Away from the Manger

It has been quiet in Airnefitchie this week.

What with darling Sylvie still breaking rocks at Her Majesty’s pleasure, Alistair cooped up on the God-forsaken rock that passes for an ancient university on the Fife coast, and our other child doing whatever it is that she does in the ‘rock scene’ in California, it has lately been quite quiet about the family seat.  Only this time, Henry is also away.

He's gone to Zurich to see about some carp for our loch, the theory being that these sorts of fish will grow to fit their surroundings; Henry hopes they can win a few prizes at the local winter fair this year if they grew to fit our modest twenty-acre water obstacle.  I remain sceptical, but have decided to indulge him – mainly because the battlements need reinforcing, and it'll be better if he is out of the way.

However, when one is wrapped up as the Great White Slug Empress in the goose-feathered duvet on the ol' four poster that's seen more deaths and births than one has had hot dinners, one does feel out of sorts at not having one's lifetime companion nearby.  Patches and Fang (our two Irish Wolfhounds) are all well and good as companion animals, but they're not allowed upstairs, or rather, they're not really allowed in the house beyond the kitchen, which renders them rather useless as the extra heat source one's husband normally is.

I found myself, half way through the week, and quite uncharacteristically, reminiscing about how we met all those many moons ago (Henry and I, not the wolfhounds and I, wolfhounds and Henry and I, etc.).

We are both great fans of beagling.  I tried to ride horses when I was a girl, but turned out to be frightfully allergic to the poor animals.  A small regret, but nonetheless I found other more suitable outdoor pursuits.  When my father had to visit the RN College in Dartmouth, I would drop by the kennels of the Britannia Beagles and generally make a nuisance of myself.  However, I didn't really get into it until I went to the Royal Agricultural College and joined the RAC Beagles.  I was there when they were presented to the Queen and gained the Royal prefix: very proud moment for the pack and the masters, to be sure.

I found the uniform very flattering too.  I always look good in green and though I rode very little when a girl, I still seemed to form the calves, legs and bottom of a hardened rider – all the Hussar blood in my veins I suppose – which tend to stun in the requisite white breeches.  I had a hard time taming my mane under the cap, but wetting it beforehand in the horse trough normally helped.

Of course, after a good day's beagling, my hair would look worse for wear, but I'd have a healthy pink glow about the cheeks.  Back in the student bar, with our spoils (for hunting hare was still legal), we'd all go a bit robust and jolly.  And one day I caught the notice of a young gentleman, visiting a friend for the weekend.

Back in the day Henry was definitely a catch.  He was tall and lanky, absolutely, but had adorable floppy hair parted on the side, a very decent watch and hands so smooth you knew he had carriage.  He wore tweed and a regimental tie, even in the student bar.  He was already drinking his signature gin and tonic (with lime, not a lemon) and offered to buy me a brandy.  He seemed preternaturally mature, even for an undergraduate from Cambridge.

His opening line was, I have since found out, quoted verbatim from The Trinity Foot Beagles 1862-1912:

'Compared with fox-hunting, the taking of the hare must always seem somewhat tame, and the turning out of “All the King's horses and all the King's Men” to chase so small and timid a creature, may seem akin to breaking a butterfly on the wheel: nevertheless it must be confessed that to “Trace the circling mazes of the hare” is truly, though the truth was said in sarcasm, "a highly scientific amusement," and when "Sarah" is hunted afoot with beagles it is more than that, it is good, hard, strenuous sport.'

I think I countered with how to breed goats.

Needless to say, it all went rather swimmingly from there.  I even moved to Cambridgeshire and joined the same pack.  Fodder for plenty of ribald tales ensued during our courtship over the kennel yard full of beagles, ‘blogging’ about which would require more gin than the human body can handle.  One of my favourites involved vast quantities of homemade lemon curd, an outsized pair of corduroy breeks, a tennis racquet and…well, I fear I cannot be more specific.

So, here I am.  Henry comes back tonight and I do find myself rather excited.

Yes, he may be a bit messy.  Yes, he's pickled in gin.  Yes, he moults all over the furniture.  Yes, he can be rather forgetful.  And yes, he's still got smooth hands.  But he does the washing up on the five or six days a week that Jenkins is indisposed; he does the dusting, too, and he likes to light all the fires in the castle before I get home from coaching the new hopefuls for the mixed doubles biathlon.  So without him the house is cold and grey from dust, and the kitchen sink has something living in it.  I hope Zurich delivers him home safely.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is, I've grown rather fond of the silly sod and would rather he stuck around.