What happens when we die

 

The stark beauty of the new saltmarsh on the Otter estuary in East Devon. Ellie and I walked here at the beginning of the month

I read on Instagram this morning that scientists have now discovered that energy leaves the body (of both humans and animals) when we die. Tibetan monks comment, ‘You need science to tell you what silence already knows?’ 
 
I agree with the monks. It's our own experience that matters. Science is a clumsy tool. As my little book of Chinese wisdom says, 'Why light a candle to see the sun?'
 
When our first dog Brindle died (and Frog, Brindle and I were out in the garden with the vet), I saw Brindle's energy fly from her body like a puff of smoke and zoom northwards over our shed. It was a discrete entity and it was in a hurry. I presumed it was her soul. Brindle had nearly died a year before and I’d prayed for her to stay alive because I wasn’t in a position to deal with her death at the time. She’d waited for me, even though she’d wanted to go. I write about this, and more, in a previous post.
 
I feel annoyed when I read about things like the above because I don’t talk about most of what I experience because people mock. They need science to ‘prove’ things. Then the world catches up with me and I wish I’d had the courage to speak sooner. 
 
This blog is one of the few places where I do speak out, and my time here now without either parents or Frog is for me to learn to be my whole self without shame or doubt (not that Frog ever caused me to feel either of those, but my upbringing had). That’s something else I ‘know’, and I knew it as soon as Frog died.
 
I didn’t see Frog's soul go. It vanished in a second, as we stood together halfway up a hill admiring the view and he dropped to the ground with a cry of surprise.
 
Then the emergency services arrived - by helicopter, two ambulances and a car - and spent about an hour trying to revive him at the side of the road. Then they took him to hospital and tried some more with bigger machines.

When they stopped trying and pronounced him dead, I was almost relieved as the resuscitation attempts were gruesome. I was also unsurprised. And that’s something else I’ve never admitted before. He wanted to go. It was his time to go. He was removing himself for the moment so that I could learn without pressure. (My grief had yet to kick in.)

And none of that is what I intended to write in this post. I intended to tell you about another moving film from the Right to Roam campaigners. In September I directed you to a film about their mass trespass swim at Kinder Reservoir. This new film is about looking after a neglected river in East London and about what they call ‘wild service’. And I hope to tell you more about that when I know more myself.

Sunset last week as I walked home with Ellie

PS I realised after I uploaded this post that today is the winter solstice - the shortest day. How appropriate then to be talking about death - and resurrection perhaps. But that's another story.

Dog Dementia

Ellie arrived to live with us a few months before I started this blog, which makes her 15, a good age for a dog.

Ellie at one year old

Physically - apart from deafness, cloudy eyes and wonky back legs - she’s doing pretty well. We still walk a couple of hours a day. She still chases rabbits. She still beats the bounds every evening, marching round the garden barking. She still enjoys her food.

Ellie and me contemplating the bluebells, spring 2024

Mentally, however, it’s a different story.

About a month ago she started barking through the night. I tried everything I could think of that might help – ignoring her/going down to see her, letting her out for a run round the garden, putting an unwashed t-shirt in her bed so that the scent comforted her (something we did when she was a puppy), light on/lights off, in her crate/out of her crate, crate covered/crate uncovered.

Then one morning before breakfast, she vomited her supper undigested and later on in the car had a funny turn, retching, howling and shaking. I took her straight to the vet and they tested her blood, x-rayed her and scanned her. They couldn’t find anything wrong. 'Has anything traumatic happened to her recently? they asked, but I couldn't think of anything. 'Probably a touch of dementia then,' they said, prescribing both painkillers and a sedative to be on the safe side. Nothing changed. Then they prescribed sleeping pills. Still no change. 

And now, weeks later, we’re both exhausted and still she barks. I wish I could talk to her. I wish I could find out what’s wrong. But sometimes I think there is no rhyme or reason to it all. It’s just her brain breaking down. It’s heart-rending.

She follows me around during the day and barks when I go upstairs and leave her behind. (She’s too weak to climb the stairs now and too heavy for me to carry.)  I could sleep downstairs so that she can be near me during the night but it would be a huge disruption for me and, selfishly, I’m resisting. I'm experimenting with the ramp she uses to climb into the car.

I wish Frog was here to help.

Frog, with Ellie as a puppy

It's not time for Ellie to go yet, but when she does go, it’ll be another huge chunk out of my life. Who knows where I’ll go or what I’ll do then.

A quiet moment in March last year

The lonely duck

Since Frog died just over a year ago, my life has been non-stop. A few days ago, however, I decided that I just had to step off the treadmill. I was exhausted. I’d had back and leg pain since November which stopped me sleeping. I couldn’t go on any longer. I would take March off.

On Saturday, I awoke after a good night’s sleep and decided that the dog and I would go out for the day, even though I had no one to go out with. Like rest, being on my own was part of the process, part of my experiment.

We arrived early. It was cloudy and still. There was hardly anyone else about.

Our first encounter was this cat, who taunted Ellie from the other side of the canal. She knew Ellie couldn’t get at her, and Ellie knew that too, but it didn’t stop barking at it for a good five minutes – as if that would encourage the cat to cross the canal and let Ellie attack it. (She does that with squirrels too, standing at the bottom of trees, and with rabbits, sticking her nose down the entrances to their warrens.)

 

Then we saw this duck. I think it’s a Muscovy, perhaps a young one as the pictures on Google showed black and white feathers not the grey and white ones here. The red cheek is very distinctive however, as are the flat flappy feet, the colour and texture of autumn leaves.

 

I felt sorry for it. It wasn’t frightened of me when I took a photograph and it seemed to be looking for company.

We passed this sign and I wondered if I should have one in my garden. It’s such a good excuse.

 

I walked on and because my mind was empty, because I’d ‘taken March off’, because this was a day out, not only did I notice things but ideas – mainly about writing – flooded in.

That’s the lovely thing about a canal. It’s hypnotic and soothing. You don’t have to negotiate ups and downs. You don’t have to worry about where you’re going. The path stretches out in front of you, unmistakable, as does the water.

After an hour so, we turned back and, with sun and wind now behind us, everything was different. A lovely view confronted me, a medley of soft greens, blues and pinks. For a moment, I thought I was in the Mediterranean.

 

Spot the dog

This mallard pair, almost invisible on the opposite bank, stood motionless above their reflections as Ellie and I walked by. I’ve seen them there before, on their log.

 

We came across the duck again, further up the canal, trying to make friends with another mallard pair. It looked so sad. I really hoped for the best for it. Maybe next time I visited the canal it would have found others of its kind.

Wild and free

The sky
 
One place that’s still (mostly) wild and free is the sky. It’s never the same twice and always beautiful and inspiring. (Even grey days have their charm!)
 
Here are some pictures I took yesterday.

I’ve always known these long thin strands of cloud as ‘angel hair’. I thought that was their official name but a quick Google reveals that Joni Mitchell used the phrase in the song ‘Both sides now’ (1967). Whether she was the first, I don’t know. It’s a lovely description, anyway.

 

Last night’s sunset with a just-past-new moon (new last Saturday) and Venus.

 
 
Right to roam
 
Talking of wild and free, I’ve recently signed up for the campaign Right to Roam started by Nick Hayes (author of The Book of Trespass) and Guy Shrubsole (author of Who Owns England?). I’ve read the first book but not the second (yet).

 
They present the shocking fact that we are banned from 92% of England’s countryside and 97% of its rivers, which is wrong on so many counts that I won’t even get started (for the moment).
 
Although since Frog died just over a year ago I haven’t watched or listened to The News (as it’s called – although to my mind most of it is slanted scaremongering Olds), I believe there’s been a recent protest on Dartmoor when a new landowner banned wild camping (or ‘camping’ as we used to call it before there was such a thing as non-wild camping).
 
Thank goodness for people like Nick and Guy.

Ellie

And here, just for fun, is my angel. She's very wild and free (even though she pretends otherwise).

August (so far) in pictures

 Scots pine and friend

A view of my Scots pine friend (the tree slightly left of centre at the bottom of the picture, with its thumb and forefinger together) and the hill (right) whose crown is the home of the Scots pine it connects to. (See previous post for more about this connection.)

The hills on the far horizon are probably Dartmoor. Usually I can tell what’s Dartmoor because it’s yellowy-brown, whereas the rest of Devon is green. Now everything is yellowy-brown except the trees, and they’re starting to lose their leaves - through drought I think, not through cold and the waning of the light.

Gleaming gold

I was out early on the morning of this picture and the cut corn (?) was gleaming gold in the low sun.

Ellie and Aeryn

Last week a lovely niece of Frog’s came to stay with her 8-month-old Akita, Aeryn. Aeryn is a delightful dog, affectionate, good-natured and well behaved. Unfortunately Ellie, an old lady of twelve years, took exception to her and snarled whenever she came near. Aeryn couldn’t understand why Ellie didn’t love her as everybody else did and followed Ellie around. Only on walks did Ellie tolerate her, and here they are exploring the gravel banks on a local river. Aeryn (left in the first two pictures and right in the third) is still following Ellie around however.

Moon

The moon a few hours short of being full. To my eye it looked orange-ier than this, but this is what my camera saw.

Roots

I took this picture last Friday, on the hottest day of the year so far. I had taken refuge in the shade of this beech tree, having climbed a steep hill to get there. As I got up to leave, after a good half an hour cooling off, admiring the view, doing my affirmations, crying and talking to Frog and God, I became transfixed by the tree’s roots.

There are three beech trees in a row on this hill and you can just see one of the others in the hot white background. Judging by the roots, the ground was once higher and I often wonder whether the three trees were part of a hedgerow.

As usual in my pictures, something is wonky, but as the trees appear to be leaning at different angles I can’t tell what the vertical line is and I’ve left things as they are. 

Thirteen weeks and two days

It’s now thirteen weeks and two days since Frog died. If anything, I feel worse than I did three months ago. I’m worn down by sleepless nights and my rapidly falling weight. I can’t believe that my body keeps going.

I try to hold on to my beliefs. I do my breathing exercises and make positive affirmations. I pray and go for long walks and sit in my secret wood with Ellie for hours, bathed in the healing power of nature. Neighbours, friends and family rally round. But the grief doesn’t go away. It frightens me.

Meanwhile, spring advances in fits and starts.

Ellie keeping me company in my secret wood. The carpet of bluebell leaves hints at the glory to come

Greater Stitchwort masses along the footpath

Pussy Willow is bursting into bloom. Already the flowers smell unbelievably sweet and soon the tree will be buzzing with bees.

Golden Saxifrage clusters on the banks of streams

The first Cuckoo Flower (Lady’s Smock) yesterday in the damp meadow behind the house. An insect has found it too.

Why do I have to be so desperately unhappy? Why can’t I simply be grateful for the near half-century that Frog and I spent together? Why can’t I simply remember that time with joy? Why can’t I simply rejoice in my new-found closeness to my brothers and sisters and the kindness that greets me at every turn? Why can’t I hold on to my belief that Frog and I will meet again?

Why does the grief outweigh everything?

PS You can now sign up (again) to receive an email when I publish a new post. See under the picture at the top of the column on the right. Let me know (if you can) if it doesn't work.

A day of magic

A few miles away from us on top of a hill is something marked on the map as ‘fort’. I was vaguely aware that it was something prehistoric but in all my forty years of living in this part of the world had never visited it. Frog hadn’t either and he loves things prehistoric. So yesterday, in line with our new policy of avoiding all beauty spots (and as per local Lockdown guidelines) and instead exploring Devon's unknown hinterland, we set off to climb it.

It was a short drive cross-country on icy back roads, so we took it carefully, only for me to nearly lose my footing on sheet ice as I climbed out of the car.

 

 
Frog then spent a long time deciding where best to park so as to keep out of the way, eventually backing uphill on to a grassy verge opposite the church. 

He had to crawl into the passenger seat to get out of car, which he did head first, falling into the frosty grass, while the dog watched, puzzled. Parking is always a problem when you venture where others don’t.

There were only a few scattered houses – no village - but the church was huge.

 

We made our way down the lane to the start of the footpath, me hanging on to the dog lead and trying not to slip as Ellie surged forward, panting with excitement. It’s always surprising how strong she is.
 
Most of the path was uphill through trees where the mud was frozen into ruts and snow lingered. It was the first snow we’d seen as ours at home hadn’t settled. I began to feel excited. I love snow (unlike Frog).

I’d done some research and discovered that ‘hill forts’ are Iron Age villages protected by ditches and banks, but I didn’t hold out much hope for this one as any I’d seen before were hidden in undergrowth and more imaginary than real.
 
We came out into the open. The sun blazed down, and ahead of us was the unmistakable outline of something.

As we came nearer, we could see massive banks and massive ditches.

 

We went through a massive opening . . .

 
. . . into an enormous arena whose ramparts were almost completely intact, stretching all the way round in a circle.

It was extraordinary, perfect. Like Avebury without the stones. I was gobsmacked. How come I never knew?
 
The dog was, if anything, even more intoxicated by the place and the snow than I was. She threw herself on to her back and wriggled in ecstasy, pedalling her legs like an upturned beetle.

She then sicked up her breakfast next to the sign board. Oh dear.

The views were 360 degree, with a snowy Dartmoor to the south-west and a snowy Exmoor to the north. It was stunning. There was no one there but us.

 
I followed Ellie to have a look at a snowperson someone had built, only to realise afterwards, when I downloaded the photo, that my shadow – and the snowperson - and the fort’s northern gateway - were in a line and that I’d probably taken the picture at about midday. Spooky. And I normally try not to have shadows in photos so how this one got there, I don't know. 

It made me wonder whether, like Avebury, the site dated back to the Stone Age when people erected stones in circles - and rows and singly - related to the movements of the sun and/or for spiritual purposes (or at least that's what we think they're for. We can never know for sure. I find that tantalising). That would make the site thousands of years older than the 500 BC to which the Iron Age village was said to date. It certainly felt like it. 

 
Frog needed his lunch, so we propped ourselves on a section of bank, Frog at the top in the wind and Ellie and me hunkered further down in shelter.

 

I think that’s a fox earth next to us. I hope we didn’t disturb the occupant.

Incidentally, there should be a line of snowy hills on the horizon in most of these pictures, but it hasn't come out. Pity.
 
A family appeared in the circle and Ellie raced off to say hello to the child who squealed in terror. She wouldn’t come back when we called and we felt very bad although the child’s mother and grandmother told us not to worry.
 
We retreated to the snowy north ditch with the miscreant.

There was no round walk so we had to retrace our footsteps. Back at the car, while Frog changed his walking boots for shoes he could drive in, Ellie and I toured the graveyard with its snowdrops.

Many of the stones bore the name of the family who owned the nearby historic house – somewhere else I’d never visited. Another day perhaps (not that I’m that keen on historic houses) as Frog wanted to go home. He’d had enough trauma for one day, what with the ice and the snow, the worry about where to leave the car, a new walk where we might have got lost, and the dog. He’d shouldered it all, while I’d had a day of magic. Thank you Frog.

Nature washing over you

Here are three recent walks that I didn’t want to go on because of the weather – and the time of year – and the global pandemic - but which turned out to be full of fun and interest. As Kate of ‘I live, I love, I craft, I am me’ says, ‘Sometimes it is hard to get past that initial ‘grump’ then suddenly you feel nature washing over you and you feel so much better.’ Thank goodness for dogs who drag us out.

Ten days ago

Two noisy collies used to race over this stream and nip your ankles. It was a little unnerving and one friend wouldn’t even walk this way because of them, so one day I wrote a letter to the farmer explaining what was happening and saying that I didn’t want his dogs to cause severe injury and get into trouble. I had a very nice letter back, the farmer promising to fence his side of the stream and put a gate on the bridge, which is exactly what he did. Peace now reigns - for which I'm grateful (in spite of my opinions on fences).

The stream, the bridge and the gate

Oh dear, here’s one of those signs that make me see red. It’s children I worry about. Do they ever get the chance to be out in the countryside by themselves, to explore and play and use their imaginations?

The unwelcoming sign

There are lovely views, however, a little further on. I’ve seen red deer here twice and there’s a heronry in the trees below. In spring, you can watch the birds coming and going from their tangled-twig nests in the treetops. There’s not much life in evidence today though, in the depths of winter on such a cold day.

Lovely views

And there’s plenty of woodland here accessible from the path.

Accessible woodland

Oh dear. Here’s a new fence.

A new fence

 And what about this? I call this sort of footpath a ‘gulag’. (The bridge is for the animals.)

The gulag

We come to a fork and I say to Frog, ‘We can either take the easy but boring top path or we can take the interesting lower one which goes through the watermeadows. They’re much prettier but they’re wet at the best of times.’ 

The watermeadows

He surprises me by choosing the second option.

We hang on to each other and try to negotiate the mud without falling flat on our faces.

 

Negotiating the mud

As we reach dry land, I say to Frog, ‘I’m so glad you chose the lower path. That was the best bit of the walk. It was an adventure.’

He surprises me again by agreeing.

Two days ago

It’s Sunday and lockdown and people stream round the lanes and paths which I’ve had to myself for four decades. I don’t know where they all come from but I suspect Exeter, whose new housing estates are spreading our way, and from a new town which has sprung up a few miles to the east of us.

Nevertheless I’m charmed by a clump of gorse in flower as ever, some bedraggled left-over red campion and some toadstools projecting horizontally from the hedgebank. What on earth are they? They look like felted drumsticks.

Red campion

 

What are these toadstools?

Yesterday
 
We’re in what I call ‘Deliverance country’, Devon’s interior. As a neighbour says, herself a farmer, ‘You wonder if some of the people who live there have ever seen another human being before.’ The countryside is what I imagine most of Devon once was: rushing streams, tangled woods and small steep fields.

 We descend to one such stream and find a brave primrose shivering in the leaf litter.

Now we have to cross the stream, well churned by cattle. Ellie charges through, splashing mud up our trousers. Frog treads warily. He’s wearing walking boots which reach only to his ankles. I’m wearing wellies so I wade over, trying each foot before putting my weight on it, remembering a time when I sank into quick-mud and had to abandon a wellie, throw myself forwards and crawl out (then walk home filthy and one-booted).

 
Next we have a muddy slope to negotiate. Frog chooses this route, the long less-steep one. Just to be different, I choose the short precipitous one, the other side of the bramble clump, thinking that I see well-worn footprints that I can use as steps. I can’t. The whole area is treacherous and, with only brambles to hold on to, I imagine myself hurtling down backwards, head over heels. I have a few nasty moments.

 
At the top, we decide it’s time for lunch and get out our egg sandwiches, tangerines and coffee. Ellie whimpers under her breath, hoping we’ll take pity on her and share our food. We don’t. We’re wise to her by now (after ten and a half years).
We wonder about the green pimples all over the grass.
‘Perhaps they’re fairy houses,’ I say whimsically.
‘Maybe,’ says Frog. ‘I did think I saw a door in one.’
I suddenly feel terribly excited. ‘Where?’
It turns out to be a leaf.

We have a choice of routes, but there’s not much in it. Each is as muddy as the other.

The unmetalled road

The bridleway (right)

A blue waterpipe dangles through the trees, reminding us of Greece where utilities are hit and miss, especially on the islands.
 
We descend to a hamlet, so damp and deep that the lichen on the trimmed hedge looks like a forest of miniature Christmas trees.

My back’s beginning to ache so we rest at the gateway to a farm. Two muscular collies charge out barking, look us over, and then wander off, having decided that we’re OK. I feel honoured.
 
A man on a tractor raises his hand to us in greeting. He's the only person we've seen all day.
 
A speckled grey collie who I remember as snarly from a previous visit, potters out to see us in silence and then hangs about shyly as if she remembers us.
 
I love it here. It’s my sort of place.