Medical Records

So let's get to the nitty-gritty now of the original purpose of my blog - Writing my book. As I explained previously this has been put somewhat on the back-burner, but writing the blog has given me a bit of writing practise. Apologies for any grammatical errors over the last few months as I didn't want to spend too much time editing.

As I have been unwell for a while I decided to concentrate on regurgitating Dad's medical notes to get a sense of the chronology of events and recalling memories of those times. This has indeed proved to be a good move, as it has jogged my memory and perspective. I have been to 1959 and gleaned some information which previously had been anecdotal from various family members. Mostly Mum. The written notes confirm rather than enlighten me on certain facts and events. However there have been one or two nuggets which provide pieces of a puzzle and fit together nicely. The chronological nature of the notes also gives me an historical perspective, particularly in relation to attitudes to mental health then compared to now.

I am now in 1991 which sees Dad in a period of remission. The years since 1959 have seen a predictable pattern of remission and relapse of the symptoms of Schizophrenia – psychosis and paranoia. Some of this I remember vividly, some I was too young or away at college. Of course I cannot imagine some of the terrible thoughts Dad experienced, as much was kept from us during our childhood, but as I grew into my teenage years I seemed to just know about Dad and the family's mental health problems, so it seeped in somehow. As a Mother I was more concerned with keeping Dad medicated and preventing relapse so he could continue to see his grandchildren without worry. He was a fantastic Granddad and it gave him such pleasure. I miss him.

I, myself am still going through the process of diagnosis and it's looking like chronic fatigue. At least I have it in writing now that I had an unusual reaction to the Depo-Medrol (steroid). So not going there again. I have an MRI scan to look forward to on Sunday to see if there is any reason for my hands to play dead and burn like f***!

Otherwise I will plod on with the medical notes and see how I get on.

P.S Thinking the Tramadol may have stolen my humour – I will try to find it.......

Summertime

Alfie and his bone

Jen x

Old Self - New Self

On closer inspection in Mum's garden, I noticed something for the first time.....

Spooky!

Mr knobbly-knee

What an EVIL grin!!

So where have I been for the last couple of months? Well, I've still been gliding around on my own little Tramadol cloud, which means it's been difficult to pin myself down enough to write either a blog or a book. I force myself with the hope my motivation will be prompted. I have changed track a bit while my energy is suppressed and have begun the tedious yet revealing task of working through Dad's medical records. This brings back memories that have been hanging around in the ether but reminds me of the stark reality of that dreadful illness and events that unfolded in the past. I have decided to plod through the pile of paperwork bit by bit and copy it pretty much verbatim into a chapter. I will then sift through it to try and describe those terrible times we all lived through. At the moment trying to pull anything even remotely creative from my foggy brain to writing it down is hard.

It has also been a little difficult when one's life exists in half days. Complete and utter exhaustion without exerting oneself is a tough one to process. Hubby has had his instructions to wake me at 10am with the hope I will participate in a full day. When he has fails to do so my body and brain seems to ache to sleep much longer. So anything between 11am and 1.30pm has become the norm, and that's only because I feel I 'ought' to get up. I'm sure if I left myself I would wake up in time for afternoon tea! On those days when I have managed to rise with the rest of the world I am not really 'with it.' I silently scream from the inside out. Normal activities exhaust me. The need to sleep becomes so overwhelming, the battery has drained, it is dead, gone phutt....

This is where I am now, but with a little more intention of improving. I did manage to do stuff a few weeks ago. I went on a trip to Ramsgate with Mum to scatter Uncle David's ashes. I had another life once, or did it belong to someone else? I spent a lot of that life in Ramsgate with my fun-dad (Uncle David), Chloe, John and Pete. The views across Pegwell Bay take me back there.

Goodbye Uncle David!

Mum, Chloe, Dandy, Henry and Uncle David
in the urn on the cliff overlooking Pegwell Bay

Mine and Pete's secret parking spot overlooking Pegwell Bay

You could drive down the chine in those days and hide in the car right up to the cliff. Yes down there. Thirty odd years ago someone knocked on the car window (presumably walking his dog) while we were, er 'courting.' From time to time I look back, to remember those that are gone and the times that are gone. Those precious moments with loved ones are gone forever and the memories we have die with us. 

I have managed to do a bit of gardening on our little caravan-in-the-woods plot. I painfully planted daffodil bulbs in pots on the decking when unwell in December. Although, this was not my original intention, the display was decent enough. I had wanted to plant them with my new dibber randomly round the plot under the shingle, so I have removed them and stored them ready to plant out again in the Autumn. Hopefully with some bluebells and forget-me-nots.

Daffodils!

Daffodils!

It has now been confirmed that I did indeed have an adverse reaction to the steroid injection in November after months of poo pooing my suggestion that this was the case. So, as steroid injections for my back are definitely off the agenda, I  wait for an appointment for pain management therapy. Which means there is nothing they can do apart from help you with pain relief methods. So that's taken 4 years to get to this point! At least my new Consultant believes in Chronic Fatigue Syndrome - so I may be getting somewhere.

I just about managed to visit an old friend last weekend. She exhausted me with her energy and reminded me of the person I once was. It still seems to me as if my previous life happened to someone else, on another planet in an alternative universe. But it is still me, albeit a much slower version, which I resolve to make stronger....

Alfie pic

Tramadol

I finally succumbed to stronger painkillers for my on-going back pain even though I have managed to get out and about a bit more in the sun.  My 'naughty' cake-making days are well and truly over since an unforgettable experience just before I met my drug-hating ex-copper hubby, involving one skunk- bite too many mixed with a copious amount of red wine. I never went out of my way to actually source it myself; I just had a bit when it was available.  Now, one doesn't always learn one's lesson as one ought and I know full well it takes longer for the cannabis to take effect when eaten. So there was no excuse for the 'I can't feel anything yet, I'll just have another' and another washed down with the red stuff. By the time I'd climbed down off the ceiling, calmed my rampant paranoia by being violently ill down the toilet and cried myself to sleep wailing into my pillow, I had vowed never to touch the dreaded weed again. I don’t feel like drinking any alcohol anyway, so I glide round on my own little cloud, wildly scratching as per the comical itching powder scenes in Carry on films.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F6glhN2Mmt4

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scAkRqVboTg

My first night on Tramadol (9 days ago) was quite memorable in a psychotic-dream-like sort of way. The dream included those that are dead, very much alive, at 68 Underwood Avenue in Ash but in the 1960's, (We lived there 1992-2005). I was pretty good on the sixties detail - type of fridge, furniture, décor and even the right milk bottles! Uncle David, Dad and Pete were smoking, drinking and laughing together. The dream was rounded off with some fabulous screaming habdabs from yours truly, trying to be calmed by Mum and big Sis. It ended with me on the other side of locked hospital door screaming for to Mum to get me out. She turned away and cried. My dreams of the dead are usually at 68 Underwood Avenue. Often I am living my old life with Pete and the kids and trying to summon up the courage to tell him I'm now married to someone else. He's been dead 10 years now. Anyhow, enough of dreams; I know how tiresome it can be listening to someone else's.

Despite weird sensations on Tramadol, I will persist as it distracts me from the pain. Which is how it works, although they don’t know exactly how it works…? Apparently Tramadol is a 'centrally acting synthetic analgesic' and is a 'weak Mμ (morphine) opioid receptor agonist' which 'induces serotonin and inhibits the reuptake of noradrenaline.' Opioid receptors are mainly found in the brain and are 'a group of G protein-coupled receptors with opioids as ligands' This basically means the receptors in in the brain are drugged-up man making you high as a kite! .... The chronic pain is still there but Opioid-type analgesic helps you to tolerate it. It all sounds Greek to me and it is:      http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mu_(letter)

Further reading:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Opioid_receptor

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%CE%9C-opioid_receptor

 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tramadol

Good old Wikipedia!

Carry on scratching!!!!

J x

Just had to put a couple of Alfie photos in.....

Alfie and Sasha

Alfie getting his vitamin D in the Sun

On The Mend

My last blog entry saw me back in my little home snug in my king-sized-memory-foam sanctuary all packed and settled back in following our vacation to North Wales. It was a vacation in the very sense of the word as, if you remember, we had to 'vacate' the caravan site for four weeks under the terms of the park licence. Anyway I'm not going to recap in the way they do on television programmes where ten minutes or so is spent telling you what happened 'previously'- most annoying. More annoying, on certain channels, the recap on what happened before the advert breaks after each advert break and what is coming up on the next part before the advert break!

Anyway, I have been away again to Mudeford on a girlie midweek break with Mum and big Sis. We arrived in a blizzard which thankfully turned to a fine sunny but cold few days. This break was booked about the time I became ill after my cortisone injection. I thought I would be well by the time we went and indeed I was much improved. Most of those awful symptoms have now gone apart from an overriding feeling of complete and utter exhaustion. Mum (SuperMum) did all the driving and often quips that we will do it for her one day – Here's hoping.....

I managed to get out and about but kept to my own pace and spent some of the time reading my newspaper in the car while Mum and Sis trekked a bit further. 

Managed a smile!

We ventured over to the Isle Of Wight from Lymington to Yarmouth and took the bus to Totland Bay and enjoyed a rather cosy meal overlooking the sea.

Bleak on Hengistbury Head

A bit chilly on Mudeford Quay!

It was all-in-all quite a pleasant trip but I was glad to get back to the back-bedroom at Mum's where I spent another week waiting for my Endocrinologist appointment, the upshot of which is no more enlightening. I don't have Addisons (Adrenal insufficiency) or Cushing's disease.....

Interesting reading in terms of the stress hormone cortisol.

http://www.nhs.uk/conditions/Cushings-syndrome/Pages/Introduction.aspx

http://www.nhs.uk/conditions/Addisons-disease/Pages/Introduction.aspx

....I never thought I had - my late husband had Cushingoid syndrome from steroids for his brain tumour so I knew the look of this. However, she did hint that one's adrenal function can be suppressed by synthetic steroids but this is usually with long-term steroid use and not just 'shots.' She doesn't hold with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, ME or Adrenal Fatigue as these cannot be proved. She sees these are money-making conditions and she is in the business of treating only those that are 'provable'. I don't disagree or agree and it doesn't really matter what she thinks as by now I am pretty much resigned to the fact that I will never prove that the steroid injections have somehow contributed to my symptoms. So, I resolved to putting it all behind me with the aim to focus on:

• Losing weight
• Reducing medication
• Exercise
• Eating healthily
• Stress reduction
• Writing

Since this resolve I have had the results of more blood tests which indicate low Testosterone (yes women have it too) and low Vitamin D. I am indeed 'going through the menopause,' but the debilitating symptoms of the last few months I know are not menopausal per se and the fact they have now gone is suggestive of this. If they were menopausal symptoms I would still have them. I have Clinical Depression but would not say that any health problems I have are only as a result of my Depression, so although I am Menopausal this is not necessarily the only reason for my recent health problems. So, it's a bit more complicated than 'it's yer 'ormones dear!'- even though it seems it is my hormones. The bottom line is, I don't trust doctors!! - and have good reason. My late husband's brain tumour was tragically misdiagnosed. My late Dad's Mysathenia Gravis ( most probably as a result of long term anti psychotic use) also. But then the Mental Health system failed Dad for fifty years. He used to say he would cure himself – I now know how you felt, Dad!

So here I am on a nippy Good Friday, back in my place of sanctuary in my little home in the woods, watching 'The Robe' with Richard Burton catching up with my blog. My light pod shines on my face (it's too bloody cold to go out folks!) and Alfie sleeps content at the bottom of the bed. Hubby has the chicken in the rotisserie which I will partake of with salad – no potatoes or bread. Breakfast now is porridge with milled linseeds (good for one's bowel movement – no more Movicol!) and a handful of nuts and Manuka honey. Oh and plenty of zero-point fruit and just two-point chocolate treats to keep me well and truly satisfied. A crème egg would be nice but I have resisted and tomorrow I have decided to make a Simnel cake for hubby and yes I will weigh and track my slice on my WeightWatcher's app like a good girl.....

I end my entry here as I am practising the skill of précis – keeping it short!

J x

Hubby's Simnel cake

Bunny-Goggles

I don't want to be here anymore. Wales, I mean. If I didn't want to be here anymore in the suicide, killing myself, taking my own life sort of way, I wouldn't say it publicly. It is a very private matter. This is why a lot of people succeed. I used to say I never felt suicidal, but have had a few occasions when because all you feel is pain that option seems most attractive, because it represents the end of pain. It's just the method and the ability to 'go through with it' with steadfast conviction that is the problem. Blimey, all that planning. I would have to plan, as that's the way I am. I suppose some people just do it but that's not me. I'd have to write letters make sure all my affairs are in order and see that the kids are okay. I would have talked myself out of it by the time I got round to it. The only times I had any real compulsion was during a particular Prozac-prescribed experience. The desire to cut my wrists seemed wildly out of my control in my head. I pictured myself doing the deed, yet normally bloody wrists would not have been my choice - far too messy. Another time was when my anxiety was at such a piercingly high level I felt like jumping out of the window. Otherwise I have occasionally wished myself dead, as I suspect many have, but on the whole, if the compulsion is absent I will wait my turn.

This sort of depressing talk brings me to the chapter in my book about Uncle David (who died on Christmas day). I have included my cousin John. He used to say the anxiety was the worse and his many suicide attempts were to escape the hell of it. He had a good angel on one shoulder and the evil on another. They would talk to him quite frequently which unfortunately landed him in a psychiatric establishment often. When he jumped off the 50 foot bridge, and out of a high window once or twice the medics would patch him up and send him away until the next time. I will need to speak to his Mum to count up the times he tried. He stabbed himself once, and overdosed on a number of occasions. At 3am one morning he told me he wanted to walk in the sea. Other methods were indirect but he was on a drink and drug-fuelled inglorious path of self-destruction. Uncle David said he didn't think he would make it to 30. He didn't. He died 3 years ago of a Heroin overdose administered by a friend because his body was so broken he couldn't manage to inject himself. The distraught friend has served his time for manslaughter despite pleas from family and friends. John could be very persuasive.

I write of these sad things because at the moment I feel a bit sad and reflective: Probably because I am not busy enough. But then February through to March has been a sad time for me for the last 10 years now. My late husband died on 6^th March 2003 and was in the hospice for 4 weeks before. It always makes me think of those gone who were close.

Pete  - March 2003

Dad  - October 2007

John - October 2009

Dave -December 2012

Miss you x

So on a lighter note; although I am ready to get back to my little home in Hastings, we have been out and about a bit. We had a trip to Phwelli, had fish and chips and a very chilly walk on the beach.

Phwelli

We had a drive to Snowdonia – just to have a look – not really the place for dog walking. From a distance I thought there was still snow on the mountains but on closer inspection the mountain streams had frozen-white as they flowed down.

For our last week in Wales I have been banned from taking Alfie out for a walk on my own. The reason is quite simple - he has been naughty, thrice more.

Once:

We walked down the stone steps to the beach and of course Alfie was happy up the cliff like a demented goat. 
I decided to let him stay off the lead through the gate and up the glade as he usually just ran up it to check out the undergrowth over the wooden bridge. After the trek along the beach and with the tricky bolt on the gate, I needed to rest on the seat at the bottom of the glade. Alfie took the track up the bank but I wasn't concerned as there is a barbed wire fence round the sheep field. He disappeared so I trudged up the glade into the clearing over the bridge and I could see him. But I saw he was not on the right side of the fence and the sheep were behind him. Now wildly panicking I called him to come back down and walked down the glade again. I had to get to the top of the bank and see where he was. As I suspected, the fence was damaged and an old wooden gate had been erected, which was easy for Alfie to spring over, particularly with his bunny- goggles on.

The gate on the bank

He wasn't after the sheep, it was the bunnies. I implemented plan B. No answer. I had to sort it out myself. Alfie was in the middle of the field (the sheep had scuttled to the other end) with something in his mouth. I thought it was a bird but on closer inspection was a decaying sheep's leg. I quickly looked around for three legged sheep grabbed Alfie and ran back to the fence, thinking if Alfie was going to be shot they'd have to shoot me as well. Of course he would not jump back over the old wooden gate, he turns to heavy unmoveable stone when doesn't want to do something. I was feeling pretty ill by now but you get the strength from somewhere.  I checked to see if there were any other way out, thinking at least he is on a lead. The only way out was under the fence as the posts were loose. However this meant we had to make our way down the bank through a mass of bramble, which I did tugging Alfie reluctantly behind me. On the verge of collapse I pictured plan B unaware of my, yes I know, self-inflicted plight, which could have been much worse, happily reading yet another bloody book on his kindle – mobile conveniently discharged. On my return I showered, soothing my scratched-to-buggery legs and went to bed. Alfie stayed in the garden for a while and it was decreed that he would not be allowed down the glade without a lead from now on.

Twice:

Alfie looked at me with those puppy dog eyes, which he knows gets what he wants. It was getting late in the afternoon but I let him persuade me to take him for a quick run in the paddock. Ha! He did the obligatory sniffing on the cliff's edge in the undergrowth and then chose his moment. He dashed over the paddock towards the lane where the bunnies roam free in the field and hedgerows. He kept going and going and went I know not where. It became dark and I panicked – plan B was reluctantly called. I was ordered to leave him and wait for his return but I searched up and down the lane calling and calling, mind racing. A bark in the dark, on the other side of the fence, over the stream. A shout, a grab, a pull a yank, a scream to jump over the barbed wire fence as only Alfie can. He sprang. Shite shite shite, but back safe.

Alfie in action

Thrice:

We took the paddock route to the beach, entering through the small wooden gate and down the concrete steps past the stream that flows into the sea. To avoid any more shenanigans I decided that time not to go up the glade through the five bar gate, so turned round and headed back to the steps. I find it hard-going with my damned heavy legs up the steps so Alfie is quite a bit ahead of me and usually he will wait for my instructions which he knows is to go through the small gate into the paddock. However, by now he is halfway down the muddy path which leads to the long winding lane from the main road to the farmhouse. His glance towards me was brief but I caught that look in his eyes that says 'the rabbits are this way and I'm gonna get them.'  I see his bottom wiggle round the small broken kissing gate at the end of the path and go into the paddock to call him back. My whistle is not whistling, it phuts.  I realise I have to trudge in his direction as I know where he is heading. He's got those bloody bunny-goggles on and we know what that means. I do not wish to implement plan B or we are in big Trouble. He is in the hedgerow of course, sniffing, panting and wiggling. Then he is gone. One bunny rushes across the lane but no Alfie. I guess he has headed further up the hedgerow. I enter the fields via a five bar field gate and realise thankfully it is a public footpath but where my dog should be on the end of the lead; he is not. Then I spot him, over the other side of the luckily empty-of-sheep field in another hedgerow. I call and walk as fast as I can towards him but boy those bunny-goggles are pretty strong and off he goes through the next field. I follow him through where the marshy water-logged ground sucks my wellied feet down and this almost comical scene is not making me laugh. I am almost beside myself with a rising fear and I see newspaper headlines 'woman shot as she dives on dog to protect him in farmer's field.' Because I knew I would in the heat off the moment. Dog lovers do silly things like that. There would be heated discussions on Jeremy Vine on radio 2 and Loose Women where some would say I deserved it and others would say they would do the same and how sad I gave up my life for my dog. He was eventually knackered by the time he got to the next field and gave up the chase, except for one last lunge towards the hedgerow; he was on his lead by then. I noticed an ancient stone monument in the next field and a signpost so at least I wasn't trespassing at that point: Panic over.

The upshot is there wouldn't be a next time as I'm banned from walking Alfie on my own in Wales forever.

We had a couple more trips to the beach up the road arranged by hubby who was by now firmly in charge of Alfie. 

We walked together to the stone monument which turned out to be an ancient burial ground. Alfie, begrudgingly, on his lead.

The monument, plan B and Alfie

Anyhow the time went by and here I am after packing and a six hour drive, unpacking and a few days of cleaning and shopping, cosy and safe in my little home back in Hastings. We have our lovely king-size memory foam mattress bed. Hubby has his Sky TV,  I have my bedroom TV, and Alfie has his bedroom and oh the woods where he can wear his bunny-googles every day. Home sweet home....

On the way home

I am cute and I know it

Proof that he comes on my command!

Bottom's up!!

Postscript
We found this in the St. Bueno Church. Apparently it was used to control errant dogs in the church.

Alfieee!!

J

Complete Rest and Brambling

So here we are in Clynnog Fawr near Anglesey overlooking Caernarfon Bay. This much looked forward to holiday while we have to vacate our homely static caravan in Hastings was slightly in jeopardy due to my continuing ill health. After three sets of blood tests and a 24 hour urine test (no I didn't have to wee for that long, just collect it over that time), we are none the wiser and my GP is still stumped. I had low cortisol levels in my wee but not in my blood – apparently. So, to cut a long story short I have been referred to an Endocrinologist (hormones) and three months after I first voiced my concerns about symptoms being caused by cortisone steroid injection in my back in November she thinks this may be the cause. So by the time I see the Endocrinologist I will probably be better! Now, the Anaesthetist at the pain clinic who organised the injection says my symptoms are not connected to the injection. No surprise there then. In my last consultation she suggested that to manage my pain I need to exercise, relax and drink wine, red is best and go on a holiday to Spain. I hope she gets well paid to give such ground breaking advice. I have been too unwell to drink any alcohol or go anywhere unaccompanied and pretty much just about able to get up in the morning. So this it seems is this all she can come up with after two years of investigations of my chronic back pain.

No more book writing done as yet as this is supposed to be a 'complete rest,' so now we've settled in I thought I'd best get back into my blog for starters. It's not that I have writer's block, the writing is in my head, it's the sheer exhaustion and physicality of well, writing. It's not an 'I'm depressed' sort of exhaustion where the lack of motivation is immense. It is the immensity of physical exhaustion. Getting out of bed, putting one foot in front of the other, making a cup of tea, getting out of a chair, standing up. Sheer mind-blowing exhaustion. So once you have expended all your energy reserves on the mundane basic tasks there is no energy left.

I made an humongous effort to cook a Valentine's meal and yesterday I needed to recover. Needless to say I have never felt anything like this before. There are only two other times I have been so ill it was nearly totally unbearable. The first was after giving birth to the twins. They tried to come out at the same time so I lost three pints of blood and had my cervix sewn up. When I woke from surgery I was alone in a recovery room with a painful catheter, the boys unreachable in their shared hospital cot. I turned to look at them through tears and thought 'what have I done.' I was young and soon physically recovered. The second was when I had my breakdown and was diagnosed with clinical depression. I recovered from the worst pain. The worst was worse than that first painful protracted childbirth experience. Living with clinical depression for me is drawing a metaphorical a line, where above that line is feeling okay in various degrees and under the line is not okay in various degrees. I have been mostly under the line, occasionally moving above, but mostly under. Just near enough the line to function, but not high enough to keep dropping down and crashing in episodic crisis. I have been dead inside, the outside world a spiky-shaped hanging grainy greyness. It isn't even really grey, it is indescribable. I have always hidden it well. Anxiety goes hand-in -hand with depression, thoughts catch in a relentless groove and the chemicals and how they work fail, and the body literally 'breaks down.'

That it seems is sort of where I'm at now, but it's different. My chemicals are fucked, but strangely I am not depressed - just not really feeling much at all. If I ran on battery I would be flat.

Alfie's consistent doggy nature meanwhile keeps me occupied. His continuous 'Anadalusian Hound' hunting behaviour, enthusiasm and naughtiness is a distraction. 

Bachwen Farm and Cottages

He loves his walks to the beach - well he ignores the beach and concentrates his hound-nose in the bramble on the way, where the bunnies live. He managed to scare one out and chased it across the paddock, and no he didn't catch it.

The Paddock

The paddock runs over to the cliff's edge, but it's not a high drop, luckily for Alf, as he can easily spring over the wire fence to yet more bramble. Although I am taking this time to rest, with heavy leaded legs, I have managed to walk down to the beach. It is literally yards away down the soggy underfoot grassy glade. 

The Glade

A small wooden bridge stretches over  a stream.

Wooden Bridge

Yummy Welsh sheep are not an option for Alfie as they are safely fenced in from all aspects, so sheep-watching is as far as he gets.

A Menacing Welsh Sheep

As we walk down the glade we come across a wide metal five bar field gate that requires me to pull the sprung bolt out to open. 

Five Bar gate

It is a tricky operation to one whose main concern is not slipping and going tits-up on the rocky beach. Hiking stick and lead are chucked beach-side and I only just about have the strength to pull the bolt out, open the gate toward me, balance on the woody salt-slippy threshold whilst turning and holding on to the gate and the post for dear life and manoeuvre the bolt back in it's tricky hole. Alfie meanwhile is back up the cliff exploring the undergrowth.

He eventually follows and we pick our way through the rocks to the water's edge and then he runs back to the cliff and back in the undergrowth. So much for a leisurely dog walk on the beach.

The Beach Walk

I walk through the waves in my wellies, one annoyingly filling up with wet frothy sea water. Further up, flowing down the cliff on the beach and into the sea is another freshwater stream bubbling over the rocks. 

Stream Up

We paddle over it, just for fun (which has been sadly lacking over the last few months) - I'm wet now anyway. I climb with my curious wet welly-weighted leaden legs up the stone steps and into the paddock in front of the cottages. 

Stream Down

I trudged and Alfie deer-sprang through the sodden grass. More bramble and gorse and he's in it, brambling again! Manic barking, frantic wagging tail, bottom in air and his peculiar Spanish hunting yelps and out pops a startled grey rabbit which Alfie pursues until it disappears under the bramble hedge on the other side. By now fed-up, damp with sea and sweat and exhausted by my short trek I walk off calling him to come. He looks at me, looks at the hedge, looks at me then the hedge and makes his decision. More barking, tail-wagging and hound-nose sniffing, in and out of the hedge, head down, bottom in air: I am ignored. 

Waiting for Bunny

                                           BOTTOMS!

So I do my best doggy discipline trick of walking off and calling 'bye bye Alfie'– it usually works, eventually. Unless it doesn't work and then I have to revert to plan B to drag him back. 

As happened the other night, when I thought I would just let him have a last little run and I could watch the sea over the Bay as the Sun set. He scurried down the cliff into the undergrowth while suddenly sunset became dark and he disappeared into the night. I knew he was near – I could hear the light cymbal-clink of his name tag. It went silent and I was mildly concerned but he then shot past me and vanished again into the darkness. The bugger had gone down the cliff to the beach and come up the stone steps the other side of the paddock. Plan B was instigated, an irate hubby was mobilised, I was more than mildly annoyed when Alfie came running back to Daddy. Little shit.



Video of Alfie brambling

Butter wouldn't melt! Who me - naughty?....

and a close up because he's so gorgeous awww...