Glittering days…

Spring is in the air, writes Chris Bennett

A PARADE of glittering days during the past two weeks or so has entranced our world; warm sunshine and a sparkling ocean made a towering backdrop to a winter of great content.

Maybe I am getting more observant with time, but I have never seen so many whales and dolphins during the precious seven years that I have lived here. Either that or the memory’s going…

My front door, a pair of French windows, faces the ocean, the first thing I see on leaving the cottage. To my left is my neighbour’s roof; his house is a little lower than mine in this somewhat tumble-down village of distinctly Mediterranean aspect; I say good morning to George.

George is usually on the roof, with Gwladys (she thinks she is Welsh) not more than a metre away.

George is a professional basking case; he likes to lie in the warm winter sun all day, his tummy stretched down the pitch of the roof and his chin resting on the rounded apex, giving him a commanding view of the skies above, in which hang kites and other undesirables. George’s beady nose twitches and relishes the smells that waft around it, and his fine whiskers are waved about, rather like a conductor’s baton. Occasionally he will rise to a passing fly, like a fish; providing, of course, it doesn’t involve too much effort. An eye periodically opens. George is doing sentry duty.

Gwladys is far more concerned with life inside the roof, where this little family of dassies have made their home for many years. My human neighbours are rare birds, and seldom visit their cottage. They both ignore me; and quite rightly, too.

George is king of the world, George I Hyrax.

From my armchair, and old wooden Morris chair of immense comfort, I watch the dolphins and whales, and, of course, the ships, making their world out of the magnificence of the waves. Gannets abound, but most of the sardines seem to be in tins.

These are the days that will have entranced people from all over the world during the football festival. A better advertisement for the South Coast could hardly be imagined, and the spending of time and money on its amenities must have brought some benefit.

In the year since my dog, Maisie Wiggins, died of old age I have reflected a lot on her role in my life. She was with me for 15 years; her lifetime. I am now in need of another, but I will not be in a hurry. If the dog can’t hold a decent conversation then there is not much point.

I paid a visit with a friend to the SPCA in Margate, a very doggy friendly place but not so hot when it comes to people. Understandably they are most concerned about who gives a home to those deserving waifs.

It was a profoundly depressing experience, although not the first time I have visited such kennels. The resounding chorus of howls of hounds of all sorts was disconcerting, but the lingering memory was of the occupant of the last kennel in the row. She sat with her back to the wire and her long tail poking out into the walkway, wagging for all it was worth. All you could see was the blurred tail; that is an intelligent dog.

But nothing spoke to me. The excellent Cyril came to my cottage to see if I was a suitable human for a dog to live with; apparently I am.