A Soggy Spindle…

We’re all going on a spring holiday! It will rain of course, but we laugh in the face of these predictable British cloud dribbles. We have to laugh, we will most certainly have a long discussion about it, or at the very least make sure that we pack my multitude of wet weather outfits. A hound is not fond of the rain, indeed a mere droplet on an exposed paw can turn a calm, carefree, pointy nosed delight into a depressed and sad eyed victim of indescribable hardship. 

My staff have learned over the years that it is far more prudent to make sure I am fully equipped on outings with a comfortable mat, lightweight pacamac and my favourite waterproof walking out bonnet/cape combo. They did suggest little wellington boots, but I have seen a video of a whippet wearing shoes and I am not prepared to subject myself to the extreme hilarity that it caused in us all at Spindle Towers.

This was to be our maiden voyage with Florence the Eriba caravan. We were going to be explorers, adventurers! We were going to traverse the country and see such splendid sights, meet new people and hopefully eat a lot of cheese. We were all very excited.

The destination was to be deepest darkest Dorset, trundling along, singing a song, to a brilliant camp site near Charmouth called Monkton Wyld. 

When I was given a tour of Flo’s inside space, I was pointedly shown my own double bed (the staff conveyed much cheerfulness about this) but I think we all knew deep down that I would end up sprawling over them both on their bed at 2am. I believe there is nothing better than 23kg of pointy limbed hound folloloping over you, easing any human occupants into strange contortions and exposing legs/bottoms to a duvet-less chill. I love to see them clinging on the edge, white knuckles fighting gravity and the unmovable will of a hound that is asleep on a comfortable bed. 

As I predicted, we woke up the next morning, in a tangled heap of elbows and duvet, all on the big bed. I also provide a free fragrancing service whilst I sleep. I will occasionally puff out at random a little cloud of perfumed miasma, very much like those expensive air fresheners you can buy. I obviously have a superior aroma to those though. So much so, Muvver often needs a quick poot on her inhaler and Hector has to dab Vicks menthol under his nose.

So there we were pals, first morning of our little holiday. We showered, dressed, breakfasted and then packed our ‘any eventuality’ bag for the day ahead. 

We decided to go and have a scoot about Bridport as it is a most excellent destination, with unusual, independent shops, a whopping great vintage and antique market and a multitude of welcoming craft makers.

It is an unspoken rule (Muvvers rule, which was passed down to her from her mother and hers before etc etc)  that whenever we go out, the first stop has to be for a cup of restorative tea or coffee, with the additional option of a small morsel to top up our morsel levels. There is another unspoken rule (my rule this time) that this first stop of the day should be at a suitable eatery that will provide me with a holiday sausage as my post breakfast snackette. 

I am digressing slightly, or digesting slowly…but I am assured that you will be fully expecting this if you have read any of my other diary entries. 

It was only when we emerged from the cosiness of the cafe some time later that we discovered it was raining. With a pointed look from me, Hector scrambled to retrieve my polka dot pacamac from his travelling bag. He was practically inside the bag at one point, ferreting about with increased panic, and then he finally emerged with a look of horror on his face. I knew immediately that the great chump stick had forgotten my wet weather gear. I folded my paws and stared up at him with a baleful glance. Words were exchanged between the three of us. Some rather fraught moments later, a compromise was reached. Muvver abandoned her scarf and proceeded to fashion me a bonnet and cape ensemble to try and keep the worst of the rain off. As it turns out pals, I looked rather fetching and it did the trick. 

It was on our splashy splashy trundles that we then met a fellow hound on his holiday bimbles, a large brindle Greyhound, and I must admit to you, I very much liked the cut of his jib. After a brief chat/botty sniff with him, we made a casual arrangement to meet up later (the romanticism of the situation of course was knowing that we would not meet, but that we would both dream about the unknown possibilities had we met in other circumstances.) Think Barbara Cartland with a dash of Georgette Heyer…although my heart does of course actually belong to my great love, Eggy Elton – but it is gratifying to know I still ‘have it’…whatever it is.

The day really wasn’t that bad if I am entirely honest wth you. We had a splendid time roaming about and I ended up stuffed full of treats that shop keepers gave me and my ears were ruffled to a point of dishevelment. Eventually, we decided to return to Flo. She really is splendid with her fairy lights and cushions and blankets everywhere. We nestled happily together, hound and staff united beneath a duvet (which was kept firmly clamped down) and had a quiet evening drinking tea, eating biscuits and reading. 


5 thoughts on “A Soggy Spindle…

  1. David

    Unlike Spindlehound, greyhounds (yes, houndS, I have 2 now), seem to like the rain. I let them out for their morning ablutions only to find them tearing up the garden in the rain, then coming inside wet and covered in mud. And all the running in mud splashes up to cover bellies!
    P.S. Very sheik in the scarf, although maybe something a bit brighter would be fore suitable.

    Liked by 1 person

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