Belgian tourists on a Vendéean beach - Faust and Feyodorov
Ebony – Part one
Back in August I received a request for a price to transport a partially disabled dog from Carcassonne SPA to Brittany. My name had been passed on by our friends at Dog Links and the lady in question was Elaine, an English nurse.
Easy enough on the face of it, but there was one snag. Elaine still lives in England and cannot get away because of work commitments from her house in Devon till October. Ebony, the prospective adoptee has a problem with one hind leg, described as arthritis, which makes her next to impossible to re-home. Elaine, on the other hand, is a bit of a sucker for such dogs having taken on several in the past and, on at least one occasion, at great expense. She had reserved Ebony after Evelyn at Dog Links passed on her interest in another dog which had just been rehomed. She agreed to take her but unselfishly said that if a suitable owner was to be found in the meantime then she wouldn’t stand in the way of Ebony finding a new home sooner.
Ebony was described as receiving pain relief for her leg while, though not old at about 5, did not require a lot of walking and was said to be a light puller on the lead when out and about. We, Fran, my wife, and I thought that we might do both Ebony and Elaine a good turn while not making too much work for ourselves with such an undemanding dog and offered to foster her here for a couple of months until final delivery.
Everybody concerned thought this a great idea so it was decided and, on the next available Monday afternoon I set off down the road for the 6 hour journey to Castelnaudary. The way is familiar and I no longer have to have a detailed route in bold 28 point print fastened to my sun visor; just the main journey points with intervening kilometres so that I can update myself from time to time and check that I am keeping to my 60 km/hr average. It was a sunny day and, heading south as I was, driving glasses had to be substituted for sunglasses for most of the time but the towns and cities soon drifted past – Périgueux, Le Bugue, Le Buisson de Cadouin (turn left at the T by the railway crossing, for some reason my instinct is always to turn right there and, on a couple of occasions, have found myself embarrassingly in the wrong lane), Siorac en Périgord (1st exit at the roundabout), along the lower road round Belves (once misread the name on my list for an instruction when not paying attention and ended up the hill in the small streets at the top) and then the bendy but fast and lightly trafficked road towards Villefranche en Périgord. I once made a mistake in believing a new routier patron when he said that he would be open on Friday evening (many aren’t) with the result that I found myself eating a delicious, but hideously expensive, meal in Villefranche and spending the night on top of a mountain when on my way to Poor Paws. Not this time, after Villefranche straight on to Fraysennet le Gelat, after which the route becomes a little more bendy and hilly, and thus quite a bit slower. One village which contributes to this reduction is one of the few that I come across that can truly justify the 30 km speed limit, so prevalent these days throughout France, Goujounat. Its descending narrow and partly cobbled main street would have to be taken with great care without a limit and I have been fortunate in my career, especially in a lorry, not to encounter another heavyweight on the way through. And then on to the T junction with the D 611 to take the left turn up and over the hill into Cahors. This is often my overnight destination, L’Espèrance in Espère, only 5 minutes from a morning pickup at the Refuge Canin Lotois just before the city. But not this time, still nearly 3 hours to go to another favourite, La Cheminière on the Castelnaudary by-pass, and just a 40 minute run-in to the SPA in the morning.
For some reason I always think I have cracked it at Cahors, perhaps because it is only an hour from Montauban, which seems much closer to my destination than it really is. It doesn’t really register till I turn off my brief encounter with the A 20 at the Castres sign, that there is still 2 hours to go.
In addition to the more closely spaced communes, and thus speed limits, there is often more traffic on this road but the average usually holds up and so it was on this occasion. I rolled into the lorry park at 7pm and threaded my way through the serried ranks of big wheels to the rear of the resto, where I knew that there was a small space in peace and quiet sandwiched between it and the Canal du Midi with my name on it. Not literally of course, I am a regular here, but not that privileged, but there never seems to be any other overnighters with my size vehicle here so I always get a good night’s rest.
A short walk to the bar, a quick glance round to see if there are any familiar wagons, and then inside for the first kir. Then outside again for the obligatory phone call home. I can get a signal inside but I am a total ignoramus when it comes to mobiles and, once having worked out how to have it on permanent speaker for incoming calls when driving I daren’t switch it off for fear of not remembering how to get it back again. It isn’t that I am embarrassed to have the sweet nothings (how are you dear, how’s Ramona, anything to report, if so ring me back and save my credit, no(?), love you, love you, bye, bye….) murmured in a company which is highly unlikely to understand English anyway, more that I think it impolite to have a public conversation which can’t be understood. OK, maybe just a little that I prefer my new companions to try and pin down my rather strange accent by themselves.
Seated now, to my left and opposite 4 drivers from different parts of France and, to my right, and again opposite, 2 drivers from Montpelier who were astonished at my reference to chabrol when we realised that there was soup for a first course. Now I know that the practice is popular, and to some extent exclusive, to the south west, even the Dordogne perhaps, but I really thought that it was at least known about in France. I thus had the novel experience of explaining to a Frenchman, what was essentially, a French country custom. You sip your soup, well more than sip actually, there are rarely soup spoons, and when you have almost finished you tip a quantity of red wine into the bowl, give it a bit of a stir, make sure (to my taste anyway) that there is just a hint of salt and pepper in it, and, with one hand each side of the bowl, tip it carefully into your mouth. Delicious. My companions were fascinated though not confident enough to try it themselves and repeated that they had never heard of, or seen it, before.
We three had seated ourselves at the same time, but to our left, our 4 companions were already past their first 2 courses and waiting for the main. At that point the one next to me rose from his seat, leaving a refilled glass of rosé, and left murmuring something about a ‘coupure’, a short break. The meal continued, I had ordered the local dish after my soup and delicious Limousin egg starter, cassoulet, and we were waiting patiently for that while all the time a long delivered and tasty looking rare steak and chips sat in lonely abandon alongside me. Our 7th member had still not returned. I made a joke about pinching a chip and we all laughed. They didn’t know the bloke personally but one knew from which wagon he came and it could be clearly seen through the window, curtains drawn. I had a guilty thought, what if he had fallen, out of sight? Or had some sort of an attack once in his cab? Shouldn’t we be checking up on him? The others plainly thought that, and born out by the evidence of the empty space where the truck had been in the morning, he had merely laid down exhausted and gone to sleep. I was relieved, to say the least, but the fact remains, what if, shouldn’t we?
Back to the cassoulet. Perhaps better not. Not one of my better decisions. A large bowl of hot white beans with a bit of a chop and a bit of a sausage hidden inside. Very dry, very filling and very, err, repeatable! Still, the cheese, ice cream and the coffee to follow were nice.
Then, tucked up warm and comfy at 9.30, 10 minutes with the Kindle and the sleep of the just till 6 when the alarm in my mobile woke me and I rolled out to do the most unenjoyable work of the day. Retrieving the folded cages from the roof after first rolling and stowing my bedding and re-assembling and securing them in the car ready for my passengers. Not all that bad in August but a nightmare of frozen fingers in December, less odious though on this occasion as there was just the one to do. Some months after this, after particularly frozen, frozen fingers, I experimented with stacking the folded cages inside the car to one side instead of up top. This proved a complete success as I think that the original custom of ‘on the roof’ dated from before I had removed one of the rear seats to create more room.
A quick ‘breakfast’ of 2 petit cafes and a lovely shower in the large shower room, no tiny cubicles here, and off along the road round Carcassonne to the refuge. I normally arrive at 7.40 and park outside the gates, no chance of the ‘no-feeding’ instructions getting mixed up when I’m the first there. The last bit off the lane to the gate must be at least 25%, 1 in 4 in old money, and severely tests the handbrake. Always a rather nervous moment when gradually releasing the footbrake but I haven’t ram raided the place yet.
Soon the staff arrive, one by one, and the gate slides back to let me in. After a bit of chat over coffees while they all change into overalls and wellies and it’s off down to the kennel to search for Ebony.
In front of the row of newest kennels are 3 large compounds where the dogs I am to take can run around freely for 15 minutes or so before their journey, and I got my first sight of this lovely jet black dog, running around quite happily on 3 legs. I thought that arthritis was a bit of an understatement, the muscle on the bad leg was noticeably smaller than the others but she showed no signs of pain or distress and we brought her up the bank where she jumped into the car and then the large cage. For a dog of her size, and especially one with a gammy leg I rightly thought she wouldn’t be clambering over the top of the cage so pinned the door open to allow her free movement out of it onto the bedding behind
Papers checked and stowed and we were off, not to retrace the route exactly, but back by the more direct route through the mountain villages to Revel. Very picturesque.
In the early afternoon sunshine we rolled into our drive at home, we had stopped just once on the way, for 10 minutes at Villefranche where I gave her a run round at the end of the 8 metre lunge rein. No problems there and she had willingly climbed back on board when asked to do so. Now the big moment, the meeting with Ramona. As soon as the gates were closed I let Ebony out and then the front door for our big Beaucie. She came rushing out in her usual intimidatory fashion but Ebony was not fazed. After all the ‘greetings’ were done they followed each other round the garden. But first, bath time.
Over the next couple of months we grew to love this big gentle girl. She and Ramona were firm friends and, her intelligence showed when she learned very quickly all the relevant commands, including the most important, the recall. This meant that she was off the lunge rein within a week out in the fields and forest, and never gave me a moment’s disquiet.
We took her, with Elaine’s authorisation, to the vets several times for x-rays and general check-ups and it was thought that improvements could be made with the right medication. Her one failing at home had been a leakage of urine, frequently while she was lying at repose on the floor, and plainly she was totally unaware of this. The vet thought that it was an infection, and may well be the same infection which was inflaming the slight defect in the ball joint of her hip. This in turn was causing her to avoid pain by not using the leg and thus bringing about the wasting of the unused muscle in it.
The anti-biotics had one immediate effect; she became dry in the house. Wonderful. Putting the leg to ground would take longer, but there were improvements. Coming from Carcassonne as she had had prompted the vet to check for leishmaniosis, the disease endemic in the south caused by sand fly bites. Negative. All this, visits and medication, was adding up alarmingly though, with all the transport included it was clear the final bill would come to over €600. Elaine had sent us some on account and would pay the rest on final delivery but we were quite prepared, if this had been a problem for her, to keep this lovely girl ourselves, so well had she fitted in with all of us and entered our hearts.
Two months seemed to fly by and soon it was time for Elaine to announce the date on which she would arrive for a week’s holiday at her cottage in Brittany and for us to prepare to say goodbye. What followed is best told in part 2 of this story.
The anti-biotics had one immediate effect; she became dry in the house. Wonderful. Putting the leg to ground would take longer, but there were improvements. Coming from Carcassonne as she had had prompted the vet to check for leishmaniosis, the disease endemic in the south caused by sand fly bites. Negative. All this, visits and medication, was adding up alarmingly though, with all the transport included it was clear the final bill would come to over €600. Elaine had sent us some on account and would pay the rest on final delivery but we were quite prepared, if this had been a problem for her, to keep this lovely girl ourselves, so well had she fitted in with all of us and entered our hearts.
Two months seemed to fly by and soon it was time for Elaine to announce the date on which she would arrive for a week’s holiday at her cottage in Brittany and for us to prepare to say goodbye. What followed is best told in part 2 of this story.