COUNTRY DIARY: when grey clouds formed

When Wendyl hits a low point, husband Paul has some pick-me-up suggestions including a healing day out on the harbour.

Living in the country is something I adore, as you know. The land speaks to me, the beach soothes me, and then there’s the fishing. It’s a primitive thing, which some people just don’t understand, but I can find nothing to match it in terms of relaxation and rewards. I’m not an enthusiast who has all the gear and goes out twice a week, but I do enjoy it when the tide and the weather combine to create perfect fishing conditions. And until recently it has always been a solo pursuit.

My husband Paul is an urban soul at heart, which means he was once taken fishing as a lad and that was quite enough for him. He managed to reach the age of 60 without ever holding a fishing rod again.

But then I had a wobbly summer. One where the depression I am prone to turned up at the door one day and wouldn’t leave. I’m usually pretty good at spotting the triggers and the signs that things aren’t quite right and manage it well. But this time it snuck up behind me while I was too busy to notice and whacked me over the head with a self-satisfied grunt. So there I was in a strange old place in my head, lying around, and my husband understandably got worried.

I could tell this, despite the fog I was wading through, because he offered to get me a puppy. Regular readers of this column will know that getting a third dog has been an ongoing Wendyl policy involving much strategising and persuasion for two years now, with no successful conclusion. I know deep down I will never get that extra puppy, but it doesn’t stop me trying on a regular basis.

I am one of those people who believe in fairies and wonderful things happening – like a puppy being left on my doorstep one night, or finding one on the side of the road, or a friend begging me to take their dog for them because they are dying. Obviously not the dying scenario because that would be far too sad, but you know what I mean. But as my husband points out on a regular basis, we have two very big dogs who are perfect and we don’t need another. So when he reached over and held my hands, looked into my eyes and said, “Would you like a puppy?” I knew things were really bad. I also knew that it’s never wise to make major life decisions while in a dark place, so I regretfully declined.

His next move was to try to get me out in the garden, somewhere I normally love being. So out we went and, to my astonishment, he not only weeded the whole thing but planted it out as well – a skill I had no idea he possessed. I watched from the fence line, occasionally kicking the dirt with my gumboot but not really engaging with the whole gardening thing.

Then finally it was fishing. I have a little yellow dinghy, which I row out into the harbour, but so far had found neither the will nor inclination to do so this summer.

“I’ll come with you,” Paul offered. “You’ll have to row,” I mumbled. I knew he couldn’t row a boat. I knew he had no idea how to fish. But something made me say, “Yes, please.”

And so we ventured into the sea

– me at the stern while he manfully held the oars and proceeded to row… around in circles. Most of us learn to row as kids and spend a lot of time rowing in circles, then rowing in the wrong direction, then sinking the boat just for fun. Paul had done none of this, so having me yell, “Left, no more left, do you even know which arm is your left one!” wasn’t helpful.

He gritted his teeth and smiled sweetly. “It’s okay, we’ll get there in the end.”

And we did – in a very roundabout but ultimately bonding fashion for both of us. We’ve put that experience down in our marriage diary as one of patience and understanding.

I caught a nice big snapper, which my dad cleaned and filleted, and we all enjoyed it for dinner.

Paul and I have now added fishing to the things we like to do together in the country – on top of gardening, reading and drinking wine on the deck. For me, that simple act of going out in a boat for a few hours was the start of a step in the right direction, slotting onto the right track and resetting myself. I must be better, because I’ve started nagging about that third dog again.

“When he said, ‘Would you like a puppy?’ I knew things were really bad.”