Dreams, dogs and a lack of sleep

Tuesday 15th November

I had a vivid dream last night. No help from Zopiclone;
I was at the beach with my wife and daughter. For unexplained reasons, my wife had taken a separate car and was at the next beach further along. Something catastrophic had happened. Again, I knew not what or why.

I decided to drive on ahead, alone, to check the route was safe to pass. It was a long road next to the sea. As I drove around a long sweeping bend, I was abruptly stopped in my tracks and bounced to a shuddering halt, over large splintered logs and branches. An Apocalyptic scene. A huge wooden planked aerial bridge had crashed to the ground. It was big enough for cars and had stood on massive stilts but now lay in segments, partially blocking my way and had taken the trees beneath with it. The event had also caused seawater to flood the road as far as I could see.
I began to drive slowly through the floodwater.
Emily, my daughter, waded waste deep to me, despite my warning to wait for my return.
“Call your mum and tell her to go the other way,” I said as she climbed, soaking wet into the back seat.
As we moved forward slowly, the floodwater swooshing over the wheels, Michelle’s car came into my rear view mirror. She was coming on my journey too.
And at that moment I awoke, somehow satisfied.
I was greeted by a balmy Mid-November morning. As I jumped into the car with my wife and dogs to take advantage of this unexpected gift, the temperature gauge said 20 degrees, – surely not!
We parked in the usual spot, attached the leads and trudged down the muddy lane, across the bridge and into the open fields. It was t-shirt weather.
So convincing was this rogue warmth that a ladybird took flight and alighted on my neck. Thankfully I didn’t swat it, but brushed it gently onto the grass. “Orange with black spots- a harlequin,” I observed. “Amazing!”

I savoured every step, stopping to observe familiar vistas or smaller details of the hedgerows and river. Swirling eddies hypnotise beneath the vacant Sand Martin burrows. A fish breaks the surface. A Wagtail dances its’ ungainly jig on the sandy bank.

Following optimistic reassurances from my Oncologist, and an army of prayers from friends, family and total strangers, I may yet see several more Autumns and appreciate each with a greater intensity than the last.
An abrupt thought of cancer, and moment of pessimism skids into my consciousness as if jogging the needle from a marvellous rendition of Vivaldi’s ‘Spring.’

I recompose myself, ‘you’re not going to spoil this one!’

One of the liberating things about Cancer is the way one interacts with others. I had often avoided other walkers. Even resented their interruption of my walk and their unruly dogs. Now, suddenly I want to converse.

First stop, a convivial chat with our neighbours and their golden Labrador. Lamenting the break-up of another elderly neighbours’ marriage, his drinking and womanising to blame. The house now in the hands of a property developer. He’s lost his license and now pedals an ancient bicycle, a four pack of lager and carrier bag of wine, balancing the handlebars. His poor wife has moved nearer to family in the North West. “It’s sad,” we all agree, and continue in opposite directions.
“It’s their dog that picks blackberries and eats them- funny thing,” I disclose after a suitable distance.

Next stop, another older couple in the middle fields of our circuit. The grey moustached gentleman, almost folded like a deckchair , supported by a pole in either hand. The lady, in contrast, tall, lithe and erect with keen eyes. Beside them lopes a brindle lurcher bitch with a kindly and passive white face.
They admire my border terriers;”Proper borders.” She says in clipped, Queen’s English.”Not like most we see. Great big things with ugly heads. They’re very popular now”.
They used to breed and show sheep, we hear. Even exported them to France. The dog once caught a hare in France. She had spotted the beautiful creature in the corner of a large open field and caught it. On passing the same field a year later, she had made a bee line for the exact spot and flushed another hare. Alas, that one got away. We all studied the animal and admired her gentle and quiet intelligence. She had settled on the grass in the sun- her neck held high and watchful, but relaxed.

Recognising a fellow connoisseur, I’m encouraged to give a brief appraisal of each of my three Borders’ conformations.
We chat for a while and our conversation comes to a natural and pleasant conclusion.
It was a lovely walk, we agreed.