Put your feet upon the water

The sun was shining and the birds were singing as the dogs and I strolled by the river that flows around King John’s Mound (the remains of a motte-and-bailey castle) on our morning walk. The violets were flowering under the trees and would have smelled delicious if there’d been more warmth in the sun. The peace and tranquillity soothed my soul after the hectic hours since dawn. Ned had woken later than he’d planned due to not having set his alarm properly (he still arrived in the Lake District at 10.30am after stopping at Blackburn Market for black puddings, Cumberland sausages and Lancashire Tasty (“Cheese, Gromit”) en route), and The Boy had arrived downstairs somewhat later bewailing the injustice of accidentally waking early when he didn’t have to. (Was I cruel to chuckle? Nah! Discover diurnality!) Anyway, all that was forgotten as I watched Harry, Piglet and Beattie hunting through the undergrowth ahead of me, working as a team, and Clover bumbled along behind me stopping here and there when she came across an interesting sniff.

So we strolled on, me keeping an eye on the boys to prevent them doing a sudden runner, when there was a quiet but definite ‘splosh’ behind me. I turned; there was no sign of Clover. Not good – dalmatians just don’t ‘do’ water. If they go in, it’s accidental. I sprinted back to the riverbank and saw her, six feet below me in the water, covered in mud all on one side, turning her head this way and that as her near-sightless eyes tried to make sense of where she should go. I think I went down that bank almost as fast as she had, the difference being that I stayed upright. The poor old girl was very relieved when I grabbed her collar and helped her back up to dry land again.