Escape to the Country?

          The headlines this week are full of anticipated events: a new Prime Minister, England scoring goals in the World Cup tournament and a monster heatwave, the like of which we haven’t experienced since 1976. It’s all work in progress but, as I write (it’s Thursday), the temperature is about to peak, England failed to find the net against Ghana and the ‘King of the North’ – the now ex-mayor of Manchester – has taken the train to London, where he is expected to move into Number 10 Downing Street without further ado.

          These events have triggered in me a ripple of nostalgia. In 1976, I had just moved to Manchester, a football-mad city in industrial decline and yet to find a new engine for its economy. I did play a small part in the economic revival, by setting up in the furniture manufacturing business, but the footie left me cold. Eventually, a good friend and native of the city advised me to take at least some notice of its two legendary teams, lest I be thought of as a weirdo in the pub. I am now able to summon a modicum of interest in the game.

          As it happens, my Other Half and I are well placed to withstand the high temperatures, as we are in the South Devon countryside, close by a beach. It’s hot, but not as hot as elsewhere (Manchester included). We are house/dog-sitting for relatives who have taken a break to go to Menorca, where it’s also hot, sunny and by a beach. To be fair to them, they planned it months ago and were not to know they could have saved themselves the expense – by which I mean the travel and accommodation, not the services provided by us. After all, who wouldn’t volunteer to help out for a week or so in a nice house, with a well-stocked wine cellar? What’s more, the dogs are friendly and the locale is pretty. The only thing is, there is no actual ‘sitting’ involved.

          Our relatives, having recently moved here, are in the process of establishing an extensive garden, comprising produce-beds and areas of newly planted saplings and striplings. Even during an average English summer you would expect to have to spend time watering the plants, but we drew the short straw this time. It takes at least two hours a day to get water to every poor, wilting green thing that needs it and, since the striplings are at the top of a steep incline, it’s not just they who are in need of hydration by the time they are served. The science tells us to expect this extreme weather more frequently, in which case my suggestion would be to plant more cacti.

          As for the two dogs, it seems to me that they are happy to lie around and sleep all day long, but my OH tells me that they have a lazy tendency and it’s not good for their health: they must be roused and taken for long walks, preferably lasting two hours. Surprisingly, they don’t appear to mind being woken up and, as soon as they get wind of ‘walkies’ in the air, they spring eagerly into a state of uncontrollable shaking and tail-wagging.

          I like a good walk myself but, these days, I prefer townie terrain where there are cultural distractions. Around here, it’s country lanes, woods and coastlines. The dogs really like it but, for me, this temporary change of lifestyle is like a refresher course in taking responsibility for the well-being of other living things. The selfishness of an urban-flat-dwelling, garden-free, pet-free lifestyle is duly challenged – as is only fair – but found to be not without merit.