Arthur dog

Arthur is dog no. 2, rescued nearly four years ago now, just a day after his fifth birthday. To this day, we’re not sure how Arthur ended up in the car with us as we zoomed home along the M20. That hadn’t been the idea at all....

It was a Saturday and A and I decided to go off down to Croftview in Kent, to explore the possibility of finding a husband for Susie. It was definitely a recce although we did have our eye on a particular dog, Ben. Ben was a ‘proper’ greyhound in A’s eyes ie a white dog with colour patches, a rather recondite view in my opinion but one that A did like to wheel out every so often. So we duly took Ben for a walk but unfortunately, he had not yet been ‘done’ – as soon as Susie did a pee, he got rather frisky round her private areas, and that, as you can imagine, went down like a cup of cold sick. We handed him back reluctantly, citing irreconcilable differences and asked if they could suggest another dog that we could try. Well, the girls all chorused ‘Arthur’, thus it was that Arthur was put next in line for a playdate with old miseryguts. And it went off really well, which is another way of saying that Susie studiously ignored him - that, in her book, is all you’re going to get by way of acceptance.

So was this dog the marrying kind? A and I thought he might be but we wanted a little time to think about things. Someone read our thoughts and asked us whether we thought he was the one and we said, ‘yes, we think so’. Before we could continue with the ‘but...’, Arthur was barrelled into the back of the car – which got Susie’s attention, I call tell you. Hey mush, you’ve just invaded my personal space, so sling your paws now. ‘You’ve already had a homecheck so you can take him home now’, they said. What do you mean, home now? We’ve made no preparations. There’s no bed, no bowl, no name tag, we haven’t made the psychological leap to a two dog family yet, Susie is going to kill him in the back of the car and we’ll never be able to get the blood out of the seats. They waved us off after I hastily checked the boot to make sure they hadn’t secreted another one in there. And what do you know? We got stuck in a 3 hour tailback on the motorway and by the time they got home, Arthur and Susie were the best of friends. (That’s a Susie euphemism, meaning she allowed him in the house and left him half his dinner. But she did pee on his bed just so there could be no misunderstanding as to who was boss...)

Arthur is a big, soft puppy who acts more like nine months than the nine years he is soon to be. His finest hours came on the very first weekend he spent at the boat. First, he thought he was Jesus, stepping off the towpth onto the water and finding he wasn’t, disappearing unceremoniously under a boat’s counter. He didn’t try that one again. Then, moored down by Tamhorn Bridge near Hopwas, I let him have a little wander off-lead with Susie. It was early, there was no-one about and I thought I could trust Susie to pass on her good habits to the new boy. Suddenly, about 300 yards away, Arthur clocked a couple coming round the corner in company with their Weimeraner puppy. He shot off with Susie dancing on the spot wondering whether she should be bad and follow or good and stay, in the end deciding to be half and half by only going half way. I immediately ran after Arthur, fearing the worst, and was in time to see him bound up to the puppy, which promptly jumped into the cut to save himself. Except he couldn’t swim so his owner had to jump in after him. By the time I arrived on the spot, apologising profusely and lying through my teeth about a slipped collar, everyone was reunited dripping wet on the towpath. And they were remarkably good-natured about things, considering, merely cautioning me to take more care with keeping Arthur on a lead. Which of course I did. I was built for stamina, not speed, so there was no way I was risking another lung-busting sprint to save my dog from reprehensible deeds.

The funny thing is though that I have subsequently discovered that Arthur is the soppiest, gentlest dog when it comes to other dogs. He just stands there, letting a dog do his worst, and you won’t get a peep out of him. I found this out one Saturday afternoon moored near Rugeley. A chap was walking his Staffy pup past the boat at the same time as I was getting Arthur out for a walk. The pup took an instant liking to him, so much so that he climbed all over him and ended up hanging from his ear, like some bizarre dog earring. Arthur couldn’t get enough. Maybe my hound is gay?

A Brucie bonus

Sanity’s Bruce had me reaching for the dictionary just now. There I was, reading his lovely, cosy cruise log and he hits me between the eyes with a ‘lagniappe’. A what I say? A lagniappe, he say, pronounced ‘lan-yap’.

“In this case I went for the second option, with the added lagniappe that there was a boat coming the other way, and Sheila had to hover on the offside whilst he went past with a heavy boat in a narrow channel (with all the effects that had on us) and then persuade Sanity to move into the slot without clouting either of our new neighbours.”

A lagniappe is defined thus:

1. Chiefly Southern Louisiana and Southeast Texas. a small gift given with a purchase to a customer, by way of compliment or for good measure; bonus.

2. a gratuity or tip.

3. an unexpected or indirect benefit.


He does a nice line in irony, does our Bruce.

Back home and backing the little people

Another two days, and what was closer to 700 miles than 600 actually, and we’re back home. A great week at Dunnet Bay rounded off with another jet-boat trip, this time round the geologically-blest seascape of Duncansby Head. Caves, stacks, arches, coves and inlets all vied for attention, their rugged appeal even overcoming the nausea brought on by the anal efflux of 200,000 nesting birds. That’s ten times as many as made the niff on Stroma earlier in the week. Quelle stink! The RIB was propelled along by a Cummins 435 HP diesel turbo engine - put that in your narrowboat engine bay and smoke it!

We broke the homeward journey again, this time stopping at the beautiful Nunnykirk Caravan Club site just west of Morpeth. We pitched in between two caravans and one of the couples was immediately interested in the dogs because they had a greyhound at home called Jelly (he used to be so scared, he wobbled). He had been rescued from gypsies, a severe cruelty case and he wasn’t expected to live but thankfully he pulled through and he’s now thriving.

Cruelty can come in many forms. Today I nipped off to fettle up the house as we just had crumbs in the cupboards and my eye was drawn to a couple who were protesting outside the front of Tesco. Apparently, their young Rottweiler had injured a leg quite badly and needed an operation that would cost in the region of £2500. The couple claimed on their Tesco pet insurance and were refused, their argument being that it was linked to a previous leg injury. Three separate vets have written to say that the two injuries are not linked but as yet, Tesco are not coughing up. This is corporate nastiness to a couple who did what they thought was best for their dog ie insuring it, and who when they need the help just get the big ‘eff off’, despite the seeming legitimacy of the claim. It was good to see the local papers taking an interest in their protest and I was told The TV people were due any minute. I’m doing my bit by blogging about it and I also gave the couple details of a number of publications they should talk too as well. If Tesco and the insurance company that handles their business, UK Insurance Ltd, had any sense of right or wrong, then they’d sort this matter out immediately. Thus far I’ve been very fortunate in not having had a problem with pet insurance – I use Pet Plan and M&S and both have been excellent thus far. You pay a bit more but greys are so bloody delicate that you certainly get your money’s worth.

We’re off to the boat soon. Between now and next week, I need to sort out some new recliners. I’ve got a company in mind and I’ll report back if they come up with the goods. I also need to speak to Lee Sanitation about bog bits. The day is fast approaching when we’re going to have to take the sender out of the poo tank and smell the consequences. Mind you, after all those guillemots and razorbills doing their bird’s business everywhere, it might not seem that bad. Pass me my mask and snorkel!

Tunnel top 10

I’m not good with heights. I’m not really bad in the sense of sick-dizzy-get-me-out-of-here bad, I’m just rather ill at ease. I think it was the glass floor of the CN Tower that did it, with all those children rolling all over it and me not even being able to bring myself to simply look through the bloody thing. And then those lifts up the side of the Eiffel Tower, whizzing up at 45 degrees like a dalek on speed....they didn’t help either. So in a toss-up between the Ponty doo-dah aqueduct and Harecastle Tunnel, it would be Harecastle, Kit Crewbucket and all, every time. Maybe I was an acrophobic troglodyte in a former life?

Harecastle would be number one in my tunnel top ten, elevated to the highest echelon for its sheer drama and theatre. The clanging doors, the insistent thrumming of the fan, the indecisive roof that can’t make up its mind as to whether to take your head off or not, the tomato soup foaming beneath your hull, the ‘can we beat our record passage time’ urgency that has you peering at the yardage markers when you should be steering straight, it’s all epic stuff. And I’ve even had a ghostly encounter at the northern portal...having been given the nod to go in, I steered for the tunnel mouth only for the bow to stem up and be pushed to the side. No explanation and if anyone says ‘crap steering’ I shall instruct my legal team of Sue, Grabbit and Run.

So how does my tunnel top 10 read then?

1. Harecastle
2. Preston Brook
3. Netherton
4. Braunston
5. Barnton and Saltersford (they’re like Romeo and Juliet, they have to go together)
6. Blisworth
7. Husbands Bosworth
8. Wast Hill
9. Dudley
10. Standedge

Preston Brook, as I’ve commented elsewhere, is a Narnian tube that transports you from the bucolic idyll that is the top end of the T&M to the earnestness of the Bridgewater. Netherton aside, I’m not sure there’s another tunnel that achieves such a sleight of hand transition.

Netherton has to be up there because it is simply magnificent – a wide tunnel with towpaths both sides, this is a bore and then some! It takes you from the green oasis that is Windmill End and spits you out in mid-Brum, all in about twenty minutes. We had no headlight for our trip and discovered that the charge on our 2 million watt lamp only lasted for 15 minutes....

Braunston is the tunnel of my childhood. Whether it was open to barrel through (my father was one for creating tsunamis in tunnels) or closed to put the mockers on a trip down the Oxford, it was an integral part of my canal induction.

Barnton and Saltersford are two delightful, slightly kinky, tunnels that guard the charming pool between them. Saltersford is now timed, which has slightly reduced the fun to be had in charging into them only to be met with a serious ‘parp’ from a boat already half way through. If you get close and lean out, you can actually just see if the way is clear, so no-one should ever have to back out. Should being the operative word. As you can imagine, when the timed entry came into force, there were quite a few ‘interesting’ encounters when those in the know met those who weren’t...

Blisworth gets in because I have never been peed on from such a great height and with such great force; Husbands Bosworth merits inclusion for the sheer poetry of its name; and Wast Hill makes it for being the darkest, dankest, most spooky tunnel in the whole of Christendom. Every trip we’ve had to venture through a thick miasma, a shape-changing fog that plays tricks on your eyes and gets your imagination working overtime. There must be a score of headless women in there all preparing for TV’s latest unreality show, ‘Britain’s got phantasmagoria’. Makes my bum squirm that sort of thing...

I haven’t done Dudley as I don’t own a mini-sub but it’s included because one day I’d like to arrange a blessing in the caverns with the gang as bridesdogs. Ever since I read about them doing civil weddings, I’ve imagined us all trooping in on a boat and chucking A in if he doesn’t say it like he means it.

Last but not least, Standedge. Again, it’s one that I’m still aiming for but as the longest and highest extant tunnel, it would be a crime to omit it. If anything should stand as a testament to the vision of waterway campaigners and the power of the volunteer effort, then surely it is this, the jewel in the HNC’s crown. I bet the majority said it could never be done. Good job someone didn’t listen to them.