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As Sue and Richard of Indigo Dream will tell you, greyhounds tend to travel brilliantly. I’ve never taken mine on a train (we’d need one of those old corridor trains with the separate compartments, where the dogs could sit against the anti-macassers) but have found them to be remarkably compliant and patient when travelling by boat, motorhome or car. Arthur has the odd moment when he gets a bit stressed but I think that’s due to things flying out of cupboards. These occurrences are not limited to the boat either – one of the fundamental checks you should do before you set off in your mobile behemoth is to check all the doors and cupboards are properly closed and locked. Unfortunately we don’t always remember and Arthur has been successively traumatized by a tin of spaghetti hoops that launched itself out of an overhead locker, a bread board that rolled over his toes from the under sink cupboard and a fridge door that flew open and deposited half the shopping on the floor. I know, I know, what is it with us and fridge doors? Thankfully, this was pre-Ranger otherwise we’d have had an impromptu dog chow down. At least the new van has a proper fridge catch so such things can’t happen again – good job with Golden Jaws around really.

Anyway, why am I going on about travelling? Ah, I remember...it is looking very likely that we’ll be having a visit from my mother in a few weeks and we’ve mooted the idea of driving her back home (a little village west of Carcassonne), rather than forcing her to go on the smiling airline that is Ryanair. We’ll then stay on for a week or so, giving us a chance to have a quick battery recharge in the south of France. Tres bon. The journey, which we’ve done once before, will probably take us nearly a day when you factor in the journey to Folkestone, the sleep that inevitably overtakes you just around Orleans once you’ve driven through the night, and my mother’s insatiable need to stop at every service station for a cup of coffee. Now you can understand why the dogs need to be able to travel! They were absolutely brilliant last time, dutifully trotting out at every wee stop and watering the French shrubbery. They loved tearing round mum’s garden and winding up the neighbour’s dogs, and they got lots of curious glances as we walked them round the village. We tried to explain to one lady about the plight of greyhounds but with my pidgin French, I think I said they killed themselves...bloody reflexive verbs. And this time, we’ll be going in the summer, not the winter, which has one huge advantage called hot sun. And another, called swimming pool. This will be the first time for Ranger, of course, and he has his passport ready. I hope mum’s fridge door is secure....