from Linnet Loh
“The Flowers that Bloom in the Spring tra la” I was a little too premature! Spring has not sprung, vanished into thick freezing fog and Shotover is lying under a blanket of snow.
I did venture forth this morning under pressure from the dogs “ Out, we must go out!” Four coated IG’s bundled into the car, a ten minute drive climbing up an old, narrow road and slithering into the car park. I was the only brave soul out. Not really surprising, no vista to behold and treacherous underfoot. No birds, not even the courting pheasants, just dank mist.
The dogs eyed their favourite haunt with obvious disgust. Puddles, melting snow and mud not being their favourite landing site, they had to be encouraged out of the boot and directed onto one of the beaten tracks.
Their individual reactions were quite diverse. The two young boys Morris and son, George, decided to make the best of what might be a short walk. A quick gallop up the track, good smells but nothing to chase. Acer looked at me in disgust and made it quite plain that he had never really wanted to come out, tittuped to the nearest bush to pee and said home! Dear old Stella , nothing diminishes her delight in a walk, set off on her usual squirrel hunt, clods of ice flying in all directions, yelling at the top of her voice, not a grey beastie in sight.
Silence descended,as one all four turned and hightailed it back to the car. I complained about ungrateful dogs and my cold wet feet. Home again and I told the other three left behind, not a chance! Too cold for the Old Lady, Twinkle, after all she had been hard pushed to go in the garden earlier on. Panda had been earlier to fetch the paper. That left little Pip. He really does not like the cold and damp. He is a sun worshipper. I have a theory that the three inches of titanium fixed to his ulna, conducts the cold and I suspect his skin gets chilled and sore.
Shotover was once part of the Royal hunting grounds of Woodstock. Deforested 1666, the area surrounding, being flat (think M 40 to Oxford), became very boggy. The old coach road had to climb out of Oxford up some 600metres. A cock horse was added at the foot of the final half mile, the passengers on public coaches had to get out and walk to the top. The old mounting and dismounting blocks of stone still are in situ. Then the Plain across to Wheatley stretched out in front, some two miles of sandy soil, the land falling away either side, trees providing cover for highway men, the horses were whipped into a gallop not slowing until the safety of the next coaching inn.
Now why Italians, you ask? When I was a child I adored Elizabeth Goudge, probably the Maeve Binchy of her day. Discovering a Trilogy of hers years after, when we had just moved here. I reread Towers in the Mist. I had completely forgotten the story. It starts with the hero in Elizabethan times
“he looked down from the heights of Shotover upon the City of Oxford—‘it was a fragile city spun out of dreams —the mist formed itself into towers and spires —‘
I walk there every day and it was then as it is now. Even better the little heroine has , guess what! Yes, a little IG named Pippit. He first appears where all IG’s are to be found, in bed between the children, packed in a four poster bed. There follows a delightful description of an Italian. So typical in every way. “ He could feel the dawn as an itch in the soles of his paws and a twitch in the tip of his tail.” Elizabeth must have had a close acquaintance with an Italian -“the mouse soft coat.”
Years ago when I first walked on Shotover, out of the morning mist there used to be a thunder of hooves , creak of leather, rumble of wheels , the crack of a whip and shocking bad language. Prince Philip used to practice his driving skills. A Four in Hand, flat out gallop from one end of the Plain to the other, wheeling around in the car park and back to Shotover House, the home of the Queen’s Master of the Horse.
Think cold weather. Plated broken legs get cold. Gritted, salty pavements can make feet sore , inspect pads and rinse in warm water. Antifreeze screen washer is poisonous, sweet and appealing.
To the lady who enquired whether I had time for Lurchers. Yes, but not a designer cross, a designed cross for a purpose. The Medieval Hound ,look up the following, the Uccello painting ,’ Hunt in the Forest’ in the Ashmolean and Le Livres de la Chasse(1405-1410), Paris. A Lurcher meeting would not look out of place in either of these.
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