on the turf. Duncan’s outsized ears and button eyes smile up at me before he scampers along to follow the others.
Although still walking on the high ground, we can see the reservoir now. There is a steep drop through bracken crowded grass and a scramble down a gravelly slope, but the water is calling. The Gang has now realised which way we are headed and pull in front of me, Seamus and Shannon racing ahead, Minnie wheezing along behind and Duncan torn between running to join the others and coming back to check that I am still with them. The two leaders are soon out of sight, but I am not worrying. I know exactly where I will find them.
Sure enough, as our path crosses the main track leading down to the water, Seamus and Shannon are already at ‘Facebook Corner’. This riveting spot is where every dog within five miles stops, sniffs and piddles. Consequently, the small section of wall and fence that draws this attention is a minefield for human walkers (Check under your boots folks!) and a mine of information for all the dogs.
“Oh, I see Butch is back again. I thought he’d moved away.”
“Is Kerry coming into season…?? Yup. She is. Wonder when she’ll be back?”
“Laddie’s not feeling so good. Too much cheap tinned food.”
Shannon has already ‘made her mark’ on the wall and Seamus is working his way right around wall and fence, trying his best to ‘have the last word’ by covering every previous piddle with one of his own. Minnie comes along and adds to the nasal cacophony. Shannon is having none of this, and immediately marks over Minnie’s offering. Minnie then does the same to Shannon’s mark and the two girls indulge in palace politics for the next several minutes, each trying to over-piddle the other. Seamus finally trumps them both, squeezing every bladder muscle he has to deliver his last drop of elixir over them both. This settles the Girls and it is agreed that we resume the walk.
The bright water now sparkles ahead of us, and all the Gang bound joyously in. Minnie and Seamus do not swim, but paddle out to lie down close to the edge with a couple of inches lapping around their tummies. Shannon takes a flying leap off the bank to land in the water ten feet out. Duncan hoppitts across the sandy edge into the shallows and then swims out to deeper waters.
I throw sticks for Shannon. I never get them back because Shannon swims out, retrieves the stick and then is waylaid by Minnie as she reaches the bank. Minnie grabs the stick from Shannon as being obviously intended as a gift for her from a kindly god, then carries it away, never to be seen again. Running out of easily findable sticks, I instead throw pebbles and stones into the shallows. This is one of Shannon’s favourite entertainments. She learned long ago to hold her breath under water and now plays at apple bobbing with stones. From anything up to about two feet depth of water, she will retrieve a stone every time, although it is seldom the one I threw. No matter, it is plucked from the water in triumph and dropped at my feet for an action replay. Shannon will keep doing this for more or less as long as I have the patience to co-operate.
Duncan meanwhile is still enjoying his swim. He does not go far out, as his navigation skills are a little suspect. With only one front leg, he only swims in circles.
My arm aching, I call a halt to stone throwing. Shannon looks disappointed, then wreaks her own particular revenge by placing herself four feet away, shaking, and drenching me with chilly water.
Cursing all dogs, I find a rock to sit on, unpack my lunch and sit facing the sun so as to dry out my tee-shirt and jeans. The dogs gather into ‘hustle mode’, staking a claim on the sandwiches first, so I shoo them away and settle to eat in peace. The Gang grumble a bit and then wander off to splash about, hunt for frogs and dig random holes. I munch my sandwiches, idly watching dragonflies and damsels zig-zag across the water by the reedy inlet from the stream.
Having finished my own share of the lunch, I hand out the canine share, again in pack order; Seamus, Shannon, Minnie, Duncan. Getting up, I announce that we are moving along again.
The announcement is met with enthusiasm. Minnie wriggles her bottom and tail. Duncan pogos in excitement. Seamus rushes around in circles and Shannon jumps up to me, and, before I can stop her, plants two giant muddy paw prints squarely on my, um, ‘chest’.
Since it is far too hot now to wear my jacket, and I have no other top to wear than my, previously, white tee-shirt, I hope devoutly that we meet no other walkers.
Continuing along the water’s edge, we come to the reservoir outlet. Some distance below us, a couple of inches of water trickles out through a wide concrete channel. Some thirty feet across and with a sloping bottom, the channel is crossed by a footbridge.
This footbridge is always a problem. Made of metal mesh, anyone crossing it can see down through the mesh to the drop below. Shannon is undeterred by the view, strolling happily across, and Minnie does not appear to notice the drop below her. Minnie is a sweetie, but she sometimes has to make a special effort if thinking is required. I carry Duncan across regardless. His single front leg cannot cope with the mesh.
Seamus however, has a big problem with this little bridge. He can see through the mesh and does not like it at all. He did try walking across it one time, staggering across the bridge with splayed legs and toes, moving like a rhinoceros on eggshells. The next time, he walked around in circles, repeatedly approaching and then retreating from the bridge. On that occasion, I picked him up and carried him across, but he was not at all happy with the arrangement. With Seamus in my arms, I could see him looking down through the mesh. The last few yards he started to panic and struggle to escape. I had trouble not dropping him. And now Seamus refuses absolutely to cross this bridge. He will make his own arrangements to cross his personal Rubicon.
With the other three with me on the far side, I take out my flask and pour myself a cup of tea. I know from experience that I may be waiting a while.
Meanwhile, Seamus has run a couple of hundred yards up the channel to its shallowest point. Directly under the bridge there is a drop of perhaps twenty feet. He has chosen the spot where the drop is only about eight feet deep. Having jumped down into the channel, he is now trying to jump up again on the other side. Eight feet is a good hard jump for any dog and truly, not a jump at all, more of a scrambling climb. As I watch, sipping my tea, he takes a running leap at the concrete wall, scrabbles for the top, misses and falls back. Typically, he succeeds at this within about five minutes, but of course, afterwards he is exhausted. This is fine by me. I like the dogs tired after a walk. Very occasionally, Seamus cannot climb out. On these occasions, we take the long winding route along the side of the channel to the point where he can walk out at the other end. This never seems to occur to him as the easy option. Perhaps he just likes his jumping exercises.
Seamus finally clears the top and bounds up, waggy and panting. I take my time finishing my tea to let him get his breath back.
Moving on, we have gone only a few hundred yards further when, ambling down the path towards us, I see an old couple approaching, accompanied by a pair of geriatric Yorkshire terriers.
Meeting other dogs is normally no problem. The Gang go through their ‘Close the Ranks.’ routine and are not generally aggressive unless, for example, some strange dog tries to make a move on Shannon. This, Seamus will not tolerate under any circumstances. Shannon is ‘his’ and uninvited attentions from potential rivals are rebuffed with force. Unhelpfully, Shannon is a bit of a flirt and enjoys prancing around with strangers. This goes down with Seamus like a wet dog in a nudist colony. However, he has an ally.
Duncan is right in there, supporting his leader. Where Seamus leads, Duncan follows. Romantically speaking, Shannon has never shown the slightest interest in Duncan. He is pack puppy, and it was settled early that Seamus would be the one to ‘sort out’ Shannon. Since those early days, Shannon has been spayed and is no longer ‘sort-out-able’. However, Duncan knows his loyalties. If anyone is going to not-sort-out-Shannon, it is Seamus who will not-sort-her-out, not any other non-pack-member-invading-interfering-foreign-scum!
Size is no deterrent. Duncan knows that in a previous life he was a tundra wolf, fierce and terrifying, bringing down aurochs and mammoths. As luck would have it, this time round he was dealt the three-legged terrier card, but he is a far bigger dog on the inside than on the outside. Rats are not tolerated; rabbits and mice are fair game, and it is, he is convinced, only his three-legged status that prevents him from climbing trees and giving the squirrels a good going over. In support of the Gang of Four, Duncan will take on any dog, however large. Three leggedly, teeth bared, he will charge forward at full throttle at Rottweilers, German Shepherds and Great Danes. The opposition are usually taken aback by this under-sized attacker and find that protecting the underside, ankles and the more tender areas of the nether-regions is more trouble than it is worth. Generally, they back down, and Duncan, triumphant with the rest of the Gang, revels in the glory of victory.
There is however, an exception to Duncan’s courage. No enemy is too large to face, but he does not like dogs smaller than himself. Perhaps it is the reverse of his own situation and he is unnerved by a dog small enough to reach under him. In any event, as he sights the pair of Yorkshire terriers, trundling along, half his height and with little pink bows tying up their fringes between their ears, he bolts off the side of the track, down the hillside, making a long loop around before re-joining the track some five hundred yards away on the other side of the pair of spine chilling rivals.
The old couple, who are completely harmless and clearly out for nothing more than a walk in the sunshine look at me very oddly. I start trying to explain Duncan’s idiosyncrasies before I remember the paw prints that Shannon planted on me and belatedly fold my arms over my chest, trying to cover my embarrassment. Too late, I see the old man trying to suppress a grin and his partner pursing her lips in disapproval, as though I were trying to make some kind of fashion statement with my dog-embossed ‘chest’. It’s not as though they are handprints.
Since I will never see these people again, I mutter a curt goodbye and walk on to retrieve Duncan the Canine Hero from where he is waiting for us further along. Completely unabashed, he grins toothily up at me. “C’mon. I’ve been waiting for you. Let’s go home. I’m hungry now.”